Page 24 of The Simurgh

Pitch hesitated, for he knew the ankou would not like what he was about to say at all. He pretended himself needy for a deeper embrace. He nestled in, head resting against the broad, sure expanse of Silas’s chest. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Sorry? For what, Pitch?’

‘That I don’t know…there is nothing where they are holding me. Nothing at all…it’s dark…like this.’ And yet, not like this at all. This was a tiny heaven that had somehow woven its way into the tumult.

Could they not just stay here? Forget the cottage in Sherwood Forest they’d imagined, nice as it would have been. This strange place had its advantages. It was calm. It was quiet, and warm. And he felt every trace of Silas’s hand, every caress of his lips with such an intensity that he wondered if he’d ever kiss him again without need of a blindfold. The dark was wonderful to hide in. His incubus blood was humming somewhere beneath his dream-skin.

‘Pitch? Are you still with me?’ Silas urged, gentle, steady.

‘I am.’ And he wanted to remain so. He could forget, in the folds of midnight here. About Robin and the Major Oak. About Ronin. Seraphiel. ‘And I’m sorry.’

There was the sense of strokes upon his hair, the caress of large fingers that proved themselves nimble, soft beyond measure.

‘What are you sorry for, my love?’

Love.So foolish. So delightful.

But then Pitch remembered what he must say and was grateful the dream also hid his shame.

‘I told them…of the halo…’ His voice seemed to come from the very bottom of this strange dream pit. ‘Azazel was so strong, and I far too weak.’

The ankou exhaled. Gods, Pitch adored that sound. Like the rush of a waterfall over heavy rocks. So very certain, its path determined. ‘That is no fault of yours. I know of the Exarch’s scrying, and I’ve felt for myself what it is to be manipulated so. They had me believing you were dead…’ The sense of being wrapped up in the ankou intensified. ‘It nearly killed me, Pitch. But they did not break us. Nor shall they. You must stay strong. For we are all hunting for you, and there is no place known where you can be kept hidden from me. We are not done for yet, Mr Astaroth. Not by a long way.’

The speech might be full of impossible promises and wishful ideals, but it was no less rousing.

They lost their way in each other. Very much so. For Pitch had no inkling of time passing, only that when he finally drew his mouth from the ankou’s, finally untangled their tongues enough to inhale, he knew himself entirely bare. In soul and body. Naked in Silas’s arms.

Or the idea of Silas’s arms.

That was the strangeness of the place– Pitch was not entirely sure if he was actually touching the ankou or simply remembering how it felt to do so. If he thought on it too hard, his mind did wild tumbles and turns and he was frightened he might wake.

So, instead, he explored. Sent his hands to the ankou’s chest. Found it beautifully bare there too, the licks of hair tight and curled, thick as he remembered. He moaned softly and pressed his cheek to their roughness.

‘What is this?’ Silas whispered.

‘A haven,’ Pitch returned, kissing at the depression between Silas’s breast. Rubbing a fingertip over a nipple, smiling as the ankou shivered. The vibration reverberated out into the darkness, brushing Pitch’s skin with exultant fineness.

Silas ran his hands up Pitch’s back, over every nub of his spine, right up between his shoulders. Pitch gasped, and the moment shifted.

Time skipped strangely in a strange place. He blinked into a new place, or rather, new position.

One he had no complaints about, his legs wrapped about Silas’s waist, his arms about the ankou’s neck, their mouths engaged in a deep, slow kiss. And elsewhere, lower, deeper, they were closer too.

Silas’s shaft nudged at his hole, seeking entrance. The ankou’s hands slipped low, one broad palm to each cheek. Pulling him wide. Reminiscent of their encounter in the cottage at the bottom of the garden. Perhaps the dreamstate borrowed from favoured memory. Pitch moaned into the attention.

‘Can you feel this?’ he asked, suddenly frightened that he now dreamed alone, for Silas had said very little. ‘Are you still here?’

‘As though I would be anywhere else.’

He could hear the grin in the ankou’s voice. The drift of happiness.

Silas played with him, teased at his entrance with the tip of his prick, gentle reminders of its broadness, its widening girth. Pretty warning of the delicious pain his cock would bring. Pitch craved the sanctuary of being filled, being fucked into mindlessness by the ankou.

‘Silas…I need…’ But his lover knew.

The ankou spread his daemon open and filled him entirely. Pitch let his head fall back into the darkness, a long, desirous groan leaving him as Silas entered him.

Pitch fell silent.