Archive of Our Own ^beta

Shamura, though muted in their abilities, was not one to take lightly. They had a way of getting under one's skin, festering doubt. Feeding dissent. They were clever in that way, even now.

And the lamb was weakened.

The One Who Waits bore eager audience to the destruction his vessel wrought on the lands of the Old Faith. He knew the depths of their anger. Encouraged it. Fed from it, as it surely fed on the corpses of his siblings the vessel took joy in desecrating.

And though they became complacent after Leshy, Kallamar's sniveling simply ignited the hatred only a soul backed by the weight of millions can attain.

They were a force of nature when they were like this, but nature tends to be unpredictable.

That is no good.

The first tell was the body left in the bowels of Anchordeep's temple, ungutted and unmarred past the heart carved from his chest. The wrath fueling their plunder for their god’s freedom burned quickly.

Died spectacularly.

Left nothing in its wake, or so the god believed. It wasn't that his vessel felt nothing–the absence of such passion and fury made it easily overlooked, but he found it.

Guilt, smoldering amongst the ashes. Quiet and cold and real.

No good at all.

It was the crack Shamura needs, and a weakness he has no intent for them to find.

A follower by the name of Feon had died. Pulled from the shelter of his little cult, its mind easily melded and reconstructed under the skilled hands of a god. It was a short fight that had left his vessel distraught, though he knows not why. It appears to have put them off from returning to the Silk Cradle for some time. Even correspondence waned.

That will not do.

The thing can hide in the minutia of cult management, but sooner or later they must leave. Be it in body or mind, he will find them. Their deferment has not been without incident, and they've a great many things to discuss.

Fortunately his vessel is a creature of habit. They stoke the flame of their settlement’s faith while the sun is up, only leaving during the much needed repose of night while their flock slumbers.

Resources run dry, and his vessel has mouths to feed. That is what drove them to the warp stone this night, but instead of emerging to the salty mists of the sea, they find themself blinking blindly in the cool air of the Below. Plucked from the layline like a fish from a stream.

The god waits for their eyes to adjust to the preternatural light of this place. Had they the slightest clue why he summoned them, they might show a little more caution, but as it were his vessel merely blinks owlishly up at him. Somehow, he looms taller without his guards at his side.

“Vessel-”

The god is cut off by a dramatic sigh. “Okay– look,” they start with their hands raised placatively, “I’m sorry I haven’t checked in in a while, but I don’t know if you’ve noticed– I kinda got my hands full–”

They stop when they take notice of his own, blackened by ichor and weathered by time, extended before them. His vessel’s expression blanks. “…What–”

"Come, vessel. Approach so that I may see you properly."

Their eyes flit up to his with a look bordering on incredulity, and he merely grins. They're right to be cautious. Endearing though it may be, they had grown quite complacent in talks with the god, and far, far too comfortable in their thoughts of him.

To know there remains a mote of trepidation? Good.

"Your god commands it." He does little to hide the satisfaction in watching that hesitation slowly give way under the weight of his gaze. His vessel carefully climbs into his palm on their knees, an awkward movement befitting such a novel progression in their relationship.

How long has it been since he last felt the thrum of life between his claws?

Their mind is just as discombobulated, and the lamb reels when he lifts them to his face. Hard to believe such a thing could be the cocky leader of his nascent cult, let alone a god slayer had he not personally witnessed it.

Then again, their audacity has led them to places he never would have dreamed, but he had seen that too.

"You have shirked your duty. Shamura walks free, meanwhile you frolic with your devout. Has tending the whims of mortals truly captivated you thus?"

Any lingering tentativeness is gone by the time they cock a brow, though they still sit stiff in his palm like a rock. “First of all it’s not ‘frolicking’, it’s a ritual. Secondly, ‘tending the whim of mortals’ was part of my job description, so…”

Never before has the lamb sat cradled in the claws of Death. The discomfort is certainly there, he can feel the oppressive weight of it against the firmament of their mind, but his vessel pointedly presses onward as if trying to get ahead of it. For all their efforts, they are not poor at masking the more… fallible sides of themself, but the illusion simply falls apart when one can read minds.

“…Don’t know if you noticed, but faith isn’t all too great right now,” the vessel prattles on, arrogant and undaunted, “I can’t afford to decline a follower request. Shamura will be there when I’m done.”

“You disregard their cunning for the frailty of their mind. Do you believe Shamura will wait for you?”

Perhaps the vessel finds him more intimidating from this position, for they snap their jaw shut at the question.

“No. Were they to find you, they would lay siege to everything you care for and plunder everything you have built. A follower has died, such is life. It was a warning from the Bishop of War, mere intimidation intended to shake you. And your absence has told them it succeeded.”

Casual put-on indifference gives way to a disturbed frown as the vessel sits on his words.

“Expect to see more followers puppeteered against you.”

Finally, they shift to more comfortably sit with their arms hugging their knees, and look away at nothing. Hollow. “…Is there nothing I can do…?”

“Kill Shamura.”

They shake their head. “No, I– I mean for my flock. Feon, he… It was like he was conscious of what was happening. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t save him…”

The answer should be obvious.

“Do not grow attached.”

The lamb snorts, wiping a forearm across their eyes. “I mean– I work my ass off for them! My crusades have always been a source of strength, but now I come home to a faith that seems shaky at best. The fear of being mind-bent isn’t helping. Mushrooms only last so long. A handful of followers still think I murdered Feon in cold blood! I–”

“Vessel,” the god interrupts, frankly uninterested in being a means by which to vent their frustrations. Again. “Return to the Silk Cradle and slay that which remains. Hardship may continue until Shamura’s hold in this world is finally severed, but hardship builds character. Perhaps your devout need reminding of this.”

“Oh, yeah! I’m sure they’d love to hear that right now!“ the damned thing huffs derisively, and the Chained God feels his tail twitch in irritation beneath thick robes. And as if to signal the conversation’s conclusion, they stand and begin brushing nonexistent debris from their red fleece.

So eager to leave, now? As though the circumstances of our last meeting were not by your own hand?

”Was that all you brought me here for? I wanted to go fishing while the moon’s still high–“

His vessel is cut off with the sharp hiss of air escaping their lungs, his fingers clamping around their body, and they go limp reflexively as he brings them to eye-level.

“Do NOT grow complacent.”

His prey can only stare back as though certain doom was baring down upon their soul, though they do a valiant job of schooling their fear. Perhaps he can’t hurt them, but take away the Crown and his vessel is as mortal as the rest.

And he has missed the beat of life between his claws.

“Reckless. Naïve. Ignorant little lamb. Do you not know why the Bishops of the Old Faith feared my name?”

The silence stretches out for some time before the thing, in their stupor, realizes he expects an answer. “…Because you’re Death?”

…Cute.

“Names have power,” the god examines them passively, the claw on his thumb playing idly with the bell on their collar. “Why do you believe it is that you cannot recall your own, vessel?”

The One Who Waits can feel ten different emotions crashing over them at once, and for a moment the careful construction of their features breaks under the weight of despair.

Interesting. It is knowledge the host of divinity should already be privy to, as an extension of his own will. The death of identity in service of a higher power is something few will ever have the privilege to experience, not even his past vessels were granted such a right.

Admittedly, none of his former vessels came to him in death. Sacrifices must be made, and made willingly, to build the trust and steadfast devotion needed for his ultimate freedom. The Chained God knows now he’s been too lenient, but such oversights will be corrected shortly.

This next part he wants to savor.

“To speak a god’s name is to call upon them. Shamura knew this when they revealed mine to you. And the traitorous wretch must still foster some loyalty to me because I heard it,” he spits, venom making his tail lash. To hold love for him, after everything… Shamura must rot.

Death takes a steadying breath. The fingers, wrapped tighter around his vessel, begin to relax. When he hears them sucking down a lungful his gaze returns to them.

“… And you.”

Their eyes snap to him with alarm, breathless still but recovering.

“You are quite a shameless little thing,” he grins.

Understanding creeps like ice through their veins, stiffness returning under the weight of his gaze.

“And here I thought a vessel of mine would be above such rites. …Or do you often find yourself… worshiping at my altar under the shelter of night?”

Oh, this poor thing– their mind is racing, and when they land on denial he nearly laughs.

“What the hell are you talking about?” they hiss, “I don’t sleep! Everyone knows this– I’ve got a cult to run, I don’t have time for rest!”

“I have grown quite familiar with your nocturnal habits since our last meeting, and I know sleep is not what beckons you.” That skeletal thumb moves lower to press into the downy wool of their chest contained behind the red layer of their fleece, and he feels the ice in their veins ignite.

“Was it stress?” he bunches at the fabric in idle disinterest, but savors the panicked heartbeat against his cold flesh all the same. “Had your tribulations in my name whittled away your sanity such that you resorted to sick carnality in an effort at relief? Or had your god truly inspired such… impassioned worship in his vessel?“

It’s in the despair– swallowing their already tenuous composure with the slowness and interminability of the tide– that their mask finally starts to crack. After all, the lamb was not sent to him with reverence in their heart, and seems perfectly comfortable around him with that tongue of theirs. Maybe, if he plays his cards right, two things will be accomplished tonight.

“Were things different, such a display could see you sacrificed.” His thumb traces circles over their chest. “How fortunate you are to be in my service.”

Their eyes break at the contact, another swell of emotion bubbles to the surface, and the vessel– torn between standing firm and standing down– feels their conviction begin to erode. Finally they turn away with a grimace, the maelstrom settling on anger and frustration over horror. Over shame. He knows it’s there, even without reading their mind, it weighs heavy in the air around them like a storm, in ways the rigid set of their jaw could never conceal.

The capitulation is progress.

With his free hand, the god uses a careful claw to turn their face back to his, and grins. “How fortunate I am sympathetic to your plight.”

“Fuck your sympathy,” they spit through their teeth. The lamb wants to flee.

Perhaps he will let them, if they’re brave enough to ask.

Instead he merely raises a brow, unamused by the vessel’s blustering. “Are you not pleased with your performance, vessel? Would you like a second audience with me?”

“Wait– What?!” Ah, there’s the horror. “no– NO! I’m not– Fuck!” Thoughts spin, half formed and aborted like dust in a whirlwind and for a moment all they can do is shake their head of it.

“Is– is this why you brought me here?! For a show?! To brag about your sick perversion?!” His vessel squirms in his grip, so he tightens it.

That pride of theirs is going to be a problem.

“I have no need of mortal vices. It is a wonder… the same does not extend to yourself, vessel of the Red Crown.”

“Then what do you want,” they bite, and he frowns at the wretched glare they shoot his way. Was this what his siblings saw before they died? This lamb navigates their emotions in such childish ways… unbefitting a vessel of death.

He observes them passively for a steady moment, tight and trembling between his claws with heavy breath and the expression of fire only a cornered animal can know.

“I have seen a great many things on your crusades through the Land of the Old Faith, much of which through the eye of the Red Crown, still bound to me. I have seen the all consuming wrath blaze within you as you brought ruin to our enemies and salvation to our devout. It pleases me greatly, vessel. And while I, myself, may be bound to this place, I am not blind. Not to the happenings in the land of the living, nor to your thoughts when you walk it. Your… devotion is unexpected, but not unwelcome.“

They hold his gaze, now seemingly more petulant in their defensive ire, but his vessel says nothing so he continues.

“Suffice it to say, I shall honor your tribute with my own.”

The defense shatters.

“What–” There’s a raw vulnerability in their eyes that wasn’t there moments prior.

How satisfying it is, to hold the fate of this creature in the palm of his hand! He could give them what they desire…

His vessel stares back at him, now as if the god’s motives were written plainly on his face in a language long dead. Just out of reach. Just beyond their understanding.

“…What…?“

“Come now, you are smarter than this,” he drawls. “But if I must speak plainly: I am offering you an opportunity.”

“…WHAT?!“ Incredulous, sure, but the protest belies how beautifully their body responds to the offer. Death is sure he feels them warm a few degrees in his palm before they start to squirm again. ”You’re just trying to get your rocks off!“

“Did you believe yourself safe?” There is an edge of mockery that slips into his tone. Admittedly he does little to stop it. “That because I am trapped here, your prayers would not reach me?”

“PRAYERS?!” His vessel balks, but then their attention is immediately seized as a skeletal thumb slips beneath the red fleece to stroke their wool directly, and the responding gasp makes his ears perk.

“So many manners to worship your Divine,” the words are practically purred. “So many ways you dream to offer yourself to me. Tell me, vessel, are you content with mere phantoms in your mind?”

“I don’t dream of shit! I told you I don’t sleep!“

This time, the god does laugh, and he feels irritation flare within his little vessel. Then he pulls aside his veil, and they’re struck bemused.

“If clarity is what you seek, I am nothing if not accommodating…” The chains clatter as he brings them closer.

The lamb is caught frozen as the space shrinks, but snaps from their stupor when a skeletal finger slips between their thighs and straightens in a way that holds their legs apart. And then his muzzle is between them and their heart nearly stops.

“W-wai–! HOLD ON A SEC!!“

A hoof against his nose halts his advancement. There it is.

We can finally make progress, now you can no longer play at ignorance.

The god hums. “I have an eternity, vessel,” the amusement is evident in his tone, not that he tries all too much to stop it. He pulls back, if only just.

The sheep looks pissed, as if their poor excuses of denial ever stood a chance at saving them. No, it was a weak defense to shelter the fragile beat of a racing heart and the lurid heat of blood coursing just below that skin of theirs, tinting their ears and cheeks an ever-so-warmer hue. Such audacity to even attempt erecting those defenses in the face of one’s god. This lamb is a fool.

“The same cannot be said for you. Yet you hesitate when the opportunity presents itself to fulfill your deepest desires… I must admit, I’m surprised.” He tilts his head in mock curiosity, “You. Lamb who fled. Lamb who fought. Lamb who slays gods. ‘Trepid’ is not a word you elicit.”

They’re silent for a long moment, as if constructing an argument that doesn’t simultaneously relinquish their pride. Their resolve flickers briefly like a candle in a light breeze.

But the response is the weak utterance of, “…You don’t know what I want.”

But as the silence stretches thin, it seems his proposition reaches them in stages. His vessel has thought of it a lot, perhaps more than they will ever admit. Rationalizing the logistics of depravity between themself and one infinitely more vast. A single hand is all he needs to render them immobile, at the mercy of whatever cruelty or benevolence he deigns to bestow upon them.

All that pride…just to fantasize of being split open on his tongue or impaled with sharp claws. A doll for him to do with as he pleases, as he should. Visions affirming he is their master in all things.

Delightful.

The Chained God waits, until his vessel finally seems to collect themself enough to realize he’s been staring.

“You are thinking about it, vessel,” he purrs, and they go rigid all over again. “How it might feel to surrender to my attentions…”

Mortified and more than a little peeved, his vessel shakes their head as if attempting to physically dislodge his presence in their mind. “STAY OUT OF MY HEAD!”

“…Would you like to know? Sate your curiosity once and for all?“ he asks at last, finally laying the offer on the table in a plainness not even they can feign ignorance to.

His vessel stops dead, air trapped in their chest like a stone before finally forcing its way out on a shaky sigh, as though a conscious effort had to be made to avoid becoming anything more lascivious.

“You have performed admirably in your service to the Red Crown. Such efforts shall be rewarded accordingly.”

“…Rewarded,” they chuff around a notably heavier breath, shaking their head in stunned silence. In their thoughts they are a prey animal once more, a sense they’ve long since learned to override in their quest to free him. But now they are not faced with an opponent to be struck down by blade or torn asunder by curse, now they must contend with their own warring desires.

And the lamb knows the kind of beast he is.

Favors are transactions.

“…What’s in it for you,” the vessel means to demand, but ends up sounding more shaken than anything.

Amused, the god huffs, cool air rippling through their wool.

“My freedom.”

In the silence that follows, the lamb’s thoughts become all the more louder.

’He thinks this is going to help free him? Is he mad?’

’Am I mad?’

’Why the hell is he even entertaining this??’

’This is beneath me, I didn’t sign up to be his whore!’

’…He wants to reward me…? Wants to–’

Again, they shake their head in a feeble attempt to wrench themself from following that train of thought to its conclusion.

The god could wait, he’s grown quite good at it, but by now he’s also grown weary. “Know this, vessel.”

In an instant their eyes are back on him, a fact he draws no small amount of satisfaction from.

There is hope for you yet.

“What I offer will only be given once. Your devotion is commendable, but I will not have my gifts– my generosity– wasted to your prideful indecision. Say the word, and you shall return to the land of the living, and resume fucking yourself in shameful isolation, knowing you squandered your one chance at something greater.”

The haughty shield, though still there, has waned considerably as conflict weighs down their expression.

“You are familiar with blessing the flock.” Their god grins sharply down at them, sending that storm of thoughts scattering to the breeze. “Consider this my blessing to you.”

When they finally speak again, their voice is quelled, smothered under the weight of their pride. As if speaking too loud will wake their better senses.

“A-and if I…” the lamb swallows and closes their eyes as if bracing for impact. “… If I want you to stop…?”

The Chained God cannot help the amusement bubbling in his chest. The rumbling chuckle strikes his vessel bemused all over again. Intuition is a powerful tool to have among one’s arsenal, and they are right to be cautious.

Of course, he is not capable of harming them just yet with freedom on the horizon, but something of their discretion seems to sate him almost in the same way a prayer would. It wouldn’t take much… the flick of the hand… a snap of a wrist…

Soon, but not tonight.

For now their faith must be nurtured.

“What good does force do either of us?” a sickening purr thrums around the words as he releases his grasp and allows them to sit in his palm unrestrained once more. “Have I not rewarded you thus far? Have I not given you gold and curses and all that which grows the cult stronger? In your times of need, have I not given you the resources to vanquish our opposition?”

The lamb snorts derisively “…So you’re rewarding me for ‘shirking my duty’?”

He shakes his head. “I am rewarding you for getting farther than any vessel before you… as am I reminding you for whom you wield your blade.”

In the silence that follows, only a single thought fills the space between them:

’How long has he known…?’

But it goes unasked, so The One Who Waits merely blinks at them. They appear lost in their indecision.

“…Well, vessel?”

They bite their lip, ears pinning back at being pulled from their silent rumination. Best not to dwell, thought is the death of spontaneity. Still they look rather uncomfortable in his grasp, that brazen bravado the thinnest of armors. Especially now.

“You… you didn’t answer my question.”

Their god hums noncommittally, but when he speaks his voice is a touch softer. “Understand by now your thoughts are as plain to me as your voice. If you no longer wish to accept my blessing, think it and it will be done.”

In an odd way, they seem to shrink at that and for a moment the god fears he might have misspoke, but then his vessel nods, the motion slight and somewhat stilted but no less definitive.

“…Okay,” they keep their gaze trained on their hooves, unable to look him in the eye as they all but forfeit their pride. “I-… I accept.”

His purr rings out between them with approval, and the god gazes upon them like a prized possession.

“A wise choice,” he coos. “Undress. Bare yourself before me, my vessel, so that I may gaze upon you.”

Panic flashes briefly in those eyes as they snap back to him– as if surprised by what they agreed to. Did they think he would coddle them? Lavish them in praise and soothe that ego bruised by submission?

There’s a twisted sort of glee in the god as he watches their pride flare once more– a set in their jaw, a stiffness in their hunch. They grapple with that red mantle, clinging to it as their resolve finds its footing. The play between his vessel’s desire and ego is nearly entertainment enough, and he makes no move to rush them. In fact his refusal to hide his amusement seems to make them bristle all the more.

So perhaps it’s spite that inspires them into motion. A determination to carry out his command with the same haughty vigor he’d expect from a purposeful defiance. It seems they’ve decided the satisfaction he derives from their inner conflict was worse than doing as told after all.

The bell is tossed to the void, not so much as a chime where it lands forgotten among the sands. Then goes the fleece, fluttering to the ground with the grace of a bird shot from the heavens.

At last they meet his gaze with a somewhat stubborn look to them, chin tilted up in spite of how their legs fold to their chest, obstinate and closed off. Still, it’s a start. He hums his approval, the sound like a light breeze against the tenuous house of cards they’ve constructed of their ego.

“Unfurl yourself.”

The fire in their eyes wavers dangerously, and the lamb’s gaze is pulled elsewhere. Finally, with a tight expression, they surrender one leg at a time. As expected, their torso is entirely covered with wool, making shielding themself somewhat redundant, but their mind still reels as though a major step had just been taken. Hadn’t they known? Nothing escapes him. They shall keep no secrets here.

“Good,” the Chained God purrs, the sound low and deep resonating in the cavity of their lungs. “Very good, my vessel.”

It burns like poison in their veins, and they shift uncomfortably against the cold flesh of his palm. The shyness is certainly new, a delicacy he must navigate with care lest he scare them off entirely. But despite it, a part of him desires nothing more than to shatter them.

Perhaps there will be time enough for that. For now, baby steps.

A single blackened claw guides their face back to his, and for how hard they school their expression, it nearly looks pained.

“Do not turn away.”

When they manage to hold his gaze for a few moments longer, he brings his finger to the soft wool of his vessel’s torso, his strokes so light they hardly register against his weary bones, but with pressure enough that the tip of his claw still scores a parting line through the dense fibers. As expected, their attention is immediately captured by the digit with a quiet puff of surprise.

Their mind is static, completely caught by the whirlwind of emotions seemingly dragging their waking mind along unmoored and uninhibited. A stubborn pride that fuels a smothering hesitation. A deeper rooted desire that threatens to break through. Embarrassment where these two fronts collide.

The lines between blur and the conflict dissolves once more when he uses his finger to coax them onto their back. They still want this, that much is clear by the way their desire flares forth at the contact. It seems authority is where they get hung up, pride returning in drips once given time enough to gather themself. Interesting.

“Be not afraid.” That claw trails down the length of their body as he pulls away. “For you are my vessel, and I will not harm you.”

Amused though he may be, the grin he gives them works more to fluster them than ease any misgivings they may be having, and they can’t be sure that wasn’t the point. Perhaps he should exercise more caution in how he approaches this ‘blessing’ he promised. However, his senses have long since gone numb to the time he’s spent between worlds. And here in his claws: a toy with which to ease the burden of boredom this place fosters.

The fact that there’s resistance just makes him want to push more.

Is it so terrible?

“Show me that which is mine.”

The command rings out in open air. His vessel’s eyes go wide and they appear to stop breathing. But he waits.

Their legs twitch with aborted movements, fighting and eventually succumbing to the urge to fold their knees to their chest once more. An expletive sounds in their mind, and the god listens as they contemplate on their options.

’No… I… fuck–’

’This is humiliating, I should leave!’

’I can’t… I can’t not know…’

’Augh, this is stupid!’

In a huff they relent, but the pinned back ears and color in their face suggests they do so grudgingly. Their mind coasts on blind action as their thighs fall open to him, hoping to out-pace those pesky inhibitions.

He hums, and his vessel clings to it like approval, though they do not meet his gaze.

“A start, I suppose, but you have yet to show me all of you.“

Only for a moment does confusion cross their face. The vessel meets their master’s gaze, and in the same instant understanding settles over them, the gentlest of dread pulling at their features. It’s subtle, but he catches it.

The little lamb reels back with a derisive snort. “W-what? Do you need me to spin in a circle for you?”

So they think to feign ignorance?

“Do not play the fool. You willingly gallivant in the nude with the cult you started in my name, but stand now in brazen defiance to the very god you serve. You know of what I ask, vessel. Or do I ask too much of you?”

The words land like a blow from a hammer, and their gaze is back to him in an instant. It’s bait. From the hardened lines of their expression, they know this. Torn in two once more, their pride wars with itself.

There are to be no winners, and this they must recognize, too, because after a beat his vessel offers their surrender with a slight shake of their head.

“No,” they murmur before fixing him with a glare. “’Ts not ‘too much’ for me.” But they make no move to unfurl themself.

Amusement shows itself in the stretch of his lips and they tear that glare away with a huff. Foolhardy, headstrong little lamb. So bold, and yet they crumble under a few meager words.

They are his. He owns them, whether they are willing to acknowledge it or not. Walk the land of the living, they may, worshipped and adored, but here there will be no more ‘comradery’. That waning respect he had long ignored in favor of their wild fervor in battle ends now. He will make them kneel.

He watches as they begin to fidget under his attention, watches as warmth suffuses their cheeks. For a moment, they scramble at conjuring a less humiliating response– anything but that. They think they can avoid it, that there must be some other option that won’t stop the encounter outright. They want it. They want his attention.

Unable to take the weight of silence any longer, his vessel unspools on a breath in the same manner one might defuse a bomb.

Air sits hot in their lungs.

They already feel exposed.

Their god merely waits.

The color is darker now, tinting the tips of their ears and edged with shame at their own surrender, the weight of all that pride making the act of lifting a single arm a shaky and tenuous affair. But it finds its mark in the end. Between the thighs, where dark grey fingers carefully part the wool. And when that pink flesh is finally revealed, it’s already glistening in the light.

They pointedly avoid his gaze, looking off the ledge of his palm with a grimace. Seems they enjoy the powerplay more than they’re willing to let on.

“Very good,” he drawls, and a claw forces their gaze to his once more. “How very brave for one who slays gods in my name.”

The words sear their blood by design, but don’t keep their ears from pinning back in submission under the intensity of his stare. Their pupils flare. A paradox of agitation and lust.

Progress.

“You are trembling, vessel.”

Once again, they tear their gaze away, but say nothing.

The god lightly chuckles and continues, moving that claw to instead stroke gently behind an ear. To his delight, they lean into the touch.

“You are a force of nature unto the Old Faith.” He allows himself a moment to admire the little hellspawn he had unleashed on the world, as though they were a finely honed blade. “My little angel of Death. A reckoning to all those who have wronged us, and yet you tremble before me as though I have not saved your soul from oblivion time and again.”

His vessel fights the desire to close their legs. “…Your point?”

“Do you believe yourself up to the tasks I have in store for you?” the god passively muses. “You appear rather… skittish.”

“I can take you!” His vessel snaps, and the god is taken aback at their sudden fire, before reeling back in a fit of laughter.

“Take me? You can hardly look me in the eye!” He brings them closer and the lamb scrabbles in his hand. “Tell me… How exactly do you intend to ‘take me’?”

The damned thing bares its teeth like a child braving monsters in the dark. “You know what I meant! I can handle it!“

“Is that so?” The way he hums sets them on edge– a slight underscore to their resolve that doesn’t go unnoticed.

Before they have a chance to bluster their case, the world shifts and The One Who Wait’s towering form settles more comfortably atop the sand, the grinding of chains making the whole process appear almost mechanical. He then brings them closer to his chest, the god’s body a shelter from the sky and his veil a curtain between the two of them and the Beyond. Jostled, his little vessel clings to the leathery almost-skin of his palm for several heartbeats longer than strictly necessary, and in that paralysis he parts their legs with two boney fingers.

His vessel, surprisingly, doesn’t protest.

They hardly react.

If before they were completely adverse to meeting his gaze, they now stare up at the first unobscured look at their master’s face from behind the shroud of his veil in a mix of awe and trepidation. The glow from those red eyes reflected in their own, and they slowly blink, absolutely mesmerized. The poor thing.

“I propose a deal,” the god starts, hushing his voice into an intimate rumble. “Show me your unwavering loyalty and obedience, and I will reward you in kind.”

They blink again, as it takes a moment to process the fact he had spoken at all. Then all at once the stupor breaks, and their caution returns.

“…What would you have me do…”

He only grins, cruel and sharp, because they already know.

“Nothing you cannot handle.”

His vessel frowns, their mouth a tight line as they take a moment of hesitation to consider the consequences. In their mind, they do not trust that smile, but they appear too caught in his gravity to listen to reason, every pull of their common sense met with an opposing pull toward the ‘blessing’ he offers.

Finally–

“…Okay.” For all their pride, the lamb’s capitulation is barely a murmur in the space between them.

The god blinks in approval, each eye off sync, and snakes those two claws up to pet their torso, to which his lamb jolts.

“Dutiful vessel. How ardent you are in your whispered prayers… Supplicate before me once more. Touch yourself. Show me what I awaken within you, I wish to bear witness to your worship.”

The breath catches like a stone in their chest, and though they do their best not to show it, their god feels the way they tense with renewed heat under his cold, dead flesh.

“…Of course you do,” they hiss under their breath.

The words were directed at no one in particular, but the air grows a few degrees colder as the Chained God sharpens his glare. “Have you something to say?”

The vessel’s eyes snap to his at the sudden shift in tone. He expects them to put up a bit more of a fight–meet his authority head on. They had certainly wanted to mere moments ago, but the caprice from their god seems to have knocked some sense into the little beast.

“N-No.” The response is curt, and in the silence that follows, Death weighs the option of pressing the matter. He would certainly prefer to. Fear is a powerful tool for affecting obedience, but alas, fear is not the tool for this job.

Instead, he passively regards them as they squirm beneath his gaze, only capable of meeting it in fleeting bursts until finally the lamb gathers the courage to part themself again. They try to use the momentum of the act to power their way through it like last time, but reality quickly overtakes them upon truly registering for the first time exactly how wet they are. Panic flashes like lightning through their mind, swallowed quickly by their resolve.

The One Who Waits merely watches, the intensity of his gaze somewhat at odds with the boredom he feels at the melodrama of it all, as his vessel prepares themself by slicking a finger and slowly dragging it to their clit.

A warmth licks at their mind and quickly clouds their thoughts after a few more moments, but all that fills the space between the two is a hot, ragged sigh.

“Very good, my vessel,” the god purrs in smooth satisfaction.

The pinning of their ears is the only acknowledgement he receives from his vessel, head bowed to their work.

Or rather, to avoid him.

Without a sound, he hooks a finger below their jaw and forces their attention, to which they jolt under a fresh wave of heat.

The poor thing nearly melts under his gaze. Their hand stops for a mere moment before they have the better sense to continue, but the sensation in tandem with the god’s unavoidable presence makes his vessel’s breath stumble from their chest.

“There. Much better.” His satisfaction shows when the lamb is unable to stifle a whimper. “Is this not what you desired, vessel, when you whispered that name in the dark? My attention? My approval?” The back of his claw follows the contour of their jaw, slowly down to their chest. “…Perhaps even my participation?”

A haze begins to set behind those dark round eyes, already half lidded. The longer he holds them like that the more clarity slips from their mind, thoughts turning syrupy and sluggish.

Malleable.

The One Who Waits wants to see them break. Perhaps for them to be remade in his image, a weapon fit to slay the last chain that binds him–that would certainly make for a more productive night.

But now that his vessel has begun to bend, he desires only to snap them in two.

Patience is growing tedious, so he opts for a bit more pressure.

“Already gone mute?” The One Who Waits levels a wicked claw against the scar on their throat. “You will answer when addressed.”

The command reaches them with a delay. The vessel’s mind flashes with alarm, indignation, stubbornness, resignation and finally slack defeat–all in mere heartbeats.

“…Y-yes.”

“Yes…?” He coaxes.

Their ears pin back with a grimace, and the lamb finally tears their gaze away. “…Master.“

He ponders that for a moment before chuckling to himself. It hadn’t been what he was hoping to wrench from them. A confession, perhaps. He knows the shape of their fantasies, but the god also knows he could pull every little detail like teeth from his vessel if he so chooses. It would certainly be entertaining.

But as for reiterating allegiances, this serves as an adequate start.

A claw ruffles the wool between two horns.

“You neglect yourself, vessel.” He glances pointedly south where their hand sits cupped over their sex, unmoving. “How am I to bless you if you refuse preparation?”

In their mind, he hears them whine, a heat flashing in their veins at the promise, so strong that his vessel seems paralyzed before being able to shake their head of it.

“I’m… I’m fine.“

His grin sharpens. “Are you, now?”

The lamb’s mouth opens, likely to spew some feeble defense, but the god is faster. His claws snap shut around them in an instant. The noise it punches from them could make him salivate–gods does he want to feed off their fear.

“You think to have earned my favor with such paltry tribute? Your ego ill befits the station of adjutant to a god. But you will learn.”

The ancient, boney almost-skin beneath them shifts again, a second hand joining the first to cradle his vessel in the bowl of his palms. It’s careful and methodical; their heart beats like a trapped bird within the cage of their ribs, the way they almost see his actions as gentle. It’s a reverence like the warm embrace of the sun on a cool day.

But their god had always been more of a recluse.

A thumb pins each thigh open and the moment is gone; the sudden reality hits his vessel like a battering ram, and they squirm as a fresh heat ignites their veins and settles molten and heavy in their loins. It fascinates him, the way their simultaneous panic and lust bubbles and reacts, building off one another in a hot arc of anticipation through their nerves. The way he can incite such a reaction in his vessel after hardly doing anything.

Of all the lambs in all the lands who met their end by blade, the one to be his chosen liberator falls in love with him…

The god feeds well off the little endling’s infatuation. The potency of their sacrifice is substantial– not the death of an individual, but the extinction of a people. The consumption of their soul will herald a new era wherein the One Who Waits will walk the earth once more. Death and rebirth entwined by his own hands, as it should be. But until then…

This is good too.

His vessel is only given a heartbeat to take in the thing before his tongue bares down on them– long and sinuous and forked at the end. It drags up their torso and through their wool in a lazy exploration– not unlike a tentacle– before doubling back, being sure to drag between their legs.

The taste hits him with a hunger he hasn’t felt in millennia– meaty and potent– and the god is unsure whether the appetite is drawn from lust or a genuine desire for blood between his teeth. Mortal conditions and the likes of which have long since blurred into obscurity for gods such as himself. The thing in his claws cries out all the same.

A sinful dribble of sounds erupts from the vessel, shock and pleasure and nerves forcing themselves manifest by path of least resistance, and the muscles of their thighs twitch in aborted fervor as he lingers between them. He follows the taste, tongue circling tighter and tighter until those prongs make contact with hot flesh instead of wool. The vessel sings his praises in the form of another poorly stifled moan, a small, dwindling part of themself still fostering enough awareness to be shameful of how responsive they are to his touch.

He can feel the lamb trembling beneath his tongue as he repeats the process of laving through their wool, only this time he’s careful to graze that neat raised scar on their neck. A delicate thing. They bite a knuckle as they bare more of their neck to him, but instead of accepting the offer the god pulls away, preferring to leave them frustrated. They say nothing, for now is a gift and they will accept no more or less than what he gives them. They’re finally catching on.

And Death intends to savor every emotion that crests their mind. Shame and lust when his gaze drops between their legs. A flicker of fear when his tongue withdraws and his snout presses into the downy wool of their torso.

It’s a sweet aroma he’s never quite been able to place. Not sentimental, sure, but as the last of their kind, the god takes his time here. The heat pressed against his fur grows warmer still, in spite of the cold breath washing over the beast as their god saturates himself in the smell of their wool.

Even now, soothed by its presence, he contends with the impulse which haunts him, that demands he sate a long starved hunger with indulgence. With violence.

Another breath. The cold air makes them shudder.

“The nerve,” he mutters, more so to himself. “The gall, to sit here before me after such a spectacle.”

He feels his tail flick once more beneath those heavy robes, irritation creeping into his tone as he pulls back enough to fix them with a gaze he knows will haunt them. “Displaying yourself like fruit ripe to be plucked, and in your arrogance you denied your very god the right to do just that. Have you any idea how long I have waited?“

How unbecoming. Millennia spent in isolation, eroding away at his willpower unseen until now. Gods don’t hunger. But neither do they service those beneath them.

In a daze, his vessel is hardly given a moment’s respite to process his words– his tongue is between their legs in an instant. Pressing inward. Inward. His vessel manages to hold back another stifled sound, smothering it under their palm a heartbeat before their flesh yields to him and his tongue breaches their core.

The lamb nearly screams, hands scrabbling against his own and back bowing sharply. Pain flashes through their mind, sharp, jagged edges melting into pleasure mere moments later as a single prong is enough to fill them entirely.

They’re not given a chance to adjust– they’ve already squandered his generosity on their meager preparations. Instead, his tongue writhes, the prong not within moves uselessly against their inner thigh, and for some reason their mind– what part remains lucid– zeros in on it. He feels their body clench tight in response. An involuntary massage of the foreign entity within them, and a dribble of incoherence slipping through their fingers. How easily they break for their god– he’s honestly a bit disappointed, he had expected more of a fight.

Hoped, perhaps.

It’s hard to reconcile the god killer with the whimpering thing currently squirming in his claws– a soft and delicate yolk that was once held by a haughty shell. It takes very little to spill the contents of their thoughts.

In their mind they praise their god in a manner most sacrilegious. They yearn to touch him– feel his fur beneath their palm and revel in the knowledge that, in spite of everything he is, he lets them. To hear his praises– his approval. His safety. His favoritism. The thoughts are too fleeting, hardly more than a shape his vessel, even now, is not quite willing to glean.

But he does. And it’s all the motive he needs to send their cognizance scattering like pinballs at the thrust of his tongue, the action feeding more into them until they groan as the fullness in their core teases at the very edge of pain. Then out until just the tip remains. In. Out.

A rhythm that moves their whole body with it. It overwhelms them.

When they turn away, he hooks their gaze back with a claw.

When their hips buck and twitch, his thumbs move to still them.

They are given no leeway under his scrutiny, and it undoes the little vessel. It happens in an instant, an unseen force wracking through them, hollowing them from the inside out till nothing more than a body wrapped in nerves remains. Pleasured sobs and keens echo across the expanse, high-pitched and distorted by the distant chains binding the heavens and earth in this In Between. Their heat pulses rhythmically as the last of their climax recedes and exhaustion saps all the tension from their body.

He ponders it for a moment, tongue suspended mid motion before ultimately withdrawing, pulling an oversensitive whimper from his vessel along with it. Their attention is drawn back to their god as though they expected his voice again– tenuous, but lucid enough to seek an anchor in his presence. His assurance.

He offers none.

Instead he brings his vessel closer. When he opens his mouth, a flash of panic from the one in his palm, reduced to base instincts, he supposes, though he’s proven wrong when they don’t fight it. It seems a mote of trust had bloomed– a delicate ember to be fanned. They believe he will not harm them.

Good.

Sharp teeth meet their thighs as the vessel’s hips come to rest between his massive jaws. Instantly, his tongue is back on them, laving and dancing over their folds– teasing. The poor thing mewls as they’re forced to take the overstimulation, and he feels their muscles tensing against his grip, wriggling and writhing against the only slack he deigns grant them from his torture.

This close, their body is a blur to him, so he instead hones in on their mind only to find it equally as unfocused. Not much of a surprise, in this moment his vessel is governed by id. The pride is still there, though its form remains thoroughly shrouded in the dense cotton filling their mind. Perhaps later they must grapple with the fact they were reduced to such a state, a stake of ownership from the god they dare covet, seeing as that scar upon their neck hadn’t been enough of a ward against their arrogance. For now, all that exists between them are the feeble vocalizations from his vessel and a thick layer of palpable devotion, as it should be. The god drinks deep of it, but still the hunger remains.

He drags the tip of his tongue slowly over their sex until he feels that swollen set of nerves at the apex, and his vessel cries out. But that’s not why he abruptly stops, nor is it the hands scrabbling feebly against his muzzle as if clinging desperately to the precipice of something monumental.

No, it’s the name that split their mind like lightning across a dark sky, unconscious and unbidden. They hold it in their memory like a treasure, bottle it, and carry it like they rightfully possess it. In their mind his vessel calls upon him as though it were the most natural thing in the world, and when they finally gather their wherewithal they blink up at him like they haven’t a clue why he stopped.

If a gaze could be lethal, his would be focused to a point so sharp they’d surely be dead. His vessel seems to recognize this though it takes a beat, their confusion quelled by the icy suffuse of anxiety.

They don’t know.

“…What’s–!” For all their concern, they can choke. They do in fact– their god is none too gentle as he agonizingly forces the whole of his tongue within the constraints of their heat, and watches the brief moment of lucidity shatter from their eyes.

It brings him no small amount of satisfaction. The shriek alone could satiate this hunger if he willed it to, he’s sure, but then it tapers off into a drawn out moan as the pain ignites their body. When it clicks, the god has to will himself not to laugh– at them or the cosmic irony they’ve found themself in.

It is no secret his vessel would find ways to get themself killed simply to be graced by his presence.

But this?

The god can’t help but purr in delight, and it makes the morsel in his grasp suck in a sharp breath of their own.

Perhaps they’ve always been like this. Or maybe somewhere along the way a wire got crossed when they had begun actively seeking Death for his company. Nevertheless here they are, a god who is fighting every instinct toward violence, and his vessel who would certainly love nothing short of it.

Such a fascinating creature, and he is nothing if not a generous benefactor.

The Chained God feeds more of his tongue into their body, folding in on itself like writhing tendrils and drawing out another sharp cry as he fucks them.

“Ma– Mast– OH…oh fuck–!” They call to him between incoherent babbles, somehow still with enough wherewithal to address him correctly.

He wants to break them, if nothing else to have a reason to punish them. To fuck any memory of that name from their mind. Sink his teeth into their flesh and savor the heat of their lifeblood on his tongue.

Never again will they call upon a ghost. They will know him for who– what– he is. Vast and ineffable. The one who plucked them from oblivion, who saved their wretched soul and owns their very life.

The One Who Waits.

He hardly registers how rough he’s being until he tastes the tang of blood, but by then their cunt had already grasped him in another crushing orgasm, so soon after the first one that if there were any doubts left as to the lamb’s nature, they’re certainly gone now. A flex of the muscle against their front wall wrings a sob from his vessel as they’re carried through it, the motion gentle by comparison. Exploratory even. An affectionate warmth blooms within them, faint but undeniable. They’re hardly even conscious of it.

His vessel is well and truly in love with him, the poor fool. Death soothes and drags over a small tear, and one last taste of metal blooms across his tongue on its way out.

How long has it been since he drank of libations in blood and sacrifice? This, by comparison, hardly satisfies, but by the looks of them his vessel will need a moment to collect themself. Weary and trembling. Body placid, mind malleable and blank save that which reveres him and the cruel oblivion he embodies. The very infatuation responsible for bringing them here tonight to begin with.

Satisfied with the progress, he allows them their moment’s reprieve, though he is far from done with them. This hunger, as the Chained God knows no better name for it, has grown too strong for him to safely continue with his tongue. That’s fine. By now he has made up his mind.

With one last wash of cool breath, the god draws back to regard the puddle of wool cupped in his palms. Their body is warm against him, cheeks flushed and stained with tears, all the more noticeable for the arm slung over their eyes. Their chest heaves, and though the brunt of it seems to be waning their breaths still occasionally come edged with quiet mewls. Faint marks spot the back of their thighs where they rested against their god’s teeth; perhaps come morning they’ll have bloomed into a pretty bruise. A nice memento of his vessel’s indiscretion, though he gets the inclination this night will not be soon forgotten.

“Do you understand now, vessel?” Death’s voice is low and intimate, though the din of purring betrays a lingering amusement. The Red Crown lifts from their head and they hardly process it.

“Is this enough to sate you? To quell that which haunts your mind? Everything you are, I gave you. I own you and you would do well to remember it.”

Watery eyes blink blearily up at him, and then to the Red Crown between them, the lamb’s form bathed in the crimson glow held within his veil as they watch the Crown of Death flow, twist and congeal. Such a useful tool it is, an extension of the body it’s bound to, the Crown can take the form of any weapon with ease. But a mere vessel will never be capable of wielding it to its fullest potential.

In ages long past, the use of Crowns as prosthetics were few and far between, the era of Bishops saw little conflict amongst the divine, although that, too, has waned. He saw to it himself, and now what had once merely been relegated for the frivolous and lascivious had become a constant crutch for the folly of his siblings.

The Chained God hasn’t known peace in some time, the pain and numbness which binds him to this place is not conducive to any desires beyond rectification, so its usage as thus feels almost alien. He had never been particularly interested in the whims of mortality beyond what aided him, anyway. That was Kallamar’s thing and the bastard can rot for all he cares. The knowledge comes back to him all the same.

“That which is whispered in the shadows is a name not yours for the taking… but I see now what you are.” The hum of his voice is simultaneously conspiratorial and amused. The trepidation they wear is a much better look on them.

Pleased, the god leans closer, feeling mockery pulling at his lips. “Little lamb, so proficient you are at felling our adversaries… Do you envy the mangled corpses you leave in your wake? That they may know– truly know– death, whilst you are forced merely to obey it?”

Confusion tightens their brow, and when they open their mouth to speak the vessel is halted by the graze of a gentle claw against a tear streaked cheek. Their own hand comes to their face, disquieted when they pull it back to find it wet.

“I… mmn…” The sound is a hoarse whisper in the scant space between, and his vessel shrinks under the weight of what they share.

That claw drags over the curve of their cheek in stutters as it catches the flesh, and a thin red line follows in its wake.

“My vessel… you call upon a ghost.“ The susurrus of his breath belies the sharpness of his gaze and the heavy scrutiny it carries. ”… Here I am. Do you still believe yourself capable of beholding everything I am?“

Somewhere, distantly, he feels his nerves aligning with cold steel, but the god is far more interested in probing the mind of his liberator. The warm saccharine afterglow of sex gradually gives way to a cold emptiness in their heart. There’s a tightness there, and the lamb is forced to swallow around a lump in their throat.

Transactional– that is all this ever was, and his vessel is not so foolish as to believe otherwise.

A huff rustles the drape of his veil. Had he not adequately sated their curiosity? Is this not the very fiction they hide within? His claw hooks sharply under their chin. “You will answer me.“

Jostled by the sudden motion, their gaze turns sharp on him.

There you are, my little spitfire.

He holds their gaze like that, it doesn’t take long for them to buckle under the weight of it, and the god hums in satisfaction. Their gaze falls somewhere off to the distant horizon.

“…Yes.”

“Yes…?”

“Fuck you– I gave you your answer!”

The god blinks at his vessel’s outburst, and laughs in spite of the front they try so desperately to cling to. Such a small thing, broken open and plucked apart, shedding their inhibitions and dignity alike on his altar. It’s unsurprising they would want to protect the soft marrow inside, to close themself off and shelter the fragile thing that beats within their chest.

A heart is merely flesh after all.

“Yes,” he flashes a dangerous grin, “You did. And you, my vessel, have never been known to work in halves.”

This brings a furrow to their brow, and his vessel looks to him again as if awaiting further explanation only to then take notice of what has become of the Red Crown, its shape finally molded into something more pragmatic for his purposes.

“You will see it through to the end.”

The blackened shape glistens like an oil slick in the shade of his veil, it twitches and his vessel blinks owlishly at the thing. A few things go through their mind, really. Most notably a dawning realization he’s not done with them, a pang of mourning for the aches they already feel blooming in their lower region, tempered by a quiet excitement at having his continued and full attention.

They jump at the feeling of his claws pushing their thighs apart again, and watches as the proxy settles between them.

A heat simmers molten in their gut, an echo of his own, and it prods and frots against their folds until adequately lubricated. A phallus, almost artificial in appearance, bearing a flared base where the Red Crown’s single eye stares out unseeing and unthinking. Patience runs thin as it moves on an unspoken command, pressing into the heat of his vessel’s core until the flesh yields under the pressure.

They suck in a sharp breath as the head notches–he supposes he could have gone smaller, but he can’t bring himself to care all too much over their comfort, especially with what he knows now. It isn’t as if he hadn’t prepared them.

In spite of whatever patience had evaded him, the proxy moves at a glacial pace as it pushes forward, and for a moment the lamb is able to hold his gaze as they’re impaled. Then their eyes flutter shut and they sink into the comfortable fiction that it’s him.

If only they knew…

The rest is hilted in a surge, it’s effective enough at bringing their attention back– mind the yelp of course– but the sudden influx of sensation proves a steep fine. Even with a reduced sensitivity, it has been… too long. But that’s alright, in spite of his moments, Death is patient.

And so he waits for the dust to settle before speaking again.

“My vessel,” he purrs, feeling a responding clench. It’s a wonder there was ever the matter of disobedience to begin with, when they’re this responsive this soon and all he’s done is speak.

“Priceless, you are indeed. An oblation received in slaughter and consecrated by my own hands. A weapon honed to perfection, but weapons must be maintained, and you have been neglected far too long.” The words are a sickening purr in his throat. “But fear not, for I shall make you whole again.”

He should have seen this sooner– their refusal to wed any of the flock despite their overall propensity towards empathy and appeal to humanity. They could have had any among their numbers, but they had instead chosen to remain single. He had once thought it to be a ploy to lure suitors and admirers with a demure parasociality… but his vessel is too shortsighted for that.

“In the quiet recesses of your temple, you blasphemed my name, but in your indiscretion you sought companionship, and I am not without mercy. Is it absolution you seek? Supplicate yourself at the altar of Death and may your heart be ever the lighter for it.”

Already trembling, his vessel focuses on their breathing, eyes squeezed tight as the feeling settles over them, “You… Are you seriously trying to offer absolution?” They chuff, a bit too weary for anything more derisive. “…now?“

“I see no better place than the very blessing I bestow upon you.”

They only groan.

“Unless… you hold no remorse?”

If they were smart they’d agree, the vessel’s hesitation is enough to prove they realize this to some capacity. It also means they regret nothing, and believe lying will appease their master. His gaze bores into them, cold and oppressive, but still the god merely waits. Thoughts are ephemeral after all, and theirs go quiet for a long moment before the vessel dares to speak.

“…Why don’t you want to be called ‘Narinder?’”

Ah.

The gall of this creature is almost impressive. It’s an earnest enough question, but one that serves to highlight another issue, as well as tries his patience.

The god exhales as his hand slowly closes around them. Chains groan as he straightens, and similarly, Death feels his spine creaking after so long spent hunched over. He is just able to see the play of icy dread fall across their features before his veil falls between them and his vessel is cast out in the white void.

“I– I’m sorry if it’s a sore subject… Forget I asked!”

The Chained God says nothing. Had they been anyone else, they would have been dealt with by now. Such blatant disrespect– to his face– would merit oblivion without a second thought, but that is not an option here.

‘Speak that name again and it will be the last thing you ever do,’ is what he wants to say, and alone under that veil once more, the god allows himself room enough to scowl his displeasure before blind impulse can make him do something far worse, to say nothing of the added frustration of being currently joined with them.

The silence is thick before he finally breaks it, and for all his efforts to settle the anger in his chest, the words are a tight murmur.

“I have outlived it.”

They blink up at him, surprised he entertained a response at all, but if they were to say anything more, it’s lost to a choked gasp when the Crown turned phallus rears back and slams forward. And again.

And again.

A slow thorough rhythm builds that makes his vessel squirm against his grip.

“Sorry– I’m s-orry!” They gasp out, and his claws flex against the urge to crush them. At his silence, the vessel finds themself in emotional freefall, made all the worse when they’re able to find his gaze, cruel and oppressive, bearing down on them like three cold stars behind the shroud of his veil.

For the first time, they finally seem to recognize their precarious position, completely and utterly at his mercy. Held in a grasp not born of intimacy, but of control. The potency of that fear stokes something deep within him.

Still they keen, color quickly returning to their face, and though he tries to keep this cold front, after so long with nothing, he finds his resolve chipping away rather quickly. For now, a breath that stirs his veil is all that shows of it.

“I didn’t– didn’t know!” His vessel pleas, begging him to understand. “I t-thought– !“

Thought what– that his name was stolen from him? The god sneers, watching tears well in their eyes, but this time he can’t be sure it’s not from despair. The haughty thing from before is nowhere to be found, only a wretch made whole. A supplication in it’s truest form. A sinner in the hand of an angry god with the power to relinquish their borrowed life at a moment’s notice, should he deem it so.

Their heart breaks at the thought.

“Please–“ is cried out between ragged vocalizations, desperate to exert what little power remains at their hands. ”…Please wait– stop…!“

This thing is his property, the god has every right to do whatever he likes to them, and had they been adequate fodder they’d be grateful he even deign cast his gaze upon them.

But they are not a mere follower. He needs their trust, anger and pent up frustration cannot override his desire for freedom, and so with great reluctance the proxy stills. The lamb practically deflates as soon as he opens his grip, relief in the form of shuddering gasps and poorly stifled sobs.

It’s a pathetic display of the once proud god killer, and against his better senses the Chained God feels his expression soften ever so slightly.

“…I cannot fault your curiosity, vessel,” their god wipes the shine from their cheek with the thumb of his opposite hand, and the poor soul grasps hold of it before he can pull away, clinging to it as though it were the only piece of debris in the midst of a raging flood. He finds his anger drowned by the sight.

“…nor your desire for kinship,” he continues, noting the regularity returning in their breaths. “As a host for divinity, you exist as an intermediary between life and death. Not quite mortal enough for them… not holy enough to be worthy of the divine…”

They blink up at him, something raw and vulnerable hiding behind those watery eyes. He can salvage this.

“That is what you believe, is it not?”

His vessel merely huffs and wipes their eyes, a blatant attempt to hide the embarrassment at being reduced thusly.

“…I have known courtesans to be common among the Bishops in the time before my subjugation,” he murmurs, bringing them ever so slightly closer in pointed emphasis. “Myself included.”

They remain silent, but he can feel the timid trepidation in their heart.

“Perhaps if things had been different…”

Perhaps if he weren’t chained…

It goes unspoken, but not unheard. Their eyes are on him, delicate as blown glass. A mote of warmth blooms. A seed takes root in that heart of theirs.

If he weren’t chained, things could be different.

It smolders in their chest with renewed vitality, fragile yet dangerous. The approval he feels softens his expression further, and it pleases him greatly to know they interpret it to be affection. Their eyes widen under the monumental weight as it settles over them, ears tinged with pink, but before they can manage a response the proxy begins to slowly withdraw.

“Wha… what are you doing…?” they jolt, suddenly alert.

“Concluding this… blessing,” he responds simply, though his ears cant forward ever so slightly at their protest. At the suggestion relief has not yet evaded him.

“No– no, I just…” they shudder and take a deep steadying breath “…I just needed a moment.” His vessel shuffles back onto their elbows, giving their eyes one last cursory wipe with a forearm. “I promise I’m fine, just… uh… overwhelmed?”

The One Who Waits hums, “Such does not foster confidence, vessel.” A tease, really, for he can sense their earnestness and halts his retreat. “Do you believe yourself up to the task? That you may yet please me until I am satisfied?”

At this, a low whine escapes them, and the fire in their breast erupts. “Y-you speak as if…” His vessel chuffs nervously, swallows and makes a show of steadying their composure. “…as if we’re really…”

They still don’t know.

The amusement bubbles forth from his chest, and his vessel flusters, eyes finding his in the dark behind his veil. “We are.“

When the proxy sinks back within their walls, the poor lamb nearly melts, a fresh surge of arousal hits their veins with such potency it makes them dizzy, and the god purrs his satisfaction feeling that heat constricting around him. The flames lick so sweetly at their core, and the moan they emit as the proxy begins thrusting is pure sin.

Desperate. Unfettered.

But, drunk on him, that little vessel is ascending far too rapidly now, and their god forces himself to still once more.

“Eager, are we?” he taunts, bringing them closer to inspect. They merely mewl a weak response before clasping a hand over their mouth in a vain attempt at preserving their composure.

A moment later the Crown resumes, if only to tear apart those cardboard defenses and savor the sight of their eyes rolling back, a second, louder moan slipping past tightened fingers like water. They look utterly lost to him, gone is the usual eloquence of a leader. Torn apart and ripped away leaving nothing but an ember to be stoked in his claws, and for once the god merely admires his work.

What more can be said?

What more can they possibly take before the inevitable?

A series of rapid staccatos has them enthusiastically abandoning the fruitless endeavor of silence, only to be followed by a much slower, deeper rhythm. He can feel his vessel’s frustration, it echoes his own, but the satisfaction their desperation brings makes it more than worth it.

“Savor this,” he murmurs on a weighted breath when they finally manage to open those glassy eyes. “Brand your soul with this moment, let it burn away your transgressions so you may face the world unburdened and anew.”

No name splits their mind when the tempo doubles again. No words to break the pure catharsis in their veins, just a high-pitched keen as those thighs instinctively fight his grip, desperate to wrap around something. The air in his chest grows thicker at the sight of it. But it is still too soon.

This time, when the tempo slows, their desperation is palpable, as is the needy wonder in their eyes when they can gather the strength to gaze upon their god.

“Fuck– please, f-faster,“ they plead on an airy breath, far too raw to understand what they speak. Too uninhibited not to beg for him. It pleases him immensely.

And he has always given them what they need.

One last time, the proxy rocks into them with rapid, merciless precision, and the god allows himself the grace to sigh at the sensation, sparking through long dead nerves. It amplifies their own lust and for an instant the fluttering of their walls threatens to topple everything he’s built tonight, but he manages to steel himself with a clenched jaw.

The feedback loop is potent, and his control tenuous from unpracticed millennia. It is time to end this, before control slips entirely.

Lost to their rapidly approaching climax, his vessel fails to notice their god leaning closer, a skeletal claw hooks his veil and pulls it aside. But when that tongue drags one last time over their sex, the lamb seizes. The friction proves the final push.

White hot reverence hits him the same moment a burst of wetness finds his tongue, and the god finds himself reeling from the influx. Before him, his vessel screams their veneration, twisted and contorted to such violent perfection, he hardly has the wherewithal to appreciate the image before the culmination snaps within him. Bracing with his free arm, the proxy pulls out just in time for the Chained God to watch with slack-jawed satisfaction and heavy breath as his seed coats the belly of his vessel in haphazard ribbons.

They twitch in response, hardly registering it as their own breaths come edged with the whimpers of one still recovering from the aftershocks. They open their eyes in time to witness the Crown take form as it’s dismissed back between their horns. Indeed, they make for quite the sight, bleary-eyed with the artifact upon their brow, anointed before their very god.

His amusement is palpable enough for the poor creature to look genuinely abashed.

“Such a look becomes you, vessel,” he purrs, retrieving the cloak and bell from the sand. “Perhaps not for the last time.”

It takes the lamb considerable effort to push upright, so it’s no surprise when they allow their god to drape the red mantle over their body for them to fasten.

“…So soon?” Those watery, earnest eyes blink up at him in a way that makes the god-slayer appear almost delicate.

The thoughts in that fluffy head of theirs are still warm and syrupy, clearly they wish to bask in it. To shed the mantle of leadership and saturate themself with the comfort of his presence for a little while longer. Sate that yearning in their breast.

“The cult requires a leader,” he replies simply, adjusting their cloak to cover the mess. “…And their leader requires a bath.”

His vessel looks a bit crestfallen at that, so the Chained God tilts their chin up with a talon and quietly murmurs “Do not neglect yourself for them, lamb. You serve a far greater purpose.”

Blinking, they seem to ponder that for a moment before looking down. “I… Okay…”

Far from obsequious, but still his vessel yields; if only they were this compliant all the time. He takes a moment to swirl his desiccated fingers atop the downy wool of their head, allowing himself one last pleasure before his existence returns to dust and chains. They lean into it with a sound of contentment, eyes already falling shut, the poor thing.

The One Who Waits lowers them carefully to the ground, and, with some coaxing, his vessel slides off his palm and onto legs that nearly crumple beneath them. Stumbling against his hand, frustration briefly tints the sluggish sweetness of their mind, and the lamb’s ears pin back as they right themself, embarrassment among the first of their senses to reemerge. He chooses not to comment.

“Little lamb, you are far from lost to me.”

The words are quiet, though they belie the way he watches them stumble with a lax amusement. His vessel looks up to him from the warp stone, eyes round and guileless.

“Go now. Rest and recover, for there is one still left standing between us and our journey’s end.”

For a moment, nothing is spoken between them. As they stare back, inscrutable, even their thoughts are silent. And then they turn to his hand, blackened with decay, and where their own still rests against it from righting themself.

Something warm still beats in that chest. Something alive. His vessel looks up at him again, this time with a timid mix of disbelief and awe, and they nod.