Atlas
THE WOODEN FRAME THAT holds my mattress squeaks loudly, and I can feel nothing but the drool that’s leaking from my open mouth and each harsh punch of the incubus’s hips.
The scent of sweat and something close to burning wood lingers in the air, and I choke on it—on a drawn-out moan that is ripped from my throat as it slams into my prostate again and again.
Such a sick, lovely pleasure. This is the first time it has come to me since I thought I was cured, and the relief and shame that are mingling beneath the intense zaps of heat coursing through me are a stark reminder that I’m just as bad as this demon.
Just as condemned.
Yet I want it—I want to come, to feel that release. If I could feel it this powerfully from anything else, if my own hand would offer me any relief, maybe then I wouldn’t crave the skin of a monster. But everything else pales in comparison, and I’m far too self-aware to ask a real man to touch me.
I’ve already seen how a real man reacts to my desires. Disgust, resentment, regretful rejection—as if it hurts him just as much as it hurts me to send me away.
Julian… fuck. I like him—unreasonably and desperately, I want his affection and his sweetness, not just his body.
I will never have either.
A startled sob leaves me, and the demon hovering over me growls, low and possessive. I wish I could open my eyes; I wish I could truly see it.
Atticus explained it as a demon sent from hell and would not describe it any further.
Julian said it had black eyes and sharp teeth.
I can feel the cool, clammy skin and sharp nails.
But that is all I have to go off of—if I saw it in its entirety, would that make me less desperate to feel it claiming me so violently?
My dick pulses as sharp teeth nip at my pebbled nipples, my lips trembling as I take what I’m given. Will I feel less guilty if I imagine it’s Julian over me, rather than this demon? Or will I feel worse?
I have no time to contemplate the semantics, as a second later, large hands are engulfing my hips and lifting my lower body from the mattress, causing the ridged, thick length of the incubus to plunge into me deeper, at a better angle.
It pulls me to meet its every thrust, shoving into my hole with zero remorse. I’m stretching and reforming to the size, the girth, the sheer weight of it inside of me.
I choke out another groan, my limp hands twitching with the urge to grab anything, to ground myself.
I want this to end; I never want to be forced into this position again. I want it to last forever; I want to come again and again and again.
As if reading my thoughts or having learnt me through the little sounds I make, the incubus plunges into me harder, faster—one hand moving up to grip my neck. Its fingers are long enough to wrap all the way around, encompassing the entirety of my throat.
Then it squeezes, just enough to stop my breathing.
And I come.
No sound leaves me—I spasm and clench and sob silently as I shoot ropes of arousal all over my stomach and chest, hearing the demon groan at the sight, the release, the expelling of my energy.
Cool, thick fluid is filling my insides, so much so that I feel ready to burst as it prolongs my own orgasm. A wide palm is laid on my stomach, pressing down on the sensitive skin there, and I scream.
I can feel it everywhere. Every little ridge of its cock, its release as it pushes from between my hole and where its length is still shoved so deeply inside of me.
I think I might start climaxing again, any second now. The sheer pleasure of its size, its wide head rubbing over my prostate, and the way it’s still gripping possessively at my hip is so overwhelming that my dick twitches.
Can I come without being hard? Is that… is that a thing?
I feel something press against my entrance, and soon, a long finger is being shoved into me, alongside the pulsing shaft still buried inside, and my entire body tenses, seizes, and I’m coming again.
I feel no physical release; my dick does not become hard. But the pleasure rolling over me, desperate wave after wave, tells me I’m experiencing another orgasm whether my body wants to admit it or not.
“Etiam, mi angelus.”
The voice is so low, so distorted and broken that I can barely make out singular words. It’s a language I do not understand, but it sounds almost aligned with Latin dialect.
As if glass is breaking and nails are scratching along chalkboards—that is what the sound of this voice resembles.
This is the very first time the incubus has spoken in almost three years.
Possessive, greedy hands rake over my sides and my stomach, and as I feel all of my energy slowly begin to slip from my body, I swear I can hear the sound of humming—low and affectionate.
Then, everything is black.
When I open my eyes sometime later, it’s to a voice I can understand and to a room that is still shrouded in darkness.
My eyes blink hazily, taking in the ceiling above me, feeling the drag of calloused yet warm fingertips as they run over my collarbones.
The voice speaks again, but I don’t fully register the words, only the warmth in them—the affection.
“Mm,” I hum, attempting to roll onto my side and slip back into a deep sleep. I am exhausted.
A sturdy hand lands on my shoulder, keeping me in position on my back as the fingers flutter from my collarbones down to my hip, where they continue to drag out lazy patterns.
“Atlas, wake up now,” he whispers.
“Nice,” I mumble. “Feels good.”
And it does; his hands feel really good. Comforting and protective and calming. Like he knows I was pushed harder than normal tonight, and he’s here to soothe my aching body with his soft caresses.
“Does that feel good, sweet boy?” he asks, his tone gentle and quiet.
“Mm,” I repeat.
“It’s time to wake up now. I’ve come to check on you.” Julian’s words are so straightforward and still just as kind and low, but they seem to shake something at my core.
Check on me? Oh, lord. He’s in my room—after dark—and witnessing once again what the aftermath of the demon looks like.
Did he see the whole thing? How did he get past the locked door? Why is it just now hitting me that his being here is wrong?
My eyes shoot open once more, darting to my right where he’s sitting, leaning over my body as he touches me softly. Julian is smiling, his dark hair falling onto his forehead as he looks at me as if... as if he adores me.
I must have lost some much-needed brain cells alongside the energy the incubus took from me.
I want to sit up, to shove him away and freak out, but my body is so exhausted that I fear I’ll simply fall right back onto the mattress if I attempt it. It has to have been only minutes, or maybe an hour or two, since the Incubus left.
No time to recover, no time to sort out my thoughts.
“Julian,” I breathe. “What are you... Leave. Now.”
“Atlas—”
“No. I’ll scream if I have to, but you must leave right now. I don’t even know how you got in.” My tone is demanding, if not a bit cruel, but Julian just narrows his eyes at mine.
“Why? Is your boyfriend returning soon?” he asks, his own voice taking on a hint of malice.
Oh. So he didn’t see the incubus again. This bodes well for me, actually. I can send him away under the pretense of loving another man, and suffer alone as I have always intended to.
In fact, his being here now is confusing me. Wasn’t he just absolutely disgusted by me and my desires?
“Yes, he is,” I confirm. “Now leave, before he returns and you make things difficult for me. Stop inserting yourself where you’re not welcome.”
Hurt flashes across Julian’s features, and if it wasn’t protecting his livelihood—and my own heart—I’d feel guilty for saying it.
“You’re a cruel little thing,” he eventually whispers, leaning down, and the closer he gets, the harder it is to breathe. “Will you ever stop lying to me?”
“Huh?” I mumble, unable to say much else as every one of his exhales falls upon my lips, and I can practically taste him. My body is acting as if I didn’t just come twice—as if I’ve never experienced pleasure before now.
“You don’t have a boyfriend, Atlas,” he tells me. “Want to know how I know?”
“H-how?”
“Because that thing came to my room, too.”
My eyes widen, my heart dropping so fast I choke on my own spit and have to focus on not vomiting right here and now. With a renewed burst of strength, I sit up, inches from busting my forehead against Julian’s.
He does not move, only watching me with assessing, calculating eyes.
“He... it… What?!”
Slowly, a small, vicious grin shapes his full lips. “How else do you think I got these beauty marks?”
He doesn’t have to touch them—I know he’s talking about the scratches on his cheeks.
I’d spent all day suffering under the idea that some other person had harmed him, when it was my demon who’d done it all along.
Oh, god. I… I think I’m going to panic. I can’t breathe. I haven’t even attempted to confess my feelings to Julian yet, and I’m already harming him with my demonic condition.
Oscar was right—I should have been afraid of what the incubus would do after being stunted that night. I shouldn’t have become so complacent in my sick pleasure.
“Julian,” I choke out, his face becoming blurry behind my tears. My fingers lift, hesitantly grazing the marks on his face. “I’m so, so sorry. I… I never thought it would… why would it…”
I can’t seem to finish a sentence or a logical thought.
Julian uses both hands and wipes my eyes gently, clearing my tears so that I can see him clearly. He’s no longer grinning but instead is staring at me with so much pity and anguish that I want to shove a blade straight through my chest.
“It came again tonight,” he tells me. “It pressed me down onto my mattress and then left, as if warning me. Telling me to stay put.”
He’s watching me, waiting for a reaction, but I’m unclear on what he’s implying. The incubus came to his room before it appeared to me, and all but told him to stay in bed. Okay…?
I imagine it doesn’t want to be interrupted again. It makes sense that it’d warn Julian to stay away.