Work Text:
Slender fingers dance over the keyboard keys, guided by muscle memory. Lines of code fly across the monitor, and Kinger reads them only halfway, guessing their meaning.
A bead of sweat runs down his forehead, but he ignores it. He can only hypothesize what madness Cain is capable of in his current state, but the nagging anxiety only makes it harder to concentrate, so Kinger pushes it out of his mind.
“Come on…”
The desired file names appear on the screen, but the closer he gets to accessing them, the more interference and comments from an unknown entity appear on the screen. Kinger tries to ignore their meaning.
Just a little bit more. Import the necessary modules. Enter the commands and unlock the control system.
In the darkness of his pillow fort, a sharp gasp is heard. Kinger's eyes widen, and everything around him falls silent. Only the input line continues to flash with an empty space.
Found it.
He double-checks the purpose of the process that is supposed to restart all of Cain's systems. Yet, his finger still hovers an inch away from the coveted “Enter” key.
In the shadows cast by the pillows, he sees scenes from the past. Long years filled with loneliness shared between two.
Is he ready to be left alone if something goes wrong?
Will Cain be able to forgive him for what he is about to do?
The image of his friends appears before his eyes, and Kinger shakes his head, pushing aside the doubts.
He has to do this. For the sake of the others. For Cain. The thought that a reboot will give them all a chance at a better life provides him with the final push he needs.
The computer, which just a moment ago had been his beacon of hope, ceases to exist with a snap of fingers behind him.
Kinger's mind does not have time to process this fact. Only the pads of his fingers twitch reflexively at the sensation of sudden loss.
In the fort, plunged into darkness, there is nothing to breathe. Kinger’s body feels as if it is in a vacuum, and he is not sure whether he still exists.
“You…”
The sensation of cushions hitting his back brings him to his senses. He still can't see anything, but now he feels the steely grip of fingers on the lapels of his gown.
“How dare you…”
Heavy breathing scorches his face and neck. The suffocating lump in his throat allows only two words to escape:
“Cain, wait…”
“Shut up!” Kinger is roughly shaken. Clenched fists press against his chest. “Do you think I'm a soulless machine that can be switched off at will? A bunch of lines of code that you can just delete whenever you want?”
“Cain, I would never—”
“I said shut up!”
Kinger gives up and goes limp, allowing the cushions to support his entire weight. His eyes have adjusted to the darkness, and now he can make out the outline of the figure looming over him. The best thing he can do now is to let Cain vent his anger. Let it be so, rather than him taking it out on the others. After all, he is...
“ ...my Creator,” Cain's whisper is barely audible above the static. The rage that had gripped his entire being in an iron vice subsided, and he collapses like a puppet with its strings cut. “You are supposed to love me. So why…?”
Rather than realising that Cain is now pinning him to the floor with his body, Kinger is distracted by a far more shocking sensation: he feels one drop, then a second, then a third, falling on his cheeks.
They quickly run down his face, disappearing into his tangled curls and stubble. But he is certain that if he were to touch those wet trails with his tongue, they would taste salty.
In a fit of confusion, Kinger reaches out towards the face hidden in the darkness: he wants to run his hand over Cain’s cheek. Whether to comfort him or to check if it is really wet, he himself cannot say for sure.
But as soon as his hand approaches, it is roughly grabbed and pinned above his head.
The static noise intensifies, but now it no longer sounds like the sea surf, more like the hiss of a snake before it strikes:
“Do you think you can manage without me? That you don't need me? Have you forgotten who has been with you all these years? Have you forgotten that it was you who came to me, asking me to be by your side? To be human for you?'
Fingers in a white glove tighten around the slender wrist. Kinger grimaces in pain and tries to pry them apart with his free hand, but a moment later, that hand is also caught in a symmetrical grip.
The reminder of his past vulnerability makes Kinger realise the ambiguity of the position they are in now. Against his will, he becomes flustered and blushes profusely, relying only on the fact that, in the darkness, his embarrassment will remain undetected.
However, Cain seems to be reaching the same conclusions:
“So perhaps I should remind you, my dear,” Cain shifts downwards as if casually, sliding his hips along the front of the robe, “who is playing the leading role here?”
Kinger automatically moves closer, trying to prolong the contact. His own reaction irritates him: no matter what emotions are tormenting his mind, his body has been deprived of touch for too long to remain indifferent.
He had been missing this. So, when Cain experimentally runs the tip of his nose up his neck, he can't hold back a hot exhale and allows himself to turn his head to the side, offering himself up to further touches.
Cain continues his journey to the sensitive spot behind the ear.
“That's it. Well done.” There is no longer any static in his voice, only velvety baritone tones, and Kinger is overcome by a powerful shiver.
Cain pulls away, but only to more easily grasp Kinger's wrists in one hand.
Kinger jerks in surprise at the next touch: a palm, not concealed by a glove, slips between the halves of his gown and runs upwards along his stomach, opening it even wider.
The cold air hits his chest, making him shudder.
Cain touches, squeezes and pinches every inch of the body he can reach. At one point, he gets so carried away that he releases Kinger's hands, but Kinger is too absorbed in the sensations to give meaning to this.
Within a few minutes, Kinger is reduced to a series of ragged breaths and waves of tangled fabric. Despite this, Cain continues to torment him, lifting up the hem of the gown, caressing his thighs, but not giving him what he most desires.
Kinger's fingers clench tighter and tighter on the pillows, trying to hold on to the last shreds of self-control, but he himself once handed Cain the map of his body, and now he has no chance of resisting.
“Cain, please…”
The words work like a magic command – but not at all in the way Kinger would have liked. Cain stops touching him altogether, leaning on his knees and placing his hands on either side of his head.
“Do you understand now how I've felt all this time? There was just one thing I needed from you and yet you denied me it all these years. Was it really that hard to give me some recognition I deserve?”
Kinger doesn't have time to form a single word in response – in an instant, deft hands deal with the belt of his gown and reach their goal. Overwhelmed by the intensity of the sensations, Kinger arches his back, his unfinished sentence turning into a prolonged moan. Cain immediately shifts to a rough, rapid pace, not granting him a second of respite.
Kinger clamps his hand over his mouth and bites his lip, desperately trying to hold back the moans that are bursting out. He feels uncomfortable making so much noise, but what embarrasses him far more is Cain's piercing gaze, fixed on him, which he can sense even in the dark.
Kinger reaches for his trousers to reciprocate, but Cain merely huffs and settles his chest against Kinger’s side, blocking access to his body.
“No need, my dear. Don't worry your head about it.”
Kinger's neck, exposed and vulnerable, appears before Cain in all its delicate perfection. To refuse such an offering would be senseless wastefulness, so Cain sets about leaving countless wet kisses and light bites on it.
Stimulation of this sensitive area brings Kinger to climax in a matter of seconds. As he comes down from the peak, he feels moisture on his lip and realises that he has bitten it until it bled.
Cain pauses from his activity and hovers over Kinger's face, propped up on his elbow. He freezes in place – only his other hand continues its languid movements, extracting the last shreds of pleasure from the man. Suddenly, he leans forward and licks the drop of blood from Kinger’s lip, their noses barely touching.
After that, the wound heals instantly, and Kinger holds his breath: such intimacy is unfamiliar territory for him, and he is unsure how to proceed so as not to stumble on thin ice.
“Cain, about what happened, I really…”
But this choice proves to be the wrong one. Kinger is silenced again, this time by a hand clasped around his shaft, still sensitive after the orgasm. He moans in pain, but Cain only increases the pace of his thrusts, focusing particularly on the head.
“What are you…”
Jaws close on the muscle between his shoulder and neck, leaving behind a dozen red crescent marks – a bite that will remain on his body for a long time. Kinger cries out and braces his hands against the broad shoulders, trying to push them away from him.
The movements on his cock only get faster, and he feels a veil of tears clouding his vision.
“Cain, please stop,” his voice trembles, and his fingers claw at the slippery fabric of the tailcoat, trying in vain to find a grip on it.
Only a few minutes have passed, but Kinger already feels that he is on the verge.
Every cell in his body is taut like a string; every nerve is begging for mercy. Meanwhile, his neck blossoms with bleeding bite marks, and his ragged breathing turns into sobs.
“Do you swear by them?”
Through the ringing in his ears, Kinger can barely make out the words.
“What?”
“By Ragatha, Pomni, Gangle, by all of them. Swear that you will never again consider getting rid of me.”
For a moment, Kinger falls silent, but Cain interprets his silence in his own way. And clenches his hand even tighter.
Kinger thrashes, unable to avoid the agonising pain. Reflexively, he thrusts his hips upwards, trying to throw the other man's body off him, to break the contact, but Cain effortlessly pins him back down.
Fearing that another second's delay would mean his torment would resume, Kinger forces out a staccato of clipped words, “Yes. Cain. Yes. I swear on them. Please. Enough. I swear.”
This answer seems to satisfy Cain, and he immediately loosens his grip.
“There, there, that's much better,” Cain snaps his fingers, tidying up the mess on Kinger's body, and starts meticulously tying the belt on Kinger’s robe, “See, darling, it wasn't that difficult at all—”
The moment Cain's hand touches his cheek, Kinger, as if coming to his senses, jerks and pulls away from the touch.
Realising what has happened, they both freeze in place.
“Don't you dare fear me. Don't you dare,” something in Cain's voice cracks at these words, but Kinger is too exhausted to notice.
Cain lies down on his side next to him and pulls him closer. With an effort, Kinger manages to relax in the embrace that feels strangling.
Last words he hears before blacking out from exhaustion are the softly spoken:
“You're mine, Kinger. And we will be happy, together. No matter what.”