starchasmvel
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Norton wasn’t sure exactly what to expect when Orpheus had summoned him to his quarters this time. Normally, these invitations meant another list of errands, or another set of obscure tasks dressed up in Orpheus’s maddeningly poetic instructions. The man seemed to be making sure he was wringing every last ounce of value out of what he paid Norton, that much was clear by now.
Admittedly, this time had felt different. Norton wasn’t stupid; he’d caught the implication the moment Orpheus’s voice dipped to that oddly low tone, meant to perfectly match the look in his eyes when he’d promised Norton he’d be “generously rewarded” after his last job. Norton could’ve seen what he was doing even if he’d been blind. A damned succubus in a suit, that’s what he was. Should’ve been warning enough.
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Norton lies flat on his back, staring at the blank ceiling as though it might offer him any clarity. The sheets beneath him are still cold as he hasn’t really settled into them yet. He had just collapsed, limbs heavy, his body humming faintly from tension and unshed words.
It would’ve been easy to pretend he didn’t care. To pretend Orpheus was nothing more than a client, a name on a contract, and an absolute pain in the ass.
But it wouldn’t have been honest.
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Norton helps himself in Orpheus’s room, until… He isn't.
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Do you dream of hands around your throat because you want to die, or because you want someone to make it matter?
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“What does it feel like,” he whispered, leaning closer, lips brushing against Norton’s ear, “to finally be seen—”
His breath lingered, warm against his skin. “—and be hated for it?”