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Renounce Satan; repent.
"Therefore submit to God; resist the devil and he will take flight."
—James 4:7
A knock.
Kate's standing at my door, as poised and regal as ever, offering me yet another choice. It's always one—dinner, diplomacy, and this time, a date. But my response is immediate, almost reflexive as I reject her without hesitation, the dismissal so ingrained it feels like muscle memory. I don’t have the luxury to entertain her overtures, to spin the fairy tale of us. The time spent imagining stolen kisses or whispered promises would all be in vain anyway. My soul isn’t mine to give; it belongs to Rhys Montrose. I've signed it to the devil.
It's just my luck, really, I look away for a second to deny Kate's date offer and shut the door to find Rhys already making himself at home when I turn around.
Oh, God, have I summoned him?
I startle and Rhys chuckles, low and indulgent. He’s perched on my sofa, his legs spread in a posture of unearned entitlement and a glass of my best whiskey in hand—the bottle I reserved for celebrations. He lifts the glass in a mocking toast and makes a sound of amusement when he starts, “My, my.. Ruthless you are, not taking the poor woman's offer up,” Rhys tuts, “She was practically throwing herself at you, Joe.”
I decide not to dignify him with a response, instead beginning to pace around the room, attempting to occupy myself, I shut the curtains in quick, jerky motions and the snap of the fabric is loud in the silence. I need something to do, anything to dull the edge crawling up my spine.
"You a changed man or something?" Rhys scoffs 'changed' with so much sarcasm, as if it was an outrageous thought that I could be anything else to begin with.
"I am actually," I retort, "I'm getting my life together again, recovering-"
Montrose's laughter wells up, dry, sardonic and cutting, spilling out before I can even finish. Like what I had to say wasn’t even worth hearing fully. "Aww, were you now?" he mocks, accent heavy in the back of his throat.
Rhys looks at me like I'm embarrassing myself even trying to refute, lips curled in dry satisfaction. His gaze rakes over me, slow and scrutinising, like he’s a critic. He doesn’t need to say more to make me feel like a caricature of myself—desperate, delusional. I consequently feel something begin to twist viscously inside of me.
Then comes the slow, ridiculing sneer of my name.
"Joe. Goldberg.”
When he says this it’s paired with a sip of the drink in his hands, each syllable pronounced with icy finality. Like he was savouring it and the whiskey, letting it coat his palette, building a slow opinion on it. Rhys revels in the burn, the bitter note of my identity. I shake my head, trying to rid myself of the image that aches my core with flaming resentment as I counter, “You act like that- all..all superior, but here you are, crawling to me." I spit, my voice tighter now, "I know why you've come. You need me, my help.. You mean nothing without it, Rhys.”
I feel a pleased smirk tug the corners of my mouth as his eyes narrow and an unimpressed scoff leaves him, twisting his face at my rebuttal. His poor ego must have taken a blow. Rhys sneers, "Isn't that just precious," slamming his drink on the table, his eyes fix on me when I flinch. Although he doesn't show it, I can tell he drinks my reaction in with morbid pleasure all the same. "I'll fuckin' show you who needs who."
He says this nodding to himself, his scowl slowly melting away, as if in agreement with whatever idea he has conjured. I must've struck a nerve though seeing the anger deepset in his expression remains. Montrose rises, slow and deliberate, like a predator stretching before the hunt. His hand flicks lazily, a wordless command for me to approach, as if I’m nothing more than a disobedient pet resigned to the punishment I know I deserve.
When I remain rooted in place, Rhys’ annoyance sharpens. His movements shift, his steps now heavy with purpose, stalking towards me. Each staccato thump charged with a simmering impatience making it seem as though my defiance is nothing but a tiresome inconvenience he has no intention of tolerating.
“I’ve changed, unlike you. That’s why you’re trying to ruin it,” I spit.
Rhys begins to slow mid-step, the shift in his demeanor sudden and absolute. His eyes glint with an unsettling fervour, dark, certain and unreadable. He steps closer, his hand smoothing the wrinkles on my jacket with a deliberate false tenderness. A profane imitation of grace meant to instil devotion through fear.
He leans in close.
“Is that right?" Rhys hisses, low in my ear. The voice of a snake in a garden— it's almost poetic, "You believe that do you, Joe?”
I don’t respond. Not because he’s said anything profound, but because the weight of his presence has stolen the words from my throat.
“You really think you were better off without me?” he presses, taking notice his voice softens, as if he’s trying to lull me into agreement. “Your so-called ‘friends’—what'd they do, Joe? They drugged you first time you met them. Roald threw you out of a fuckin' window and tried to kill you.”
A beat.
"Who's the one who saved you, Joe?"
The question hangs in the air like a noose.
I don't have a witty retort so I stay silent to avoid the embarrassment. I can't meet his gaze incase I see my reflection in them. I have no interest in learning what it feels like to meet my eye right now. Instead I note how well fitting and tailored his suit is. The suit of success, of power— sharp lines, expensive fabric, tailored to a man who never planned to kneel. He wears it well. I am acutely aware of how comparatively pathetic I look by contrast.
I'm not expecting it. I feel the burst of burning white hot pain against my cheek, it snaps my head to the side, stealing the breath from my lungs before I realise what's happened— Rhys has slapped me.
What. The. Fuck.
Slaps are deceiving. People think they’re somehow inferior to a punch—less violent, less damaging. But they’re not. They’re sudden. Aching. Designed not just to hurt, but to humiliate. And this one hurts. Not just in the sting that blooms across my skin, but deeper, something jarring in my teeth, rattling behind my eyes. It’s power was equivalent to a punch as the full force of his arms cracks against my face and the tender disc and joint of my jaw and skull. I’ve never slapped someone because I’ve never wanted to leave someone alive long enough to feel it. But now I understand. It’s a weapon. An insult carved in flesh.
I jerk back, the heat of his palm still burning on my cheek, but his hand hovers there, fingers brushing the place he’s just brutalised, as if to remind me who did it. I feel the cold air replace him as I stagger back from the impact before he wrenches me back aggressively by my tie and drags me forward. The fabric cinches cruelly around my throat, the pressure unrelenting. But I don't have time to wince before his grip on my face takes over.
His fingers are rough, bruising, forcing my gaze to his with an aggressive jolt. There’s no kindness there, only possession.
"You speak when you're fuckin' spoken to."
My thoughts are beginning to tangle and fray as the adrenaline courses through. My chest tightens as I blink, dazed, trying to comprehend it all.
All I manage to choke out is a shocked, "Wh..What? What.. The fuck? Fuck–Fucking Rhys–"
The fingers that clamp around my jaw are firm and unyielding, tilting my face, as if assessing the angle perfectly for his strike would fear monger me into some confession. I can’t turn away, can’t flinch, can’t soften the blow. His grip keeps me locked in place, his thumb pressing into my cheek as if testing the tenderness of his work.
And then, he does it again.
And again.
And again.
He does it so many times I’m unable to count. All I know is he keeps going until I can't even make any sounds; in my shock, my lips refuse to shape the words I want to say. Each slap lands with a sharp crack, the searing bite of Rhys’ hand against me is dizzying. The pain wasn’t just in my cheek; it seeped through me, its throb outlining the structure of my own face with surgical precision. I can feel the hinge of my jaw, the sharp ridge of my cheekbone, even the pulse throbbing behind my ear at the strike. I am made aware of my own facial anatomy by pain alone. My skin burns, blooming hotter with every blow that makes my vision swim. The sting prickles my eyes at each pulse of the throbbing redness in my cheek.
Eventually, a sigh of distaste leaves him at my apparent disobedience. His hand rises once more, and I brace for it, squeezing my eyes shut with a noise and pressing my lips together. At this, Rhys shifts his hold on me, angling my face for the perfect strike. My reaction must have furthered his disappointment because of how he steadies me for a somehow far more painful hit. Even though the others were jarring, he'd find a way to make this one worse. He always did.
My senses are being overwhelmed and I feel a crawling desperation in my core, it's almost child like in its need to concede. Have it all done and thought for me. That's really what's happening here, I'm becoming Rhys' puppet.
I can feel it, this unbearable tension winding through me, pulling at some deep, unspoken place. It’s not fear—no, it’s worse. It’s a sick, desperate pull toward surrender. It forms the only thing my body is able to do in my dazed state, a shaky, desperate whimper at the commencing impact. Upon hearing this, he decides to stop, instead he roughly jolts his grip on my face, as if to bring me back to my senses from the quiet refuge my brain was fleeing to.
"Don't you understand?" Rhys asks softly, his voice almost sounds concerned, like a caring paternal figure would be.
I try to shake my head because I refuse to dignify him with a reply, but with Rhys' piercing grip on my jaw it makes even that small act of defiance futile. Once, I prided myself in my intellect, sharp and quick-witted; and of course I am. Yet somehow, I feel my mind slipping, dulling as if his words are a puzzle I’m too tired to piece together.
It must be all the stalking, the endless obsession. A slow rot, leeching life not only from the world around me but from the sanctuary of my mind. The world feels dimmer, thinner, like it’s collapsing inward. Maybe my mind is retreating, a quiet act of self-preservation. And honestly, who could fault me for that? I've met my match at mind games; Rhys Montrose.
It doesn't help that I'm probably getting concussed when Rhys smacks me, the consequences of my actions; micro-bruising. All sorts of little capillaries bursting. I almost don't mind it. Part of me wants to be brain dead, drooling, at least then I can't find myself in any more of these situations. I want it just as much as I want to stop him. He told me once that I was just another lamb to the slaughter. That’s why he picked me to frame—someone soft and primed for ruin. And maybe he was right. Because here I am now, letting Rhys Montrose be my trusted executioner barely fighting back. Don’t ask me ‘why the change of heart?’ Mice chew their own limbs off to escape a glue trap. There’s no poetry in my survival, just instinct.
Montrose seems to enjoy me stupid because he presses his lips against my ear, preparing to say something, his cheekbone touching mine. Our eyes were so close to each other, but I still couldn’t see his soul. Maybe he didn’t have one, I wouldn't question it.
“I did…” he murmurs, the words brushing against the shell of my ear, voice velvet-wrapped malice. “I saved you, Joe.”
And then he kisses me. Honest to god, he kisses me.
It’s not gentle. It’s not tender. His mouth crashes into mine like punishment— biting down on the same lip he busted open earlier when he slammed my face with the stock of Roald’s shotgun. The cut throbs, flaring hot and raw, but the wince I make only makes him kiss harder, tongue prying into me.
A whimper mercifully dies in my throat before it becomes loud enough for Rhys to hear but I still flush all the same.
There must be something corrosive in the air between us, eating away at my resolve, my agency. It hollows me out and a desperate aching need unfurls deep inside of me. Unfamiliar and demanding. I gasp into his mouth, and that’s when he really takes over.
His hand fists tighter in my hair, angling my head exactly how he wants it, tilting me back just enough so he can kiss me deeper, tongue sliding against mine with deliberate, maddening slowness. He’s not just kissing—he’s feeding. Drawing every reaction out of me like he already knows they’re there.
I feel my body grow weak when his teeth graze my wounded bottom lip, catching it, pulling it into his mouth before sucking—hard. He hums low in his throat at the cry I let out and the vibration of it seeps into my bones, down my spine, pooling thick and heavy in my gut.
There’s nothing gentle here. It’s filthy and controlling—his tongue grinding against mine, fucking into my mouth like he owns it, like I’m just supposed to open wider, let him take more.
And I do.
Oh, God, I do.
I find myself chasing him, lips parting wider, breathing hard through my nose just to keep up with him. My hands—traitorous things—clutch at Rhys’ broad shoulders, his suit jacket. Helplessly fisting it.
The more he takes, the more my body betrays me. My cock strains painfully in my pants, heat coiling low in my belly. Every drag of his tongue, every scrape of his teeth, sends sparks down my spine. I’m dizzy with it—breathless and lightheaded, like he’s siphoning the air from my lungs along with my willpower.
And when I’m reeling, pliant against him, taking it all with desperate heaves. He pulls back. Rhys' hands cradle my head, palms flat on my cheekbones and his thumbs stroking my face tenderly, almost like he's admiring me. The mess he’s made. He looks at me with such adoration and says my name with so much acclaim I feel worshipped. It rubs the bones in my ribs all wrong.
His fingers curve around the deceptively fragile skin and bone that must contain a very damaged mind since I find myself leaning into his touch and melting against it. Mice and..this aren't comparable though, are they? Mice don't love the way their little feeble legs are bound in the glue.
"You’ll do what I say next time, hm? You’re gonna kill for me, aren’t you, Joe?" he drawls against my lips, his voice curling around the words like a noose. When I don’t answer fast enough, Rhys pulls back, his vice-grip tightening on my jaw as he tilts my face toward his. There’s no avoiding it—he’s waiting, expecting, and I’m cornered.
The hair on the back of my neck rises, and my breath sticks somewhere in my chest. I force myself to swallow, my throat dry and tight and Rhys’ eyes flicker with questionable interest as he watches my adam’s apple bob. The silence feels unbearable. I let out a shaky exhale and consider my options.
Saying "no" isn’t one of them.
So I nod, slow and reluctant but he still looks unimpressed. He makes a noise of complaint and his eyes are nothing if not disappointed. He tuts, correcting my reply. I huff at how petulant he is and consequently Rhys’ fingers tighten in my hair, yanking hard, and the sharp pain is enough warning to correct myself and wring a breathless, “M’hm—M’hm!” from my lips. Under the crushing demand of his piercing dissatisfaction I repeat it frantically nodding, more desperate this time as it escapes me in a rush of air. The weight of it settles heavily between us as I desperately search his face for approval. I find myself straightening up naturally, as if to pass inspection.
But no, still not enough for him as I watch his eyebrows knit together and his limbs tighten with an energy reminiscent of before he moved to strike my face.
So, I concede, tensing in fear of the crack his hand makes against me as my final attempt of salvation tumbles out.
"Yes- Yes...fuck! Rhys I'll do it. I'll kill them, Rhys, oh God-" At last his smile unfurls, sharp, predatory, and utterly delighted. Before I can catch my breath, he’s kissing me again. If I thought his lips had left me clinging to life before, this time they leave nothing behind. I’m hollow, emptied, and entirely his.
His tongue pushes deeper, slow and possessive, curling against mine in a way that’s downright pornographic. He drags a moan out of me, raw and guttural, and he doesn’t even pretend not to be pleased, doesn't try to be polite about it—he just chuckles against my lips.
"Attaboy.." he mutters in between kisses, "You're so good for me, aren't you?" My stomach jumps and I'm painfully aware of the building heat at my core and in my cock at the praise.
Oh, I'm so sick.
"You'll do whatever I tell you, hm? Gonna make me happy won't you, Joe. My fuckin' puppy following orders."
Before I met Rhys I was constantly on the run, never staying in one place for too long. I seem to ruin everything around me when I do. Eventually, it catches up to you though and nothing excites you anymore. This sort of obsessive lifestyle leaves no room for frisky libido, my life had flatlined after having my soul sucked out of me by Love and my heart broken by Marienne; but with just some words of approval from Rhys I'm agonisingly hard and reeling.
He shoves me against the wall carelessly, my head hitting it with a sharp, aching thud. The world spins, the dizzying sensation not just from the force of the impact, but from his lips that has my breath stolen, my pulse erratic. Each heave feels like it’s too much, too sharp, as if my body’s struggling to catch up.
I'm lightheaded, disoriented, he’s drained me, not just of air, but of any coherent thought. I feel stupid and blissfully wrung out. He could not have rendered me more insensate if he had banged my head on the wall once more.
I try not to make any pathetic sounds but when he started grinding against my busted lips again, I whined. Partially from the pain of the contact with my wounds and having them reopened, but also because he's backed me up and slotted a strong thigh between mine, right up against my dick. It shouldn't feel as good as it does and I feel my soul consequently rot inside of me.
Rhys takes my lower lip between his teeth and bites down slowly, like he's testing for my reaction, first imprinting himself on the soft tender flesh and then threatening to break it. He observes every single subtle twitch of my eyebrows or gasp with narrowed gleaming eyes.
I try to mumble out a, "That hurts, Rhys." but it comes out in just vowels and a pitiful moan. He must get the message though because he pulls back and stares at me.
"You don't like it?" he smiles, innocent, as if someone was asking about the birds and the bees. Like he hasn't just killed three people— almost four considering how fast my heart is beating, I wouldn't be surprised if it just burst.
He makes an amused sound, moving his hand up and pressing hard against my stomach, right where the bruises from when Roald pushed me out the window are forming. Even through the dress-pants Phoebe made me wear, the way my cock jerks is visible. He laughs, shaking his head mockingly and tutting.
"You like it when it hurts though, don't you?" he chuckles lowly into my ear, I try to ignore the way it makes me shiver and my breath catch in my throat. I feel my cock get impossibly harder and he must see because he laughs, "God, you are just pathetic." He smiles like it's a compliment.
Usually, I'd kill someone for even uttering such a statement, but with the pressure of Rhys' thigh on my dick, I can’t help the mindless twitches my hips make against it.
My brain has melted to mush, I drown in the heat building up at my core. But when I begin to start pushing myself up against it, Rhys digs his thumbs into my hip bones, halting my movements.
The way I sob out his name and grab onto his arms is so humiliating and desperate, I don't recognise myself.
"Answer me, Joe. Do you fuckin' like it?"
An automatic denial leaves my lips. I rack my brain for anything to defend myself with, stuttering out pitiful incomplete sentences like, "What? No I-" but the comforting hand resting on my cheek slides down to wrap around my throat. A threat, he's not bluffing. I can tell by the way he's pressing my airways shut already.
He repeats my name but it sounds more like a warning than a prayer. He's giving me a chance to admit. I feel like I'm confessing my sins at the altar and he's God.
Repent for your sins, Son, for 'tis the admission to heaven!
In my dizzy, disoriented state I picture a scene where Rhys is the sexy priest and snicker at the image. When his hand comes down to catch me across the face again I see how his eyes have widened and then narrowed with either a newfound anger or amusement.
If there were any birds perched outside, they all fell silent or took off in a rush of feathers with the crack of his hand against my cheek and the broken cry I let out.
My hand goes up to cup where he's striked my face but Rhys beats me to it, rubbing his thumb against the reddened skin with faux tenderness as he mocks, “Aww, poor baby, hm?”
My hand rests on his and I let out a shuddering breath. I taste iron, acid and salt— I relish in the burn. The pleading sound I let out, attempting to rub against his thigh, is unholy. It's okay though, right? God is omnibenevolent, after all. I'm forgiven.
Take me to heaven, Lord! I'm ready.
My hands go down at an attempt to shakily undo my belt and free my cock, I fail. I can't steady the tremors of my fingers the adrenaline caused, struggling to get the belt's hook out. Rhys watches with mortifying entertainment, "You're taking your time, aren't you?" Sarcasm, the lowest form of wit.
Just when I almost get it through he tugs at the belt and stops me, pulling away. "Oh, but Joe.. I don't think you want this after all.."
At that my heart drops and I hurriedly shake my head, "C'mon, don't do this Rhys.."
"Do what? Aww, Joe, I just don't know what you're on about, love." Rhys smiles, a cruel flash of teeth. His thigh roughly pushes up against my dick and I throw my head back with a hitched moan, all shame has left me. I start to grind myself up and down his thigh and just when I feel that familiar heat in my gut building, he pulls me back up with a firm grip around my belt and on my waist. "Did I fuckin' say, hump against me like some mutt?" He asks against the shell of my ear, "I don't think you've even earned that, Joe."
"What? No, You..You can't-"
"I can’t?" he echoes, his tone dripping with mockery as he leans back to study my face. His expression was one of disbelief, smiling like it was almost funny that the mere suggestion he was denied something was too ridiculous to comprehend and had to be a joke. So surely he must feel righteous when the disdain flickers in his eyes, and his hand lifts again, poised as though he means to strike. I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing for the blow—but it never comes.
"You don’t deserve that either," he scoffs, a half laugh, his words laced with cold derision. I realise I’ve been holding my breath, and it escapes me in a pitiful, drawn-out whimper, the sound trembling with something disturbingly close to disappointment.
"Oh, God, Rhys.. just-" I finally fling off my belt and go to unzip my fly but Rhys' hand cups my aching boner so I can't. My head falls forward against his chest and I grab at my hair in frustration letting out a pathetic sob mixed with his name.
My voice shakes when I gasp, "Fuck, Rhys, sto-stop-"
He cocks his head in faux innocence. "What's got you all worked up, doll?" he grins, it's all fangs no teeth.
“Fuck you,” I shove my fists into the solid chest above, the impact is minimal and I feel even more bitter after; it's petulant and infantile but it's all I can muster. Rhys presses up harder on my crotch and I blubber swears and cry out so embarrassingly I can tell Rhys is getting a kick out what he does to me.
“Ask nicely, sweetheart.”
"Rhys, I.. I can't-" I sob out, shaking my head against him.
"You don't have a choice, Joe." He somehow soothes, looking at my display with a morbid endearment. His hand cards through my hair, making me let go of the curls I went back to tugging. I settle on fisting his shirt between my fingers again and Rhys returns his disturbingly comforting hold on my face, his thumb caressing my jaw and pulling me up. "C'mon, darlin', don't fuckin’ disappoint me now."
Rhys has a way to make you melt with his words. If he had said, 'Now jump out the window for me, Joe.' don't be surprised if you hear the crash of glass and a thud on the pavement. It's just the kind of effect he has on you, a crushing desire to obey.
“Please,” I manage to choke out, nails digging into his immaculate suit. He doesn't budge, humming as if deep in thought.
I give up my futile fight with dignity and sputter, "Rhys, please..! Please.. touch me." grabbing at him and attempting to pull him closer. I'm so overwhelmed and desperate I could cry. I probably am, I can't tell; I'm only focused on the idle, affectionate way he strokes my face, presses kisses against my neck and smooths my curls into place. The throbbing of my cock and cheek has the same effect though, a ceaseless grounding.
My head returns, bent in surrender against him, looking down. Rhys' mouth quirks up, like he's trying not to be pleased with how badly I want him. I hear him make a considering noise whilst I hopelessly tug at his shirt, chewing at my quivering lip.
Both of his hands hold my face, pulling me up, one running through my hair, scratching and kneading my scalp. It's oddly comforting and I melt into his touch, a shaky whimper leaving my lips as I hide my face in the possessive hand cupping my cheek, rubbing against it mindlessly.
That is, until he twists his fingers into my hair, tugging my head back with just enough force to make me meet his gaze so he can.. regard me? That's what it looks like atleast; he's staring at my busted lip with utter adoration, admiring his work. As if he's trying to burn the image into memory. His eyes have darkened and his fix on it feels disturbingly close to worship.
I feel the slow trickle of something down my lip and his thumb catches it, smearing across them. He makes a spectacle out of withdrawing his hand and running his thumb against his tongue, sucking, what I recognise as blood, away and humming in approval. I watch wide eyed and my breath catches, a hitched noise climbs out my throat before I can stop it.
The kiss, along with his teeth catching my lip, reopened the cut. It probably looks like some deranged version of lipstick. Rhys must approve—he’s beaming like he loves this shade on me.
When Rhys sighs, "Oh, but Joe. You think you're above everyone, do you really deserve this? You haven't even worked for it." the tips of his eyebrows curl up, he says it like it physically hurts him to, "You've got no idea how troubled you truly are."
Both of his hands move down, tenderly tucking stray curls behind my ear before they settle on my throat. "I think it's about time I show you, darlin'." I don't even have time to plead innocent before they lock around it, hard. This time he squeezes.
There are 4 stages of asphyxiation, in this case. I savour each one.
Dyspnea— When my breath became laboured and it hurt to breathe. Each puff coming in stuttered gasps until it eventually stopped. I can feel Rhys' crushing grip against my throat, and I'm clawing at his wrists. I can make noises at this point, so I let out miserable little huffs and sobs. My head is spinning and I can feel every single thought dwindle into nothing. Only his name.
"You think you're so fuckin' smart, hm?" Rhys growls, "Dunno who you thought you were tryna' outsmart me."
Apnea— When I stopped breathing at all. I wonder how much tissue has died in my brain from the lack of oxygen. It's fine. I'm zen, I'm enlightened, even. I am SO calm. I'll accept the upcoming stroke I'm about to receive as my gift. I accept anything my God gives me with open arms and an open mouth.
Please, Lord, gift me my end!
A rush of adrenaline itches against my skin setting it ablaze. My heart is pounding in my ears, it's all white noise. I can hear Rhys' voice though, it's abruptly crisp, like the first autumn wind after a desperate, sweaty summer. Everything else, quietened to a dull buzz.
"Look how much you're enjoying this." He chuckles.
My cock is throbbing. This desperation for him is the knife I willingly twist inside of me. I'm not sure if his touch is a healing salve, or just a deeper kind of wound.
I find myself not caring either way, I revel in the sting.
God says, 'Suffering and pain is the ultimate testament of life.'
Will He doubt my faith if I can enjoy it at Rhys' hands?
He can't know that, though—nor can he know how every squeeze at my neck sends a jolt straight to my dick. I use the last of my breath to make a sound of protest, my strained voice barely enough to shape it. To feel anything at all leaves me beyond repair but the humiliation of being seen vulnerable, of letting him witness that weakness, strips me of my defenses. The walls I've carefully built around myself are too fortified to let that happen.
I still ache for him to derange me though— a deep ravenous hunger. It clings to the back of my throat. Stray strips of it stay on my teeth, it's like I cannot get rid of him. Rhys is and always has been there. I can't bring myself to get rid of the residue of him on my lips either.
This infatuation will end with him swallowed and the evidence on my tongue.
I destroy everything that is dear to me, after all, Beck, Marienne, Love, Candace. Not even God is safe.
"Kate couldn't give this to you, hm? She couldn't reduce you to the fuckin' bitch you're being now," my cock throbs at every one of his words. Yes, Rhys, this is what you do to me.
"Next time, I'll make sure she sees how desperate you are for me. Only I could do this to you, Joe. Nobody else." It rolls off his tongue in heated excitement, as if the very thought makes him hard. I still nod madly at everything he says, he's right. Only him.
My knees must have buckled because I'm hopelessly rutting against him and my lips have fallen open, he takes one of his hands off my throat to pry his fingers into my mouth. He tells me to wet them, the sharp taste of salt and skin and the careless way that Rhys pushes his fingers inside my mouth makes saliva well up in seconds. My eyes water as they get closer to the back of my mouth, and I'm faintly aware that I can hear Rhys hum approvingly as I attempt to suck each digit.
The approval of God is not earned but received. It does not come to one on the basis of merit, but on the basis of mercy.
This is a mercy killing I ask for, I beg for.
Just when I begin to surrender into my fate, eyelids becoming heavy and my vision closing in, Rhys releases his grip on my throat. He pulls his fingers out of my mouth and kisses me, hard. I shouldn't even be calling it a kiss, he's attacking my lips and I still breathe him in just the same. Riding on endorphins and adrenaline. The air pouring down my throat like water.
I'm about to cum, I don't warn him but it's like he knows either way. His hand goes into my pants and wraps around the base of my cock, squeezing hard so I can't finish. I let out a mortifying broken sob, as the hot pressure halts without release. My voice is so ruined when I cry out his name, panting for air.
"Say it."
Everything leaves me in gasps, "I.. " balling my fists against his chest, "fuck, Rhys-.. I like it-"
I can feel his smirk when he whispers against my ear, "Attaboy.. You're allowed, now you've earned it."
And that was it. With a short, choked sound, my hips bucking and me pulling Rhys impossibly closer to me. I cum in my dress pants like a teenage boy, my eyes rolling back.
Thankfully, Rhys didn't make it to stage 3 and 4 of asphyxiation; terminal respiration and death. But even if he had, I wouldn't have minded. Rhys entered my broken life by chance but from that day on, something inside me changed; I breathed better, hated fewer.. or.. hated the deserving, breathed the air he allowed me.
He pulls back to take me in, his grin widening as he revels in his handiwork. My hair is tousled and I'm all dishevelled. His grip on my throat has left blooming marks and my lips are swollen and slick. Tear tracks streak my cheeks where the sting of his hand lingers, a distinct heated redness. My head lolls back as I gasp for air, heavy and uncontrolled, each breath ragged. Rhys watches me, unhurried, before he finally decides to loosen my tie. He leans in close, pressing soft kisses against the marks he left.
“So..you liked it, hm?” Rhys grins in satisfaction, his voice smooth and even making me acutely aware of my hyperventilating. He nips at my neck, sharp canines grazing the delicate skin of my jugular, the pressure is almost piercing. I'm unsure if it's a warning or a promise.
I know, deep down, what he’s looking for. If he were to bite down, to sink his teeth into me just to see if I’d crumble or unravel in his hands, he’d find he was right. He always is.
“Yes,” I splutter, gasping.
"What do you say to someone when they do something nice for you, hm?"
I chew at my lip and feel the tang of iron and blood coat my tongue. It begins to taste like a poem, religion, like the way Rhys looks at me.
Shadows fall across the curved line of Rhys' grin. I imagine what it would be like if we never kiss again.
"Thank you." I heave, sucking in a breath so deep my chest burned as hot as my cheeks. I grab him by the collar of his suit jacket and messily kiss him, a desperate keen escaping me. Even with my eyes squeezed shut I know he's smiling. I can feel it against my lips. This time it's at my complete surrender to him.
I have attracted the attention of something truly evil, hypocrisy; I am just as corrupt.
I pull off the kiss with a shuddering gasp, he's still holding up my weight with a strong thigh slotted up against my core. I'm grabbing at his sides for stability whilst I pant and snivel as he shushes me softly, soothing, “Poor thing..There, there, sweetheart, you’re alright now.”
Rhys’ hand rubs over my back in slow, deliberate circles, each movement unspooling the tension knotted in me. The touch is almost comforting—gentle, reassuring—then he starts to pat it. Soft but patronising, as if I’m nothing more than a helpless child to be pacified. Rhys’ voice follows, low and drawling, like a taunt.
"There we go..not so hard to listen, is it..hm? To be good for me. Feels nice, doesn't it, Joe?"
The mockery in his tone should ignite something in me, but I’m too drained to fight it. Pulled into the idle, affectionate way Rhys comforts me. Where there would’ve been indignation, a quiet noise of agreement slips from my lips instead.
What sickens me most isn’t his words or his tone, but how easily his touch steadies my breathing. How effortlessly he calms the storm inside me. It’s repulsive—the power he wields over me, and how willingly my body yields to it.
He moves to comb through my hair, pulling it from my face—maybe for my comfort, as the sweat sticks to it damply, or it could simply be to revel in the sight of my humiliation. He seems to indulge in the spectacle of my fallen state regardless.
I would say I clung to him as desperately as I did so something merciful and human could ground me amongst the cruelty in my brain, but with his touch I find myself thinking only of how he planted the first seed of corruption in me and how much I crave for more.
And then it clicks.
Oh.. I understand now, of course my prayers weren't being answered, none of it was applicable to him; Rhys isn't God.
"You're the fucking devil." I rasp.
He seems to loom larger than ever when I'm limp against him. Like some cursed idol to a heathen God. You can't destroy the devil, he is immune to me.
The comfort that brings me is sickening.
He holds my face again, the look he gives me is as reverent as he is ravenous. Even after all this, he still holds me with such adoration.
Although my vision is hazy from tears, I can make out the grin he has on his face when he laughs, "Then try to deny me."