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“Doctor,” Feofan says. “You look well.”
After lording the sliver of height he had over Dottore for centuries, he finds it a novel and not-unwelcome experience, having the mad doctor now tower over him.
“The Trilunar Authority,” Zandik says with satisfaction. “Marvelous power. In the end, a simple matter to replicate.”
Feofan rolls his eyes. Although the space feels heavy like air before a storm, gravity struggling against its taming, the Doctor at its center hasn’t changed one bit. Still going on with his theatrics, his voiced redundancies. He always thinks himself an artist. Still, Feofan is happy to play the captive audience, just this once.
“What can you do with it?”
The selfmade Moon God blinks down at him, that mask with its singular red gaze like a smoke signal, or a new star. He smiles.
“Things like this.”
Feofan’s breathing stutters, then crawls to a stop, like a faulty conveyor belt. When he calms the instinctive haze of panic, he has been suspended in air, unable to move a muscle. No—he can hear his heartbeat still ticking along, his entire body pulsing with blood, millions of tiny mechanical, chemical processes all proceeding as usual, or rather, as the Doctor has allowed.
“Gravity,” Zandik says, pleased to the point of indolence. “Fluid dynamics. Other things.”
His hair waves as though sailing on a sunny day, living outside the flow of time. These things require control. Feofan knows, even if he does not understand, that the mastery Zandik has displayed is very strong indeed. Is he still breathing, or has Il Dottore overtaken that as well?
“I can’t say this was a wise move,” Zandik says, still smiling behind that damned mask. “Coming here alone, hardly armed. What if it had driven me mad?”
Feofan’s vision is going blue and black, although he’s still not sure whether it’s his brain or just the Doctor’s synthetic world. His heart flutters. A circulation would be futile if his lungs lack the mechanical fulcrum to exchange oxygen for carbon dioxide, he realizes, and there is nothing Zandik hates more than inefficiency. He begins to laugh, or the silent approximation of laughter.
Zandik releases him. Feofan continues, then, with great, honest breaths, the sound swimming through the still-frozen landscape.
“You beg the question, Doctor, when these things are below both of us. Do you want me to say what you already know, that you are already mad? Do you want me to get on my knees and pray?”
“All this time, yet you remain insolent as ever,” Zandik growls, though without the hard rime of his true anger. He twitches one finger and reassambles the world so that they are both seated in a room constructed of flowing kuuvahki. Feofan beams with the luxury of his own neuromuscular control once more.
“I don’t suppose the Trilunar Authority has afforded you any better taste in tea?”
“I could remove your stomach entirely,” the Doctor suggests with unsubtle excitement, “and you would never again require sustenance. For as long as you remain here, that is.”
“What an honor,” Feofan sniffs. “I should never have expected any taste from you. God or not.”
Even though the Doctor’s new form should amaze him—gargantuan and monstrous, flesh interwoven with data streams, no effort at concealment where they meet and spark—Feofan can’t help but see that same madman he has worked alongside for five centuries. The ego on him, the tongue. The flash of teeth before biting.
“Hmph.” Zandik flickers multichromatic with irritation. “Regardless, you can expect to remain here for the next two days.”
“That’s not very considerate,” Feofan says, crossing his legs in defiance. “I have three meetings tomorrow morning and five more in the afternoon.”
“No you don’t,” Zandik says flatly.
His hair is much longer now, Feofan notes, longer than he’s ever seen on the segments. As Feofan tests the silence, the long strands begin whipping behind Dottore, the start of a low-level storm. Although the Doctor's frustration has always been delectable, this newly divine form is so full of power it seems to glow, seems to leak, subconscious, from every orifice. Feofan doesn’t break eye contact. Zandik’s glowing left hand begins twitching, its stream of data overturning faster than ever. Feofan wants to touch the material. He wants to feel the strength in those blinding fingers.
“No,” Feofan cheerfully admits, “I don’t.”
“You’re hardly trying anymore,” the Moon God says, glowing brighter with exasperation. “If you came here expecting to die, you certainly wouldn’t schedule for the next day.”
“Ah, but I lived.” Feofan smiles, adrenaline sparking beneath his skin like an old friend. “You saved my life again, which really is the net-positive option. Much easier for everyone involved. I know this, just as you know this, which is why I’ve cleared all meetings for the next two weeks.”
“Three,” Zandik says.
“Hm?”
Il Dottore rises to his full height, a process of scattered particles and the terrifying certainty of mechanical sacrilege. Limbs shouldn’t bend in these ways, Feofan’s eyes tell his brain. The Doctor’s semilunar smile shouldn’t look like this. Be quiet, Feofan tells the rest of himself.
“Do you think that just because I’m in Nod-Krai, the moon doesn’t shine in Snezhnaya?”
His voice is quieter, closer to Feofan’s ears, an unnatural even quality to the words that makes him shiver.
“The next three weeks,” Zandik continues, up close, so bright Feofan could see him even if his eyes were closed. But he can’t tear his gaze away. He has time, Feofan thinks distantly, to fit in another cornea transplant when he returns. “You haven’t taken such a long leave in a hundred years. Do you think you can still lie to me?”
Feofan lets out a little huff of laughter. The False God smells now of ozone and moon marrow, a metallic dizzying scent that makes him think of gasoline.
“I’m just keeping you sharp, Doctor.”
“Then you should have no objections to keeping me sharp for the next three weeks.”
Somehow, his teeth have grown even sharper. Feofan meets that piercing red light, no longer blinking, but glowing strong and clear as though scanning for weakness, as though trying to drill inside. The Doctor is no longer human, the thought arises, so shamefully unnecessary he should have it hung in the street. The Doctor has not been human in a very long time.
“Why not,” Feofan murmurs. “I do see a severe lack of passable conversation partners. Downsides to rural development.”
The corner of Zandik’s lethal mouth turns up. “Not very progressive of you, banker.”
“The way I see it,” Feofan says, uncurling himself, “this is as far as human progression has come. Hardly any room for glass houses now, are there?”
“Better watch your mouth. That almost sounded like a compliment.”
Feofan smiles.
“Lower a touch?”
The Doctor, in all his grandeur, does. Feofan kisses him on the cheek.
“I suppose worship wouldn’t come naturally to you,” Zandik says, the moon and stars all resonating in his voice, constructed at the exact wavelength of fear. His particular brand of maniacal showmanship.
Feofan lets the feeling surge through him, raising goosebumps on his back, then replies, “you would have to put some thought into convincing me.”
He’s lying again. Does it easily as breathing, as his fingers mapping familiar routes against divine skin. He kisses the Doctor’s new mouth, the taste of circuitry, of mercury, smoothly enough that Zandik doesn't have time to dissect the lie. The proof is right before him. The Moon God in his sacred gown, white woven-sky strips, black leather straps cutting through man, through machine, a binary vision of true, unadulterated heresy. It makes Feofan want to pray. It makes him want to sin. It makes him a hypocrite, but he has been a hypocrite for many years, and by now he has grown very good at it.
All around them, the world shimmers, heat rising from summer pavement. Feofan curls a lock of dawn-blue hair around his wrist. The truth is that the Doctor’s godhood is for an imagined audience, a whole foolish world that will one day, one day be grateful. But Feofan doesn’t care for one-days. He stands on his tip-toes, something he has never in his life done before, and kisses Zandik again, hungry and giddy. He draws blood before the Doctor has the chance to do it.
Zandik breaks away, lip dark, shoulders in the stiff set of his poorly-concealed surprise. Little joys. Feofan smiles again.
“I wasn’t sure it would be possible.” He begins stripping and folding his overcoat. “Blood, I mean. But your head looked human enough. I figured you would be economical.”
Up close, the blood is ink-blue and glittering with bioluminescence. Of course Dottore would have known this, considered its applications, evaluated the worth of keeping partial circulation in a piecemeal god. Maybe he had kept it for Feofan. The thought sends another little thrill through him, tongue to his teeth. God saved for him, fizzing up his brainstem in the way of strong liquor or psychoactive stimulants.
“You’re a hazard,” Zandik mutters. “I should turn all the oxygen to chlorine.”
“Why, Doctor,” Feofan says, “your mercy fills me with gratitude.”
The hand abruptly cutting off his airway is not the machine right, laced with gold transistors, or the divine left, white-blue like incandescent flame. It is an invisible pressure, stronger than the first time Zandik had demonstrated his time-warping will, now a frozen fist over his windpipe. Feofan, only half-prepared, wheezes openmouthed, then chokes on nothing. Then, as his struggles prove futile, the freezer-burn sensation sinks down beneath the skin and he jerks—through his fascia and cartilage, past his spinal cord and then the inside of him—touching his core, somewhere impossible, he’s not sure it has a name at all—and he spasms, helplessly, one long autonomic reaction.
“Is this your punishment," he gasps, “or reward?”
His brain must be hurting itself. None of this is possible but Zandik is doing it to him right now, the touch of him now violating his lungs, his heart. A wobble seizes through him that must be arrhythmia, that must be killing him if not for the Doctor and his cataclysmic presence.
“Just curiosity,” Zandik says. “Whether it was possible.” He is excited the way novel trials always make him.
Feofan laughs again, although perhaps that’s just air being forced from the lungs. He kisses the good Doctor again. Despite his cold facade, Zandik is soft, feverish before him. Feofan works a hand beneath Dottore’s harness. The fabric, whatever unearthly material Zandik has found, is thin enough that he can feel the machine flesh beneath burning. Feofan’s breathing goes ragged. Divinity this easy. Fingernail-close.
“Who would it be but you,” Zandik says. Feofan peers up, distracted by Dottore’s luxurious, gravity-defying hair whipping around them, the chassis of the artificial moon marrow spinning in great centrifugal whirls. He thinks his clothes are getting dissolved. He doesn’t remember what Zandik is talking about at all. “My first follower. After all, it was you for centuries.”
“How—ah, how do you get this thing off?” Feofan stutters midsentence with the realization that he has no retort at all. It’s a fact. Centuries. His face burns, his fingers digging into the seams of the Doctor’s ridiculous garments.
“With extended exposure, social bonding between humans should occur naturally,” Zandik continues in his ear, undeterred. “But of course, there is nothing natural about our circumstances. Perhaps I could convince you to kneel?”
Feofan grits his teeth, braces himself just before the Doctor’s unseen hand cuts the tension from his knees and he finds himself unable to stand.
“In any sane society,” he pants, skin prickling, “that would be considered cheating.”
“Let me know if the view is any better there,” Zandik smiles coldly, although the triple moons whirring behind betray him. “After all, the two of us aren’t concerned with any sane society. If this is the first step towards a new order, wouldn’t you jump at the chance?”
The ego on him. The asymmetry of his smile, dipped on the right side where he had scarred deeply, years ago, on the original body. Even though the Moon God has smoothed out all imperfection, Feofan knows where each and every mark was engraved. It’s Zandik. He’s the same lunatic who had carved open his own heart, who had refurbished all of Feofan’s organs, who had triumphed across time and death all because he said he would, because he had to know, curiosity like a compulsion. His Zandik, and nobody else.
By now, the Doctor has stripped Feofan almost entirely, down to his briefs and socks. He knows Feofan likes to keep his socks on. Despite the frost covering Nod-Krai’s entirety, Feofan has begun sweating. Remuneration, he thinks. He’ll prepare the forms when he gets back.
“Your rhetorical skills need work, Doctor.” Feofan mutters. His head feels loose and warm, ready to come off, like he’s spent a month staring at the sun. “Threats generally complement arguments. Not replace them.”
“Hm. I should slice your tongue out.”
He’s so beautiful it hurts. It hurts. Feofan being here must be punishment for everyone else on Teyvat. All those dirty sons of bitches on the ground who will never know, never once know, the miracle Feofan has seen. Has stolen.
“You like honest feedback,” Feofan says hoarsely. “And I don’t mind the view, either.”
The Doctor radiates volatility, electron-dispersing, like a lightning rod. Feofan watches the divine residue pulse through reinforced tubes, metronomic, betrayal of his reconstructed heart. He wants to see it. The core of a manmade god. He wants to have the Doctor and his pulse split open, all his divine wrath, his boons.
“Let me tell you, then,” Zandik smiles. “There is one final question I want your help in answering.”
Finally, the floating god lowers to the ground. One, two, three mechanical steps. He stops before Feofan, whose head is perfectly angled to appreciate his shiny, spurred boots.
“With any elemental power source, one must always expect side effects.” Il Dottore begins undoing his harness, energized with anticipation. “I had prepared for kuuvahki poisoning, or even balemoon corruption. But, of course, the Moon Sisters themselves—beings original to this world, and who naturally will influence the next. I hadn’t fully considered—It’s a fascinating phenomenon, rather like mitochondrial nucleic acid—”
He continues rambling, infatuated with his own voice. Feofan, meanwhile, is struggling to speak.
Between the Doctor’s thighs, perfectly at eye level, is a pussy.
It is blue and hairless, like the rest of him, and glowing in regular intervals, like the rest of him. As the Doctor speaks, and as Feofan tries to breathe, it gets, obviously and shamelessly, wetter.
“It does beg the question; if divine life can be created, why shouldn’t it? I’ve studied puppets and homunculi and so on, but power should naturally beget more power. Working alongside biology—I don’t know why it’s so hard for these so-called gods of today. With a uterus, assuming intact function, not a given, of course, but if I have the opportunity I would be hard-pressed to pass it by. You understand.”
“Yes,” Feofan says, completely out of his mind.
“Do you have experience with such anatomy?” Zandik frowns. “I don’t know why I never tried when constructing the segments. In hindsight, glaringly obvious. Shame.”
“Yes,” Feofan says again. He blinks, trying to clear the haze of dumb want that has built up in every cell of his body. “It’s been a while.”
“You should have told me,” Zandik mutters. As Feofan watches, a fresh line of slick—(fluid dynamics)—works its way down his thigh, over those maddening leather straps. “I might have had the opportunity then. And you wouldn't be so out of practice now.”
Dottore is rambling, Feofan realizes, the way he does when tense, pushing out information faster than anyone can process. Anyone, of course, except Feofan. Five hundred years by his side, and still Zandik is that nervous teenager with a mind like the sun. Suddenly the heat and want all collapses in on him, folded dense and tight, a singularity in his mind.
“My apologies.” Feofan locks the thought into place. “I’m sure we can make up for it.”
The Doctor smiles with sharp teeth.
“Have I found an acolyte at last?”
“We’ll see.”
Stupid man, Feofan thinks. Utterly hopeless.
He begins with a kiss on the thigh. It makes Zandik blush, then scowl with embarrassment. “I don’t recall worship ever being this maudlin.”
“Foreplay,” Feofan shrugs. Before the Doctor can cut his airflow again he goes and drags his tongue over the line of Zandik’s hip, just close enough to breathe in his desire, far enough that he stutters on a curse and twitches, Feofan tasting the fresh salt of capacitance coming off the skin. The name of some long-dead god.
“Is that still blasphemous,” Feofan asks the inside of his thigh where the blue is softest.
“Shut up,” Zandik hisses. “Your mouth has always been the bane of my—”
He cuts off, a garbled sound made when Feofan licks one long stroke through his cunt. The first taste must always be savored. And Zandik tastes so good Feofan feels faint, feels all self-preservation instinct abandon him, foot, train, and boat, because he should really spend the rest of his life between the Doctor’s legs.
To calm himself, Feofan kisses the other thigh. He holds back the insane urge to bite down clear through the femoral artery.
“Wet,” he says.
“I—you—” Zandik is furious and so turned on Feofan can see it, how his clit jumps at the simple truth. Try defending yourself now, he thinks viciously.
Before Feofan even meets his mouth to Zandik, he’s making little anticipatory sounds, trying desperately to stay silent. Feofan licks him twice, broad, then narrow, and by the third he’s long left this ambition by the side of the road. And sevens, if Zandik doesn’t sound good when frustrated. It’s a state Feofan has reveled in many times, that he has intentionally caused many times, and that he will continue to lie, cheat, and steal his way into many times in the certain future. He claims a third stroke. A fourth. He presses his tongue deep, finds the taste even clearer, sharp with ionization and almost sweet, an undercurrent of mint. Above him, Zandik groans. Feofan’s head spins. He doesn’t need oxygen. He’ll make Zandik reforge his lungs, live off prayer alone.
“Doctor,” he says, half-lucid, “you truly are divine.”
The Doctor’s cockhead is normally sensitive. Perhaps—Feofan works his tongue over Zandik’s clit.
“Fuck,” Zandik says, pinched.
Feofan stays there. He rolls around the edges, then forms a seal and sucks. Beneath his tongue he can feel the throb of blood. He presses it close to his teeth, holding but not biting, and listens for the choked sound above. Zandik never minds a bit of pain, and Feofan had taught him how threat was more effective leverage than real harm. Now, the Doctor’s thighs threaten to crush him whole, his entire divine body humming like it might ascend, dissolve entirely.
Feofan groans, possessed, mouth and nose and chin all soaking wet, drinking from Zandik like water. He tries to sneak south, palm himself, but Zandik catches him. That damned magnetic force holding his wrists, don’t you dare. He shudders. He’s so hard it doesn’t seem possible, like he’s abused stimulants, or shattered the sky. A celestial body.
“Up,” he says dizzily. “Help me up?”
It’s hard to get the words out in any recognizable manner, he can hardly understand himself through his roaring pulse, but Zandik is clever and attentive when he wants, and Feofan’s limbs restore themselves with a great prickling wave of sensation. He struggles to his feet, trying hard not to lose contact with Dottore. He must be drunk, the thought occurs clear and ringing. This is how addicts act.
“Down.” Feofan paws at the Doctor’s abdomen. “You should lay down. Fuck, you’re gorgeous. Better—it’ll be a better angle, Doctor, easier—”
Dottore curses again, flame-hot beneath him, and then the landscape rewires itself so that he can recline, all his long hair spilled across a plane of shifting light, a reality shaped by his will. Feofan is right, of course, the angle is so much better. He dives in, hands braced beneath Zandik’s legs, gripping firmly enough he can sense every little tremor the god releases. From this position, he can look up and see the Doctor’s glowing face. The sparks at the neck where his human body meets the machine, the synaptic junction gone violent, overloaded. How his perfect pink mouth falls open when Feofan runs one finger down the obscene line of his arousal.
“I—just—touch me, it isn’t so hard—”
That lilt of frustration again. Yes, Feofan thinks, he really is addicted. Il Dottore has ruined him. He flattens his tongue against the Doctor’s mound and dances around the edges, making gentle petting strokes, wetting his fingers no deeper than the first knuckle.
“Patience,” he breathes into the luxurious heat, “is a virtue.”
The Doctor groans, low and needy. At his side, his hands flex. Feofan nearly doubles over with that invisible sensation going to his own dick.
“Let me show you,” Zandik says with great, gorgeous strain, “what following me can offer.”
Control. Feofan thinks it over and over like a mantra. He was raised on control. As the Doctor carefully probes the most sensitive, wanting parts of him, Feofan squeezes his eyes shut, returning to his devouring with ferocity. Here Zandik is no less tender than he had with Feofan’s innermost organs. He runs with careful pressure from Feofan’s tip down to his base, and his cock is still pressed against his stupid briefs, he can feel it getting wet, can feel his entire gut burning from the touch. The point of contact grows, then, like a hot, tight throat around his entire length, enveloping his sac. Feofan jolts shamefully, nearly biting off his tongue. It makes the Doctor wetter.
Bastard.
Feofan sucks hard one more time, making the Doctor gasp, then he draws back, gets a good, clear vision of his handiwork. Zandik’s pussy looks like sin, glistening with Feofan’s saliva and his own arousal, gorged with blood, throbbing even faster now, erratic, strobing bioluminescence. Beneath his judicious examination, it spasms. What an honest body. How easily Feofan would be tempted from the rest of the worthless human race. The grasp on Feofan’s cock thrums impatiently.
“Patience,” Feofan says again, thready. Then he pulls his hand back and slaps Zandik’s pussy.
The entire world glitches, one millisecond of aberrant gravity, of impossible color. Feofan is fixed on the Doctor’s high, clear whimper. Yes, he thinks, as Zandik’s cunt flutters, this is heaven. The Doctor is so wet now it puddles beneath him. Flickers when he groans.
“Insolent brat,” he grits, so indignant and flushed with anger Feofan could eat him alive. “I am your god.”
“Of course,” he murmurs.
By the second slap, Zandik has forgotten about his own hold on Feofan’s cock. Or perhaps he lacks the mental clarity to continue. Feofan doesn’t mind; rather prefers it that way, able to concentrate on achieving his goals. He strikes the tender, sensitive skin again, watching it lighten from the force then darken. The viscosity of a god’s blood must be different, Zandik growing flushed and wet as though in slow motion. After that, Feofan soothes him, pressing openmouthed kisses and murmuring encouragement along the weeping slit. Pain makes him sweeter. The Moon God, red light almost white with overload, hiccups. He’s close. Even here the tells are the same.
Feofan draws back and hits him again, hard, open-palmed. Directly over his cunt. The Doctor’s magnificent body jerks, the sensation pulsing through in waves, nowhere to disperse.
“Feofan,” Zandik chokes, like he might really kill him, and then he comes.
The air itself gets heavier, sweeter. Feofan licks his lips and slides two fingers in while the Doctor twitches, too sensitive to even make noise, to do anything other than pant and take it. He’s so wet there’s no resistance at all, just slick eager slide, and Feofan adds a third finger without difficulty. He hisses with pleasure at the Doctor’s heat, the great magnetic pull of him. Some fragment of awareness returns to Zandik, and he lets out a weak, protesting sound.
Stunning.
“Who’s… impatient, now,” Zandik manages.
“I’m merely obeying your commands, Doctor.” He curves up, coasting along patiently until he finds the spot that makes Zandik tighten. “Touching you. Worshipping my god.”
Whatever Zandik tries to say next gets snapped off by Feofan grinding the base of his palm against the Doctor’s clitoris. Instead, a low keen sounds from his throat. Animal noise, the kind made by the trapped and helpless. Feofan inhales and crouches forward, kisses the inside of Zandik’s knee. He feels more lucid than ever. Like he’s been scraped clean. All the want in his body lined up the same direction, a dizzying truth, a beautiful god beneath him and a moment, if there ever was a moment, to pray.
“So wet,” Feofan says. Redundant. He says it just to say it, just to have the Doctor’s legs quiver. “You waited a long time for me.”
“Feofan,” Zandik says miserably.
Feofan continues fucking into him, evenly-paced, hitting the same spot with every stroke. His fingers should have begun pruning but they haven’t. His head feels as radiant as the sky.
“Who else could touch you like this? Who could fuck you but me?”
Zandik’s reddened face, by now, is glistening with sweat and what Feofan desperately hopes to be tears. He is always stunning when beaten, when at the edge of being proven wrong, all that pride and arrogance caught behind him, every word he refuses to say, that Feofan will have to drag into the light.
“Poor thing,” he murmurs. “Come here, give me a kiss.”
Dottore sits up with some effort, curls his legs so Feofan can reach him. When Feofan kisses him, he plunges his fingers in again just to have Zandik whine into his mouth. Up close, every little breath raises the hairs on his nape. He wants the air from his lungs. He wants every commandment the Moon God could possibly give.
“You taste good,” Feofan whispers. “Do you taste it on my tongue? You’re a delicacy. I don’t want anyone else to have you.”
Zandik flushes again, iridescent with shame. He tries to close his legs but of course Feofan is in the way.
“Your body is so sensitive.” He continues in, out. With his free hand, Feofan traces the lines etched along Zandik’s flank. The Doctor’s face contorts. The moon marrows pulse and flare.
“Enough talk,” Zandik pants. “Get… get to the point.”
“I’m getting there,” Feofan says. “You haven’t shut me up yet. And, Doctor, it’s good to voice your desires.”
He drags his nails against Dottore’s artificial ribcage, watches him breathe shallowly.
“Look how tight you are, darling. Look at how well you take me. Sucking me in. Your body is honest.” He laughs, a little madly. “There’s no use in lying to me.”
Zandik squirms, his entire body convulsive with little static charges. Feofan licks a long line down his pectoral, tasting not sweat but something sharper, metallic, colored by delirium. He sucks at a nipple the color of heavy bruising. Zandik lets out a tight, shaky breath. His pussy throbs around Feofan.
“I’ll help you,” Feofan purrs. “Did you like when I slapped you?”
“The body,” Zandik grits, “is—influenced—”
“Your body,” he corrects.
“Influenced by the kuuvahki currents—more attuned—”
Even pressed to the point of breaking, the Doctor is still so hopelessly stubborn. Ascension to godhood must have done something terrible to his ego. But Feofan doesn’t mind. He has plenty of patience and a vested interest in this particular experiment. There’s always pleasure in seeing a genius struggle.
“You liked it,” Feofan reminds him. “You like it.”
“I—”
Feofan bites down on the nipple to a deeply gratifying shudder. He watches the little waves of light pass over the Doctor’s quivering body, like ripples in water, beads of winedark blood welling up like brackets.
“Tell me, darling, how do you want my fingers?”
Zandik struggles beneath him for a moment, mouth working but no sound coming out. “Faster,” he finally says weakly. “Harder.”
“That’s right,” Feofan smiles. As promised, he speeds up, pistoning in and out of that slick, greedy hole, the Doctor beginning to make little wordless noises with each stroke, guttural, rhythmic. Feofan’s breathing goes ragged. “You always liked it hard and fast. Your body was truly made for it. Made for me, isn’t that right?”
“Ghk,” Zandik says.
“Say it. Tell me you’re mine.”
“I’m—yours,” he repeats pathetically. “Feofan. Just—”
“Yes,” Feofan tells him. He presses on relentlessly, blood rushing through his entire body, skin thin enough to break. Zandik convulses, thighs clenching around his wrist, the inferno-hot squeeze cutting off sensation in his hand but it hardly matters now, the Doctor mewling at his touch, working through his name, coming on his fingers.
This time, Feofan lets him ride it out. He slips his fingers into the Doctor’s mouth, lets him clean him off, the obedience always a thrill amidst sharp teeth. Feofan’s own desire makes itself known, stronger and clearer than ever, a great clarity in his skull. The bliss of control, absolution.
Damn if it isn’t a sight, the triple moons revolving above them, casting everything in unearthly, kaleidoscopic patterns. The red swell of his lip, the glistening synthetic skin, euphoria fissuring from him in streams of light. Feofan presses a kiss to the back of his hand, then nips at the glowing pads of his fingers. God between teeth. God just for him.
“I’m going to fuck you pregnant,” Feofan says once he’s certain the Doctor can hear him. “I’d like to have you beg for it.”
The red light on Zandik’s mask stutters then darkens entirely before coming back with a brilliance.
“No,” Zandik manages.
“You want it. I came all this way, Doctor.”
Feofan slides his hand from Zandik’s hip up to his stomach, relishing in the tiny, half-suppressed twitch of muscle beneath the skin. Applies the slightest pressure, watching the Doctor’s lip wobble.
“You’re mine,” Feofan continues, as though explaining the terms of a contract. Line by line, simple and airtight. “We have always enjoyed cooperative goals. I know you can be pragmatic when necessary, so why not indulge me this time? It would look good on you.”
It truly is an indulgence. Feofan takes his thumb and spreads Zandik open, blush-dark and shuddering, the sight of it something that should strike him down from the gates of heaven, but it’s too late, far too late for anything to stop him now. He splays his whole palm along the length of the Doctor’s cervix. Feofan’s never had small hands, not even as a teenager, and now it seems impossibly, obscenely natural—a burning at the back of his head, a great black flame—his palmspan right at home, the distance between his fingertips, the space beneath his thumb hot and soaking wet.
“What a marvelous body,” he whispers, sharp with mean, stolen glee. “Look how far you could take me.”
Zandik makes another one of those noises. Leaked-out. Breaking.
“Beg,” Feofan smiles, “and I’ll worship until you know nothing else.”
“Ngh,” Zandik groans, voice tight, the world flickering around them again. “...Please.”
It’s barely a word, edges slurred with saliva and shame. System failure. Feofan’s stomach twists hard and he takes his cock in hand, lines himself up, the throb of the Doctor’s desire so hot and total it seems to envelop him already.
“Again.”
His cockhead kisses burning skin. The touch, half-touch, seems to jolt something in Zandik’s mind, and he begins pleading in earnest, like a dam collapsing.
“Please, Feofan, please please please, just—it’s—you’re—”
Total victory. Feofan doesn’t care whether a god can cry. He’ll make him cry. He’ll fuck the tears clear out of him. He lifts the Doctor’s trembling legs and rolls against the soaking heat, missing on purpose, dragging through the slick folds, feeling Zandik spasm as his cock grinds over his clit.
“What was that, darling? I want you to say it.”
The Doctor keens with frustration, making little rutting motions against Feofan, like he might mistakenly forget and feed his entire length into that tight, wet space. But Feofan is clearer than he’s ever been in his life. He doesn’t make mistakes. He wouldn’t give this up if Celestia itself came down on its knees.
“Tell me how to please my god.”
“F-fuck,” Zandik stutters, his lip bleeding again, everything gone bright and hazy, “fuck me, please, inside—” he hiccups as Feofan slides over fresh wetness— “I need it, need your cock, can’t take it, want it in me, please—”
The entire world seems to be trembling, like the moon and sun and all the stars could collapse at any moment. Feofan blinks once, twice, biting the inside of his cheek but the pain doesn’t make any difference, he’s still blood-hot, making God beg, so hard he feels sick.
“Good,” he rasps.
“Feofan,” Zandik sobs again, tight and desperate like he doesn’t even know what he’s saying. Feofan inhales—the scent of him marrow-sweet and electric, blade-clean—and he pierces Zandik with one long stroke.
Zandik is scorching as he takes it, choked silent with it. Feofan’s hands find their way to his narrow waist, and he means to start slowly, controlled, but he’s not sure whether that’s possible anymore, buried in heaven. As he deliberates his grip tightens, not realizing it until Zandik catches his breath and breaks into a stuttered moan, the undercurrent of pain a straight shot of dopamine to Feofan’s prefrontal cortex.
“Going to bruise,” he says, and his voice doesn’t sound like himself. “Make sure you never forget me.”
Zandik inhales shakily, somehow tightening even more around him, and it’s really no mystery why Feofan feels so lightheaded, why his heart might give out. But Zandik had made sure it would last. Had built him an empire. Had given himself whole to Feofan.
“Please fuck me,” Zandik groans, words slurring together with urgency. “Please, feels—so—”
Feofan pulls out slowly, the wet heat like a vacuum, like it’s reluctant to have him leave. The emptiness makes Zandik jerk, a thin, overwhelmed noise.
“You sound good,” Feofan tells him. “I’ll enjoy making you scream.”
Zandik’s pussy throbs again. Where Feofan’s cockhead rests against his swollen entrance a fresh sheen glistens, a thick strand of slick connecting them.
“What a mess you’ve made,” Feofan says sweetly, and slides back inside.
This time, Zandik sobs. Feofan gets a good hold on his hips, the perfect cut of it, using it as leverage to hit the precise angle he wants. The flow of kuuvahki pulses and sparks against his palms, almost painful with heat, but he doesn’t loosen up or slow down. There is no world where he does. The Doctor whimpers with each thrust, one long breath Feofan fucks out of him, uh-uh-uh, a vision of desecration.
“Tight,” Feofan says, gravelly. “Taking me so well.”
Feofan nudges a knee between Zandik’s thighs, splays him with one leg pressed to the side, keeps him there. The Moon God molten beneath him, puddled out with perfect, cockdrunk obedience. An electric feeling lances through Feofan. Every time he looks at Zandik it’s like the first time, like he’s never seen the sun before, like he’s just now learned he could draw blood.
“Mine,” he croaks.
“Yes,” the Doctor gasps, feverish. “Yours.”
All of a sudden, the madness of him becomes irrefutable. Feofan can taste the copper, the static thick in the air, the liquid haze of pure desire. Zandik squeezes around him perfectly. Feofan wants to bend him in half, wants to break him open, hurt him without any rhyme or reason, just to make him hurt. Just to stake his claim.
Feofan’s. Hot prickles of sweat break out on his lower back.
In this position, Zandik speared on his cock, he seems completely radiant, gravity-defiant. Feofan watches the little blue vial fixed to the Doctor’s earlobe bounce with each thrust, the brutal pace making the liquid inside froth, and he says in a low rasp, “touch yourself,” and Zandik does, fingers worked over the joined seam of them long and clever, and when he shudders and comes, the fluid that rolls down Feofan’s cock is the same glowing blue.
“Sevens, you’re perfect,” Feofan murmurs mindlessly, fucking him through it in slow, rolling motions. “Made for my cock, made for me, to be fucked open and lovely and ruined, so good like this—where you belong—”
If it were the progenitor Zandik, or one of his segments, he would have collapsed by now, but now the Doctor just whines, high and needy. The stamina of godhood. Around them the air crackles with want, the hairs on Feofan’s nape raised, the skin where they touch sparking, made divine. Tear him apart, that black feeling curling at the back of Feofan’s head says. He can take it.
“Please,” Zandik pants, squirming under him. “You said you would—”
“Sir,” Feofan says.
“Please, sir.”
A bright, clear ring of pleasure. Nothing like it. There’s nothing like it. Feofan blinks hard and pulls Zandik down to meet him, relishing in the frantic choked gasp, the cold air on his sweltering skin, the loud, filthy slap of his hips meeting Zandik’s ass. The faint jiggle of those thighs with each thrust magnified to obscenity. He feels carnivorous. When he leans forward he takes the Doctor’s indecent thighs with him, one over each shoulder, a contorted press knee-to-chest, and Zandik wheezes beneath him, says again, “sir,” like he’s pained, but Feofan knows he can take it. He can take it.
Feofan is down by the Doctor’s face, close enough to hear the little panicked breaths caught in his throat, see the strands of sweat-dark hair plastered to his mask, the lines of what must be tear tracks down his perfect pink cheeks. The satisfaction hits Feofan all at once, and he has to dig his nails into his palms to stave off the edge.
“Zandik.” His head spins. “Can you feel me inside? Do you know how good you feel?”
Zandik squeezes again around him, making Feofan draw a sharp breath in through his teeth. Control.
“I’m going to come in you,” he says, a little strained, the thought of it like a light turning on, a binary instant. Putting it into words. “I’m going to fill you up.”
Even as he says it he thinks he might mean it the other way around, really means I’m going to eat you whole. Zandik is wet, so wet, he’s sobbing and speared open on Feofan’s cock and so angel-hot Feofan might truly get burned, second-degree, third. Feofan shifts slightly, so he can hit deeper. Closer to the cervix. A straight shot.
“Yes,” the Doctor sobs.
“Gonna knock you up,” Feofan says, with a sudden sureness, a bullet run through his head. He’s going to fuck a baby into the Doctor. It’s going to happen the way the sun will rise. Yes. He’s going to come inside Zandik, breed him until he cries, lick away his tears, keep him locked to him, begging for Feofan’s cock forever.
Zandik flinches, tightens, spurs stabbing into Feofan’s shoulders, and Feofan realizes maybe he was speaking aloud but it hardly matters, the world now down to him, here, the white-hot touch of God.
“Zandik,” he says tightly.
“Please,” Zandik breathes, “fuck, F-Feofan, please come inside, I want it, want it, ah—Feofan—”
Feofan has sunk his teeth hard into Zandik’s clavicle, a purchase point, and he thinks maybe the bone will snap, the Doctor’s pained keen a rumble through his whole head, maybe he’ll break in his mouth and then without warning Feofan is coming. Pleasure crashes into him. The entire world shrinks to wet heat, flashes of light, flashes of blood, the untangling low in his belly, the relief of claiming what’s his.
By the time Feofan’s mind returns Zandik is a wreck of low moans, convulsing around his length as though milking him clean. But he’s already spilled inside his womb, Feofan thinks with a vicious thrill, wetness on his teeth. He’s already there.
“Thank me,” he growls.
They’re pressed skin-close, Feofan’s hipbones digging into the fat of Zandik’s ass, and he doesn’t know if the Doctor can sweat really but the skin beneath his is slick and his heart is throbbing like it’ll tear a hole through him, through the both of them. He ruts up, ignoring his own sensitivity. Pain pleasure pain a strobelight in his mind.
“Th-thank you,” Zandik gasps, breath hot, flickering in Feofan’s grasp, nearly blinding. “Fuck, thank you, sir, thank you for fucking me, thank you—hah—for your seed, your—your—”
Feofan will bruise for certain. He thinks his flesh is charring. He wouldn’t care if the sky fell. He wants to have every centimeter of Zandik written into him, shaping him, God like a star pulled down from the heavens, God like a flame licking the inside of the skull, God with His brilliant red glow, His incandescent pleas, His touch the only thing in the entire fucking world.
“My god,” Feofan says. “Mine.”
The Doctor orgasms again, untouched, jerking beneath him. That scalpel-sharp clarity rolls over Feofan, the low, deep pleasure of absolute possession. The ache of his jaw. The whole filthy world at their feet. The spikes on Zandik’s boots have pierced the skin on Feofan’s back, he can feel it, twin pinpricks, blood flowing down his shoulderblades, a hot and dirty ache in the muscle, like he’ll crack open and sprout wings.