Craven‘s shadows thrashed in the corner of Wreath‘s bedroom, knowing they were wanted but distanced from their user. Wreath‘s, however, wrapped around him, spiralling around his cane and across his body, ribbons of fluid darkness. Craven made a noise of frustration and struggled harder against his rope bonds: his wrists together and over the back of the wooden chair he was on, his ankles apart and tied to the legs. His shadows responded to his distress by moving in a whirlwind frenzy of blackness, but Wreath‘s moved from his body and forced Craven‘s back into the corner. It was so easy, the Detective almost laughed.
“You made your bed when you removed your amulet, Vandameer. Do you honestly think I’ll let you change your mind now?” Craven made another noise of frustration but stopped struggling, and sank as far back into the chair as he was able. He glared at Wreath with pure venom in his eyes. Wreath was flattered. Stepping closer to the bound Cleric, Craven was forced to tilt his head back to continue to look into Wreath’s eyes, but as soon as his neck was so openly exposed Wreath’s free hand shot out, shadows all along it, and he gripped Craven’s throat, choking him with crushing pressure and shadows that tentatively but curiously snaked their way upwards and let themselves into Craven’s mouth. The bound Cleric tried to scream but it was like his throat was full of burning ice and the noise died. There was very little warmth left in Craven’s whole body, freezing almost everywhere, and now Wreath was stealing the heat from inside. Craven’s eyes glazed over for a second, but he quickly refocused on Wreath. Wreath smirked before withdrawing a step, bringing his hand away from Craven and allowing the man to breathe. He did so desperately.
“You should really be more thankful, Vandameer. Is Necromancy not your devotion? Shouldn’t you be grateful to be overtaken by it? Short of death, this is the greatest worship you could give,” Wreath said, looking down at the other Cleric, who was trying not to cough and failing. Wreath dropped his eyes lower and smirked at Craven’s erection, straining against his stomach.
“In such a sacred place to you, you allow yourself to feel like this? Aroused after being exploited by the very discipline you claim to respect? By another man, no less?” Craven spluttered slightly before he could talk.
“You are one to talk, Wreath. I know what you’re getting out of this, and I know the kind of things you’ve done with mortal men and male mages alike. We are here for convenience, and I’d thank you to-“ Craven’s words were cut short and he howled in pain as Wreath’s barbed shadows darted out and coiled around Craven’s dick. The bound Necromancer managed to stifle a second cry as Wreath gestured, curling and uncurling his fingers, making the darkness pulsate around Craven until droplets began to slip down his cheeks. He shook his head furiously and tried to stem the tears as they fell, only half managing, and finally Wreath withdrew, leaving Craven free to gasp in relief. The floor clicked softly each time Wreath’s cane tapped against it as he walked around to stand behind Craven. The seated man twisted his neck to try and look what Wreath was readying himself to do, but the way his back was bound straight, he didn’t have room to turn far enough. There was a soft noise behind him, rustling fabric and something else, but he couldn’t work out what it was. He was intensely shocked when Wreath’s left hand wrapped around his waist and grabbed his cock - he must have been knelt on the ground to be able to reach. Wreath began stroking him, gently, slowly, tenderly, a significant contrast to the pain the shadows had caused just a few seconds ago. Craven was still crying, ever so slightly, and he was rather grateful Wreath could no longer see. He was still freezing, but the soft pleasure that began to overwhelm him from Wreath’s actions caused a fuzz to rise in his mind. He clenched his jaw, not wanting to give Wreath such satisfaction so early on, but god, it felt good. This continued in silence for a couple of minutes, Craven not making any audible noises but certainly breathing harder, and Wreath’s breath had caught a few times too. The bound Necromancer, trying to keep the daze pushed to the edges of his mind, did wonder if this was what Wreath was going to do, jerk him until he came, make fun of him.
Craven was very surprised, then, when Wreath’s other hand was forced underneath him, between the chair and his ass, and the pad of Wreath’s middle finger - completely dry, he might add - put a gentle pressure on his asshole. Craven yelped, and Wreath laughed, low and contemptuous. He made no movement to penetrate Craven - he just moved his finger, rubbing against his hole and perineum, while continuing to stroke his dick with his left hand. The rustling must have been Wreath taking off his jacket to reveal his rolled up shirtsleeves, Craven realised, because it was Wreath’s forearm pressing against his side to get his hand to his dick. He began squirming slightly as Wreath continued his ministrations, the uncomfortable way he was lifted slightly by the hand underneath him exacerbating the feeling of the harsh rope against his skin. Just when he was beginning to reach what he thought was the limit of the sensations he could take, Wreath’s shadows snaked up his body and began to - Craven could think of no better word - caress him. What was a little worrying is that he knew both of Wreath’s hands were occupied, so his cane would be on the floor next to him, yet there was no noticeable difference, at least at this range, in the control Wreath had of his power. The tendrils of darkness reached his face and prodded at his lips again, and Craven gave a short moan that gave them access.
Craven was losing himself now, no longer capable of keeping to the usual version of himself he displayed to Wreath, but he didn’t care - he allayed his fears of consequences with a swift memory of the conversation they’d had earlier, guaranteeing each other complete confidentiality over tonight, and opened his mouth wider to let more shadows in. Wreath pulled his right hand out from underneath Craven and his wrist clicked as he shook his hand loose, making him wince. Craven didn’t notice. Wreath picked up his cane with his now free hand, and the shadows in Craven’s mouth grew thicker. He made a noise of trepidation around them, not understanding why they’d suddenly done that, but it turned to a moan of harsh pleasure as Wreath tightened his hand on Craven’s dick, sliding his thumb over the dark red top with each stroke, dragging more and more precome down onto Craven’s shaft. After thirty seconds, when Craven was struggling against his bonds in pleasure, Wreath let go and he could have sworn Craven whined, but it was so muffled by the darkness he couldn’t prove it.
Wreath stood swiftly, ignoring the ache that had manifested in his knees, and moved around to Craven’s front, keeping the shadows occupying the bound Cleric’s mouth.
“Does that make your jaw ache, Vandameer? They don’t have substance, and yet they do, so I do wonder if they’re causing you pain.” Wreath mused in front of him. His free hand, the one that wasn’t holding his cane, went to his belt, and slid the leather free of the buckle, while he kept his eyes on Craven’s face. It was like the shadows in his mouth had a mind of their own, exploring everywhere they could but reluctant to go into his throat lest they choke him. Wreath moved, and Craven looked, but he felt what was happening before he could process the position Wreath was standing in. One hand was still at his belt, the buckle undone, but starting to unclasp his trousers, but the other arm was raised to lift his cane and press the bottom of it against Craven’s balls. He moaned at the pressure, not hard enough to be pain but most definitely the threat of it evident in Wreath’s motions. The shadows suddenly withdrew from his mouth and he could take a proper breath, and the air felt like burning in his icy throat. He coughed at the temperature change, something prickling in his eyes, but he fought back the tears. Not again, he thought to himself. Wreath moved closer to Craven, sliding his hand down to the middle of his cane so he didn’t have to stretch his arm behind him to keep it pressed against Craven. His trousers were undone now, and he shifted them around until he could also catch the waistband of his underwear in his fist. He pushed both down until he could pull his dick out, relatively easily since he wasn’t erect yet, and moved even closer to Craven. Sat down, he was at a perfect height to suck Wreath’s dick, and he knew that was exactly what he was going to be doing. That’s why Wreath had put the shadows in first. To loosen his throat.
“Now, are you going to behave, Cleric?” Wreath asked, a condescending lilt in his voice. Craven’s cheeks coloured slightly being addressed by his proper title in such a situation. In his embarrassment, he didn’t reply, so Wreath started talking again.
“You’re going to suck me off, and you’re going to do a damn good job, or I shall leave you tied to this chair and you can figure out how to escape on your own. What would you do, I wonder?” Wreath pushed harder with his cane, and Craven hissed at the pain, moving as far back into the chair as he could to get away from it - which was not very far.
“Knock yourself over and try and reach your amulet? Call for help and suffer the indignity? Or would you hope I had mercy on you, and I’d come backand release you?” Wreath bent at the waist and leant so his mouth was right next to Craven’s ear.
“I wouldn’t,” he was murmuring, low and dangerous, “I’d leave you here, cold, alone, horny, and pathetic as you are, Vandameer, and you’d beg me to do it to you again next time. Wouldn’t you just beg me?” Craven swallowed loudly.
“Yes,” he said simply, voice hoarse. Wreath straightened up and then jabbed his cane forward a little. Craven made a soft noise of pain.
“Yes what?” Craven looked up at Wreath and blinked. After a few seconds, realisation dawned, and he blushed again. He looked at the floor.
“Yes… Cleric Wreath.”
“I’m a High Cleric.”
“We’re both High Cl- augh!” Wreath scowled and pushed his cane very hard before pulling it back.
“One more try, Vandameer.” Craven’s voice was shaky as he began to speak.
“Yes… High Cleric Wreath. I would… beg for you to… to…”
“…to leave me here. Like I’m nothing.” He was blushing furiously, and Wreath smiled maliciously.
“Excellent. Now,” Wreath said, close enough so Craven could reach his dick if he craned his neck a little, “suck, Vandameer.” Craven nodded slightly and leaned forward as much as he could until he could take Wreath’s soft tip into his mouth. Wreath sighed, and took his cane back, taking the pressure off of Craven’s balls. He had little time to compose himself, however, because the second the cane tapped against the floor shadows darted up and began coiling around Craven’s dick, squeezing and flowing, making him feel something indescribable, but intensely pleasurable, despite the cold. He sucked around the head of Wreath’s cock, rubbing his tongue against Wreath’s frenulum, and the standing man pushed his hips forward slightly, encouraging Craven to take more. He did, moving back a fraction so his neck ached less, not letting himself gag around the cock in his mouth. Wreath’s breathing had sped up, and he was occasionally making low, soft noises of pleasure, so Craven felt less self-conscious letting his own pleasure spill out verbally. The shadows around his dick felt strangely incredible - they had no real substance, no real form, no real weight, and yet there was pressure and texture and temperature and god, he was going to come soon. Wreath had only just gotten fully hard, the blood rush thickening his dick inside of Craven’s mouth, but Craven knew he’d be sucking until Wreath came, and had a sneaking suspicion the shadows wouldn’t leave him alone if he orgasmed long before that.
Craven tried to ignore the building heat in his abdomen for the feeling and taste of the blowjob, precome beginning to coat his tongue, the sapour thick and heady. Wreath’s free hand, the one that he wasn’t using to steady himself on his cane, moved to clutch Craven’s short hair, and Craven whimpered at the tug, not even caring what it sounded like. They were both here to get off, and that’s what he’d damn well do. He pulled back and dipped his tongue into Wreath’s slit, and Wreath gasped, his eyes sliding shut, before pulling harder at Craven’s hair, making him take a few inches back into his mouth. Craven tried to ‘open his throat’, whatever the hell that meant, but he decided he wasn’t really cut out for being the kind of homosexual he knew other sorcerers could be, so he settled for sucking harder, laving his tongue over as much of Wreath’s cock as he could reach, and the two men continued like this for a few minutes, until Craven began squirming quite incessantly in his bonds, the shadows’ rhythm growing more unpredictable as Wreath lost more and more composure. He made a noise, muffled effectively by the cock in his mouth, and Wreath opened his eyes to look down at Craven. Precome had dripped all the way down from his dick onto the chair between his spread thighs, and the head of his cock was flushed a deep, deep red. Wreath interpreted the noise best he could as ‘pleaseimgoingtocome’, which was quite accurate, so he didn’t let his shadows slow at all, keeping the intensity high to bring Craven to orgasm. And he did, maybe thirty seconds later, wailing around Wreath’s dick, getting semen on his stomach and the chair and the floor. None of it touched Wreath, for which they were both internally glad. To Wreath’s credit, he did stop the movement of his shadows on Craven’s dick, but didn’t recall them to his cane, keeping the pressure on, not letting Craven relax too much. The blowjob, of course, continued, because Craven had no option - he had run out of space to move back in his bindings, so he just had to suck until Wreath came and left him alone. The grip in his hair tightened again, causing him to make a soft noise of pain, and Wreath smiled sardonically, breathing heavily. The two men made no further attempt to speak, Craven making noises of pain or vague pleasure occasionally, and Wreath letting his pleasure spill from his lips more readily. He released Craven’s hair but then quickly regripped it, his breathing more erratic than it had been at any point so far.
“Swallow,” was Wreath’s shaky verbal warning before he came, and Craven fought the urge to retch at the taste and texture, which bothered him a great deal more now he wasn’t as aroused, doing as he was told for the sake of the situation. Wreath pulled back when he was finished, releasing Craven’s hair and taking deep breaths. After a few seconds, when he was a little more composed, he pulled his underwear and trousers back up, resting his cane against Craven’s body while he rebuckled his belt and tucked in his shirt.
Wreath disappeared for thirty seconds into the en-suite connected to his room, and Craven heard the tap running. The cane was cold against his shoulder. Wreath returned with a damp flannel, which he dropped on Craven’s thigh and then walked behind him, crouching to untie the knots around Craven’s wrists.
“Just cut them off me with the damn shadows.” Wreath snorted at the suggestion.
“And bring more rope into the Temple next time you want to be tied up? If you want me to cut them, you can go and get more rope yourself.” Craven said nothing, just waited for the rope to be loosened. After a minute or so, Wreath tugged at it and the loops of rope fell from around Craven’s wrists, and he moved his arms forward, flexing his wrists and fingers and stretching his shoulders. He then took the cloth from his thigh and used it to clean the drying fluid on his stomach and the chair, as Wreath unlooped the rope from around the chair.
“Get it off the floor, too,” said Wreath, without looking up, and Craven awkwardly bent double to quickly drag the cloth across the stone floor too. Wreath had many rugs in his room, but he’d moved them all aside to ensure they didn’t get dirty. Craven felt something on his right leg, and realised Wreath was freeing him completely.
“How gracious of you to release me, Wreath. I thought you may choose to keep me eternal prisoner.” Wreath looked up from the knots with a soft glint in his eyes.
“You’d be the one begging me for it, Vandameer,” he quipped, before going back to untying the rope. When he was done on the right, he moved to Craven’s left, and it took another two minutes before Craven was a free man again. He stretched out his legs before standing up gingerly, knowing he’d probably ache like hell in a few hours. Wreath gathered the rope into loops and put the chair in the corner while Craven redressed, putting his amulet on last. Its weight was ever so comforting. Wreath yawned.
“We don’t speak of this?” Craven asked, just confirming what they’d agreed before.
“Trust me, Vandameer, I’d rather not tell anyone I resorted to sex with you.” Craven studied Wreath for a minute.
“You are undoubtably the worst Cleric the Irish Temple has ever been cursed with, Solomon Wreath.” Wreath raised his eyebrows.
“I try my best,” Wreath said, and bowed shallowly, mockingly. Craven stepped towards the door, scowling. Wreath said nothing else, only opened a drawer to put the rope away, so Craven unlocked and pulled open the door, and left with no more words. It clicked locked behind him. He walked back to his own chamber, and on the way realised he had no idea what time it was. The Temple was gloomy all day, every day, but it was the kind of blanketing darkness that only came after the witching hour. He let himself into his room, flicking on a dim bulb, and decided not to put off putting on night clothes, observing his clock as he changed. Just after 3am, and cold as frozen hell. He kept his amulet on as he got into bed, pulling the covers up to his neck, turning the light off at the switch just above his bedside table, and trying to think about anything else other than the likely ill-advised casual affair that was most definitely at the forefront of his mind.