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Once the lock is undone, the window slides open easily, barely sticking. Achilles doesn’t dare breathe; he slips inside, silent and smooth as always, landing barefoot on the hardwood floor.
The full moon gleams through gauzy curtains, casting the bedroom in cool white and blue. The posters on the wall seem flat and empty in the light, as does the messy bookshelf, and the rack with its three wooden training swords.
Achilles shuts the window, slow and easy, and takes a long, deep sniff.
The funk of a teenager’s laundry basket. Deodorant. Unscented shampoo. Hot, young skin and, underneath that, the sweet salt smell of blood.
Achilles’ mouth floods with saliva, his teeth extending, and he shivers. The steady beat of a sleeping heart drums in his ears, as loud as his own slow pulse. A low pang of desire clutches in his guts. He’s so hungry.
Finally, he turns and there, sprawled across the bed –
Zagreus.
Sweet, tender, broken boy, so desperate for love, so needy, so perfect – a beautiful creature, pale skin silvered by moonlight, dark hair messy and ruffled. His ribs, unbound in sleep, rise and fall in gentle, even breaths. He’s clutching a soft pillow to his chest, legs half-spread on top of the sheets. In repose, it’s harder to see the breadth of his shoulders and the muscle on his arms; instead, he looks open. Vulnerable. Young and untouched.
Achilles swallows hard. His teeth dig into his lip.
He crosses to the door, careful not to step on any of the clothes or books strewn about. The handle locks. He knows it does; Zagreus told him as much, during one of their first lessons – he couldn’t make nighttime practice because his father locks him in at night, to keep him from running, he said, running his hand through his messy hair and giving Achilles an awkward little smile, as if it were some regular teenage foible.
Achilles tries the knob. It jiggles, but doesn’t open.
He’s met Hades. They won’t be disturbed.
On the bed, Zagreus’ heart picks up, just a little. Achilles freezes, but Zagreus only grunts softly and readjusts his legs, curling up a bit more into his pillow. It’s made his night shirt ride up, showing off the skin of his smooth back. Achilles swallows down a fresh rush of drool, hands trembling; he can feel his lips curling back, channeling the scent of sweet young flesh to his nose, baring his teeth as they finally slide into place.
Carefully, gently, he pads to the bedside, adrenalin roaring through his veins. It’s now or never.
“Zagreus?” he whispers. “Zagreus, lad, can you hear me? Don’t wake, just nod.”
He layers in as much command as he dares. It’s still strange, even after so long, to hear his own voice like this; it’s soothing, comfortable, deep and echoing, like a chorus of voices in one.
Zagreus’ heartbeat picks up, just a little. Then, slowly, he nods.
Hot pleasure spikes through Achilles. His hands draw into fists, and he can feel his claws extend, sharp and long. “Good. Good boy.”
A sudden burst of pheromones – Zagreus gives a soft grunt, pulling his pillow closer.
He’s aroused.
The smell hits Achilles like a hammer. Before he can stop himself, he leans in close, mouth open to taste the waft of need that rises up. “Good,” he says again, “yes, darling boy, sleep for me. Be so good for me.”
A longer groan, and Zagreus’ thighs clench.
The boy’s already kicked off his sheets, thank the Gods; Achilles doesn’t have to worry about getting tangled, or going slowly enough to second-guess himself. He strips off his hoodie and his shirt, piling them on the bedside table, and reaches out one hand – a single finger – to brush it over the curve of Zagreus’ bared waist.
His skin is electric. Perfect. Hot as sin in the cool air.
“Stay still for me, love,” Achilles says, strained. “Let it go. It’ll be alright.”
He takes hold of the pillow in Zagreus’ arms, pulling gently until it dislodges. Zagreus’ face crumples a bit, a soft dismay, but doesn’t move, perfectly obedient as always. Now he’s bared to the air, his t-shirt ridden up to his armpits, and for the first time Achilles sees his student’s chest.
His breasts are small and pointed, barely a handful, with wide, pink areolas and large nipples that press out into the cool air. They’re beautiful. Of course they are; everything about Zagreus is beautiful, from his sweet smile and pouting lips to his muscled thighs and broad shoulders.
Biting back the urge to simply leap upon him, Achilles blinks hard and pulls command back into his voice. “Now lay on your back for me, lad. Let me look at you.”
Zagreus lets out a tiny moan and rolls over onto his back, arms up around his ears, and he settles back into the mattress with a sigh. He’s spread his legs wider, and through his soft grey boxers, Achilles can just make out a thin, darker patch at the seat of them.
He’s wet.
Achilles lunges before he can think, stumbling onto the bed to crawl up between the boy’s legs, burying his face in Zagreus’ neck, sniffing deeply at the hot, thin skin barely containing the rush of Zagreus’ sweet red blood. The boy is warm, warm as life itself, and Achilles shudders all over, claws digging into the sheets, pressing himself down over that strong, limp body, savouring the press of soft breasts against his chest. “Gods,” he hisses, and licks a hot stripe up the side of Zagreus’ throat. “I couldn’t resist you, lad, not from the moment you walked into my studio, you just smell so good.”
He’s hard, he realizes, dimly; he’s harder than he’s been in a decade, blood-drunk and aroused without a drop spilled.
“Wanted to rip you apart, right in that room,” he whispers, and presses his hips to Zagreus.
Oh, the feeling – release, pressure, pleasure, hot need all through him, like orgasm and a hot bath and the smell of a full meal. He rubs himself up against Zagreus’ sweet, wet boxers, a deep growling purr rumbling through his chest. He’s so hungry. He needs this. He wants this so badly, more than anything he can remember since he lost Patroclus.
He’s so hungry.
He lets himself taste Zagreus’ neck one last time, then pulls back with a rough shake of his head, snatching up his hoodie. “Stay still for me, my good boy,” he says, and when Zagreus doesn’t move, eyes still softly shut, Achilles snatches up his legs and pulls the hoodie under them, until the specialized waterproof lining sits right under his hips.
He could drink like this. Roll up the lad’s boxer leg, gently prod open the femoral artery and be done with it. But, he thinks, desperately, blood might stain the fabric, and the point of it is not to leave a trace, isn’t it? It would be better with nothing in the way. Yes. Better.
Hands trembling, he reaches for Zagreus’ waistband, slipping his claws beneath the elastic. “Sleep, darling,” he says, “my good lad,” and rolls it down.
Bared to the air, the boy’s hair is black and curled, hiding most of his slit; but the very bottom edge of it, tucked between his legs, gleams.
Achilles grinds his teeth, fighting back the urge to touch.
He must feed. He’s here to feed.
He slips the boxers off, tossing them to the side, and catches the insides of Zagreus’ thighs with his hands, gently prying them open. The throb of blood beats like a war drum in Achilles’ ears, the air thick with arousal and salt and the musk of boy. “You feel no pain, Zagreus, no pain at all,” he whispers, and carefully presses his thumb claw to the soft, tender flesh.
It parts like silk, blood pooling hot and red under his grip.
With a desperate growl, Achilles leans in, and presses his lips to the wound.
Blood bursts onto his tongue, hot and salt-sweet, bitter with iron, the taste shuddering through him in a wave of pleasure. His eyes nearly roll back. He knows blood, he knows the flavour of it – can taste the differences between willing and unwilling, the sour tang of fear, the soft sweetness of sleep – but this is different. Zagreus tastes like heaven, like gold, like perfection and sunlight all wrapped up together, and Achilles cannot get enough. He pulls back a moment to breathe in the hot red scent of it and can barely think, leaning back in to suck another deep draught from Zagreus’ thigh.
Above him, Zagreus squirms, moaning softly. His hips wriggle, grinding his thigh the tiniest bit into Achilles’ mouth.
He can’t speak like this, can’t order Zagreus back to sleep properly – so Achilles readjusts, sinking his eyeteeth deep into Zagreus’ skin, and lets the muscles in his jaw release, pumping a dose of venom into Zagreus’ veins. It should keep him pliant and soft, keep the edges of his memory loose and unfocused – the last human who took him willingly described the feeling as the best high she’d ever had.
Slowly, Zagreus relaxes, loose and still against the bed, and as Achilles suckles, the taste of his blood shifts from soft, sleepy arousal to dizzy confusion and sharp need.
A horny drunk, then, Achilles thinks, and can’t laugh because his mouth is full. He’s just as intoxicated, eyes blown wide with pleasure, grinding down against the mattress like a feral animal; he wants to laugh, to strip this boy bare, to steal him and keep him forever, to worship him. He knows in his bones that he’ll never find another human like this, so delicious, so perfect. It aches.
For now, it’s enough that he’s had this single taste.
Nearly full, he pulls away. His lips parting from Zagreus’ soft, pale skin with an obscene wet smack. A few more pulses of sluggish blood leak from the wound. They drip down Zagreus’ leg, pooling on the hoodie to mix with soft, gleaming drips of slick.
The scent is too much. Growling, Achilles scrambles backward, snapping the button off his jeans and ripping his briefs in his haste, shoving them down his hips just enough to pull his cock out. He clutches at the base of it, panting.
He could fuck him.
No. No, that’s. No, he shouldn’t – he doesn’t know what Zagreus would want, how he would like it, didn’t bring lube or condoms or anything because he came here to feed, not to fuck, but Gods the smell of Zagreus’ slit is driving him insane. He wants so badly to sink into that hot, wet hole, to fuck his student blind, to make him scream –
Zagreus moans, softly, and shifts his hips. His legs fall open just a little further, and his slit –
His slit parts, just barely –
Gasping, Achilles lurches up, hands catching Zagreus’ thighs to pin them open, bringing his face right up to that blood-pink flesh until his nose is buried in Zagreus’ thick curls and his breath runs hot over Zagreus’ sweet lips. Achilles’ eyes slip shut, and he sniffs greedily, stealing the smell of need and wet and blood and skin and salt for his own. His mouth waters.
He’s never felt this before, this overwhelming need, not even when he was first turned. His skin is too small, his muscles too tense. He’s trembling. His teeth itch.
No, he’s not going to fuck the boy. That would be too much. Of course it would – for all he knows, Zagreus is a virgin, and he wouldn’t take that from him, would he? No. No, he couldn’t possibly –
He licks his lips, and he can taste him.
Achilles lunges forward, crawling overtop of Zagreus until he’s looming above him, cock in hand, balanced on one forearm and staring at the boy’s perfect, angelic face. He could – just jerk himself, maybe? Come on Zagreus’ belly, mix their scents, mark the boy as his own. The thought shudders through him and he gives himself a slow, solid tug.
It’s not enough.
He snarls, clutching at the base of his cock. He’s got to – he needs this. He needs this, and Zagreus never has to know –
Shaking, he slips his cock between Zagreus’ thighs.
Gods above, it’s hot and tight and soft and perfect. “Keep them – together,” he says, voice garbled by his fangs and thick with bloodlust. “Be good for me. Let me – let me.”
Zagreus, eyes still shut, lets out a hot little groan and presses his legs tighter. A fresh gout of blood spills out right against Achilles’ length. Achilles hisses, gripping hard at the boy’s hips; his claws sink into pale skin, and his hips jerk forward, the way slicked by Zagreus’ own arousal and his hot, red blood.
His thighs are soft and tight, a perfect channel around his aching prick, and Achilles hears himself groan as he fucks into them, mind blank to all but the smell of heat and blood and slick. Against him, Zagreus groans, tilting his head back, and Achilles snarls, shoving his face into Zagreus’ neck, scenting him, greedily taking in the smell of the boy’s rising arousal. If he changes the angle – climbs a little higher –
He slips his cock back between Zagreus’ legs, the base of him rubbing up against Zagreus’ slit, pressing against the searing wet heat of him, enough that Zagreus parts around him, just enough, and Achilles can feel the bump of Zagreus’ clit grinding up against his cock. He growls, fucking hard against him, rubbing himself between Zagreus’ blood-hot folds, wet and wild and perfect. He catches on Zagreus’ entrance once, twice –
Then, Zagreus shifts, hips tilting up, mouth opening in a tiny “o,” and all of a sudden Achilles is inside him.
Fuck, he’s inside him, too fast and too slick, buried to the hilt in slick heat. The boy is tight as a vice, clamping down around him, and he can’t help himself – his mouth falls open and his hips are pumping and he’s fucking him, hard and fast and mean, blood still sluggishly trailing from Zagreus’ thigh, claws sunk deep into his hips, flesh slapping, Zagreus’ legs spread open around him as he rocks with every impact. The scent of his heat is overwhelming, a bright, heavy weight on Achilles’ tongue like a hot coal, musk-sweet and burning, alongside the sour smell of pain – Zagreus is crying in his sleep, tears jerking down his cheeks with every thrust.
Achilles snarls, hot need spiking in his guts, clutching at his cock and tugging at his sack, and he throws his head back, growl thrumming in his ribs, and takes, and takes and takes –
With a howl, Achilles snaps his hips, muffling himself in Zagreus’ neck, pounding deeper and deeper, coming harder than he’s ever come in his life. He buries himself in the depths of Zagreus, in the blood-hot darkness of him, the boy’s muscles rippling as – oh Gods – he comes, too, impaled on Achilles’ cock, shaking hard, moans interrupted by hiccupping sobs.
Zagreus whimpers, hips twitching, clenching hard around him, sobbing softly – and for a moment, for a single second, Zagreus’ eyes slit open.
“Achilles?” he whispers, slurring and shaky. “What…”
“It’s alright,” Achilles growls instinctively, sudden terror setting his hips twitching, grinding up against Zagreus’ clutching hole. “Go back to sleep, my love.”
“Hurts.”
“No, no it doesn’t,” Achilles pants. “Nothing hurts at all. Come on, sleep, be good for me.” Achilles pulls back, just a little, cock pulsing. Zagreus’ eyes are half-closed, confused; he’s red all over, flushed with sweat and hot blood just under his pale skin, just the same way he looks after training. His breath is still uneven, but his heart is slowing. “That’s it. Sweet boy, so perfect for me,” Achilles whispers. “Calm and slow. No pain. Just sleep.”
Zagreus blinks, honey-slow. “Jus’… sleep.”
“That’s it. Sleep.”
Zagreus’ eyes slip gently shut, final tears glimmering on his cheeks, and Achilles sighs, slipping out of Zagreus’ hole with an obscene, wet sound.
Gods. He lost control.
He stares at the mess of blood and come and slick pooled in his hoodie, and the mostly-shut wound on Zagreus’ thigh. Quickly, he licks his thumb, swiping some more saliva over the cut to help it seal; by morning it will be nothing but a bruise. He reaches for a tissue box balanced on the side table and carefully wipes at Zagreus’ privates.
A trickle of his come slips out of Zagreus’ hole.
Achilles curses. He’s a fucking fool. What was he thinking, coming down this road? He knew Zagreus’ address, he knew he would smell that scent on the wind – tantalizing, impossible to resist. And now he’s ruined everything.
But the thrall steals memory. He knows it does, from decades of practice with humans; the boy won’t remember any of this, will barely notice the pain. Might not even notice the seed slipping from him, if he’s distracted enough.
Achilles gathers up his clothes – the button from his jeans is lost among the clutter, but everything else seems fine. He slips the wet boxers back up onto Zagreus’ legs, pulling the waterproof hoodie from under Zagreus’ hips. He’s going to have to burn this one. Or at least stuff it in a dumpster a few miles down the road, where he’s not going to smell it.
He wipes his mouth clean, stuffing the used tissues in his pockets to dispose of somewhere else, despite them being wet with blood and come.
Zagreus won’t remember, he repeats to himself. He’ll be fine. He’ll come to training tomorrow and it will all be fine. And then, maybe, tomorrow –
Achilles slips back out the window and into the night.
-
Zagreus waits until he can no longer hear Achilles, then counts to a thousand. Then he opens his eyes.
He groans, and sits up. Stretches. His cunt aches, and his hands are cold and wobbly from blood loss. (And that relentless fucking.) He’s still a bit woozy from the venom, but it should clear up soon.
He changes his clothes, first, pulling on a clean binder and fresh boxers; he doesn’t bother to clean himself out. Vampires are sterile, and don’t incubate viruses or bacteria the same way humans do. His go bag is ready in the closet – a duffel with a few sets of clothes, his savings kept in cash, his ID, a few silvered weapons; everything he needs to survive.
He pulls a picture out of his wallet. A blonde woman, smiling; her pointed ears peek through her braided hair as she clings to the bulk of his father, happy and free.
He bows his head and thanks her, in his mind, for what she gave him – his strength, his compassion, and for his half-fae blood. His blood that protects him from most enchantment and mind control. That lures darker creatures to him like moths to a beacon. That tells him, always, that she is safe and alive and healthy – just not here.
And, in his heart, he thanks his teacher for being the first man to care for him, and to treat him with kindness; and for being fool enough to follow Zagreus’ careful lures all the way to his window.
The window that is always, always locked from the outside.
The window that Achilles, in his panic, left open.
“Love you, mum,” Zagreus whispers. “Wait for me.” He slips the photograph back into the duffel, carefully, then takes one last look around his room. His prison.
He takes a breath. Grins.
Quickly, he hauls his bag out onto the roof, climbs out after it –
And runs.