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Fuck, Bettel thinks wearily as he paces back and forth in front of his mirror. Fuck, fuck fuck.
Only three days have passed. It feels like more, but his clock has always been right. Hours have been dragging out like each one is a week. Three measly days since he tried to apologize to Altare for making one tiny, stupid, throwaway joke.
It's unreasonable. He'd complain to someone if he could, but who's he supposed to complain to when his boss (technically) is the one who did this to him?
Bettel sighs and looks at the floor. Seventy-two hours of pacing have worn a straight line into his carpet. He pauses for a moment, half-naked in front of his mirror, scrutinizing the intricate maroon mark darkening on his lower abdomen. If he squints, it looks a little like a heart with horns. Or are they wings? It doesn't matter. He knows what it is. Everyone does.
The hex is a parting gift from Altare. Bettel has zero proof, but he's more certain of this than knowing the sky is blue. He wearily bumps his forehead against the mirror's cool glass, tempted to slam his head into it hard enough to knock himself unconscious. Why him? Altare's such a fragile little shit. It was one comment. It wasn't even funny. Sure, it might have been a tiny bit at his expense, but if he can dish it out, he should be able to take it.
Bettel shuffles through his memories of that day again. He could have- should have- done so much more. He'd apologized. He'd sworn up, down, sideways, and diagonally that it wouldn't happen again. And Altare had smirked in his face like always, with guileless green eyes and a breathy little laugh of "All good." Even afterward, when Bettel had apologized a hundred more times and everything had seemed fine between them, he should have apologized eight or nine more times on top of that to be certain. He should have realized how much horror lay behind his guild leader's cheery mask, or that the whisper he'd barely heard under Altare's breath was about to make his life hell.
The jester huffs out a furious sigh, blows out his tiny bedside lamp, and collapses on his bed, staring up at the ceiling through blurry eyes. He's still barely dressed, but he doesn't have enough mental clarity to be embarrassed. Just thinking about the mark makes it burn like he's been branded. He might as well have been. Damn Altare and his stupid sense of humor. Is this a joke to him? No one sane uses a curse like this as payback for one shitty comment. Bettel thanks his lucky stars that it doesn't entirely work on men, although it's worked just enough to ruin his life for the last several days.
To distract himself, or maybe make things worse, Bettel starts making a mental list of reasons to strangle Altare Regis with his bare hands at the first chance he gets.
Can't focus. Everything's too hot. Clothes itch. Skin crawls. Can't use the guild hall's bath chambers like everyone else. Can't even fucking jerk off anymore- he practically has friction burns on his dick from how often he's tried without success. Can't fall asleep without stupid Altare lurking in his thoughts somewhere at all times. And he's sure he hasn't even scratched the surface of everything else the curse might do. Worst of all is the nagging emptiness that's settled deep inside him: like hunger or heartbreak, but thousands of times stronger. That's not going away either.
Bettel rolls over and over in his blankets, but sleep has been taking its sweet time to find him over the last three days. Even Phantom, his last source of comfort, has fled for his life every time Bettel's tried to dig him out of his nest. He checks his clock again. 2:30 am.
It's bullshit. These hours have always been his comfort zone; the guild hall is wonderfully quiet after midnight. Right now, the silence is bringing him anything but peace. His worst intrusive thoughts are getting even worse, if that's possible, bouncing them around in his skull faster and louder until he can't ignore them anymore. They're all about Altare- the chill of his touch, his smell, the cruel, knowing look in his eyes when Bettel had stammered through his apologies and reassurances. He wants- no, he needs- something more from him, more than forgiveness, or an end to the curse. He needs-
No. He's better off without Altare's meddling. It's the curse twisting his brain into knots, nothing more. Bettel stubbornly tries to think of anything else- buying some new dog toys for Phantom, signing off on the guild's last few monster hunting permits- but he can't seem to get a handle on his own brain.
As if in response to his defiance, the mark sears ferociously. Pure agony replaces all of his muddled thoughts with a harsh, bright-edged flash that he sees as much as he feels. Bettel's whole body seizes, forcing him to curl up in his blankets like a cooked shrimp. He can't scream; he'll wake up the whole hall and maybe the whole continent too. Instead, he clamps his hands over his mouth and sucks in quick, shallow breaths, forcing himself to count the miserable, slow seconds until his insides stop feeling like someone's trying to make them his outsides.
It takes him all the way to a hundred before the pain finally recedes and Bettel uncurls himself. He takes a deep breath, and then another. And then he realizes the sensation hasn't exactly gone away.
Goddammit, he can't do this. He just can't. The irritating pulse of the mark is morphing into an unrelenting itch, crawling downwards until it's dangerously close to his dick and Bettel has to ball his hands into fists to stop himself from clawing his skin off.
It's still tempting. Carving himself up can't be worse than begging Altare for mercy. But he can't shake the feeling that getting rid of a curse like this won't be as easy as a DIY skin graft.
He bears it for as long as he can- about ten seconds- before throwing in the towel. Bettel struggles to his feet and yanks his shorts and boots back on with new determination. He can't, and won't, spend another sleepless night, watching Altare's self-satisfied smirk lurking behind his eyelids. Anger staves off the pain and gives him enough strength to reach the guild leader's quarters in a matter of seconds. Despite the darkness in the maze-like halls, Bettel's got the route memorized. He's already been down there a dozen or so times to lurk awkwardly and wonder if another apology might help or make things worse.
Fleeting doubts make him hesitate as he raises his hand to knock, but he pushes them away. He's in the right here. He's already apologized and everything. If Altare still thinks they have a problem, Bettel is about to give him a much worse problem to chew on.
But before his knuckles have a chance to touch the polished wooden planks, the door creaks open. Altare Regis leans against the doorframe, smiling the same infuriating half-smile that's been haunting Bettel for days. He's fully dressed despite it being past midnight, like he's about to go out and run errands or something.
"Is everything okay? It's kind of early."
"Screw you," Bettel gasps. He elbows Altare out of his way and storms into his room, plopping down on his bed without waiting for an invitation. "Fucking... nothing's okay, and you know why!"
Altare keeps smiling at him, completely unbothered. "I'm not sure what you're talking about."
"Yes, you do!" Bettel scrubs his fists across his eyes. He knows how crazed he must sound, but he's also run out of fucks to give. "Whatever. Joking at my expense? I'm used to it. Haha. Kick the clown. Real funny. But this?!" He gets up again and points furiously at his crotch. "I don't know where you get off on doing shit like this, but I want this gone, now, before I-"
"Want... what gone?" Altare raises a dubious eyebrow. "Bettel, if you have a personal problem, I need you to bring it to me tomorrow in daylight hours. I'm really, really tired right now."
"Fuck off!" He's done hinting about it. Bettel yanks his shirt free from the waistband of his shorts, letting just the top of the mark show. "You did this to me!"
He waits for another bland denial that never comes. The silence that follows is even worse.
"Well?"
Altare says nothing- just looks right at him for the first time. Bettel's heart skips several beats. He's never realized how awful Altare's eyes can be, the pale green set in an even paler face, washed out to a sickly yellowish gleam in the candlelight.
Silence hangs grim and tense between them. Bettel wishes he'd say something. Anything. He squirms nervously as the guild leader's gaze drifts up and down his body, piercing right through what little he's wearing. It doesn't feel like he's winning this. It feels like he's walked into a lion's den holding a particularly juicy steak.
And it's getting worse. There's no fire or candles in the room, but Bettel's whole body feels like he's standing on the sun; drops of sweat roll down his forehead, pasting the collar of his disheveled dress shirt to his neck. He furiously tries to stop fidgeting, but it's impossible to stay still. The mark has turned into a pile of hot coals under his skin, sending unbearable heat dripping through every vein, speeding up his heart until he's gasping for breath and fighting the growing urge to touch himself. Somehow he knows it'll be good if Altare's here with him, chilly inhuman hands stroking every inch of his skin, cruel smirking lips pressed against his, whispering all kinds of filth in his ear as he comes apart in his arms. It wouldn't just be good, it would be right-
He doesn't realize he's stumbled forward. Altare catches him before he can fall completely, holding him much too close, pushing his thigh up between Bettel's legs. The sudden painful pressure on his cock almost makes him scream. He shouldn't do it, he can't play into what Altare wants from him, but it feels so fucking good-
"No," he whispers, broken. "I won't, you hexed me-"
"I did," Altare agrees. "And you want it gone. Do what comes naturally, and it'll go."
Bettel glares up at him, trembling, torn between fury and starving need. Altare's hand slips down his body, sneaking between his thighs and gripping his cock hard enough to hurt, but he's been deprived for so long that the pain starts to warp into the long-awaited pleasure. He buries his face in Altare's shoulder, unable to look at him as he gasps in relief.
"Yeah?" Bettel can hear the guild leader's smirk through his words. "Like that?"
"Yes," he whimpers. "Harder, Altare, fuck, please-"
Altare just laughs in his ear, breathy and triumphant. It's fucking insufferable, and Bettel thinks about punching him in the face, but Altare's free arm is wrapped around his waist, holding him immobile. Every second of struggle forces him to grind against Altare's thigh. After a mere two seconds of contact, he's forgotten all about fighting. This is what he's been waiting for: the quick, tightening friction that makes his body tense up and wipes his mind empty of anything but the need for more. Soon he's chasing it on his own, clinging to Altare, trying to hold back moan after moan of relief. He probably looks as desperate as he feels, and Altare's going to laugh at him for sure, but any kind of touch feels miserably good after days of deprivation, even if it's loveless.
"You're pathetic," Altare sighs. "Pathetic can still be fun."
Out of nowhere, Bettel feels a gentle touch on his back, rubbing little circles into the tender spot between his shoulder blades that he's never been able to reach on his own. He doesn't remember when Altare's hands sneaked under his clothes, and it gives him an unpleasant sense of fight or flight.
This isn't real, Bettel reminds himself. He put a fucking womb tattoo on you and made you rub up on him so that he can laugh about it later. You're not the one who wants this.
But he does. Just a little.
Right as he's told the voice in his head to shut the hell up and stop fucking ruining his first orgasm in days, Altare shoves him away. Bettel's head hits the cold stone tiles with a painful crunch, seeing more stars than in any Elysian sky.
He should have seen it coming. Altare never gives without taking. But the denial hurts like he's been stabbed, and he lets out a shaky wordless cry as the guild leader just looks down at him with that godless, awful smile, watching his sanity fight with his body for survival. Bettel's muscles won't obey him anymore. He can't do much else besides crawl to his feet, whimpering weakly, knowing he'd rather die than beg for what he needs, but he doesn't have a choice, he has to...
"You lasted longer than I thought you would," Altare says, nudging Bettel with the toe of his sneaker. "Longer than some of the others. But you were going to break eventually."
"What..." Bettel manages to croak through dry lips. "What do you want?"
"I want you. Is that so difficult?" Altare drags Bettel roughly back to his feet, holding him so tightly that the jester can't get away if he tried. "I want you to prove to me that you still have what it takes to be here with us. You've been away too long."
"I've been loyal-"
"I'm not talking about loyal. I'm talking about respect. Knowing who's in charge." Altare's voice drops until Bettel can barely hear him and has to rely on the feeling of his breath against his ear for the words. "Knowing how to submit."
He sits down on the end of his bed. Bettel's stuck standing between his legs, shivering hard enough to make his teeth chatter, but he's not cold at all. Every drop of blood in his veins feels like it's turned to steam.
But Altare doesn't seem aroused in the slightest. There's not a single spark of light or life in his eyes. For a chilling second, his gaze reminds Bettel of a dying fish on ice.
"Kneel."
"What?"
"I said, kneel."
Bettel's on his knees without a second thought, heart pounding loud enough to deafen his own shame. He looks up at Altare, hopeful for a crumb of praise or appreciation, but he's still fucking staring, icy calm, while the jester cowers at his feet like a kicked puppy. Distantly, Bettel wonders if the guild leader has blinked once since he walked in.
"See? Easy." Sharp-nailed fingers grip a handful of Bettel's hair, gently at first, but Altare pulls until the burn in his scalp spreads all the way down to his neck. "Doesn't that feel better?"
Bettel shuts his eyes tight, not wanting to answer. No, he hates it, everything hurts, his face is prickly and hot with humiliated terror... but it does feel better. He's been fighting the hex for too long, terrified of what might happen next, of what the others might think if they see the mark. Nothing matters. All of his exhaustion and pain fade, narrowing his thoughts down to Altare's voice in his ear and the poison in his words.
"Strip for me."
The walls of the small room seem hazy, glaringly bright, not quite real. Half-conscious, Bettel can feel Altare guiding his hand up to his chest, helping him unsnap the buttons of his shirt one by one. He feels better with it off anyway; the sweat isn't sticking it to his searing skin anymore, and Altare's hands on his bare shoulders are refreshingly cold and soft. He can't help leaning forward to rest his cheek against Altare's thigh, smelling a hint of his sweat and the woodsy sweet smell of his cologne.
"Good puppy..." Altare strokes his hair away from his face, gently unsticking his bangs from his forehead. "You're so good like this... just like Dez was..."
Bettel flinches at the mention of the alchemist. That can't be right. Of course, the rest of the guild is a little submissive around Altare, but it's just because he's their leader. This isn't...
"Open your mouth."
Cool, dry fingers trace Bettel's parted lips, sending goosebumps racing up his bare back and arms. His unresponsiveness chills the jester to his core. Bettel shakes his head slightly as if it'll help clear the curse-driven fog clogging up his mind. He doesn't know what he wants anymore. He doesn't even remember what led him to Altare's room in the first place. All he needs is Altare's hand tangled in his hair and the hot, hard weight of his cock in his mouth-
"Good," Altare whispers. "Deeper."
Sleepy realization shocks him back to awareness for a second. Bettel gasps for air, nearly choking on the unexpected intrusion. He's sucking Altare's dick. Altare's hand is tangled in his hair, pushing him to take more and more until his jaw burns from the strain. He tries to pull away long enough to catch his breath, but the guild leader is frighteningly strong despite his slight build, and the pain in his neck spikes sharply until Bettel's forced to relax again.
"Breathe slow." Altare's voice would be comforting if Bettel didn't hate his guts. "Doesn't that feel better?"
It's an impossible effort to think about the intricate tattoo burning up on his body, but his sluggish mind slowly registers that it no longer hurts. The unbearable stinging itch from just a few minutes ago has been replaced with a warm, syrupy comfort. Bettel lets his eyes drift closed. If it wasn't for Altare practically scalping him with his grip, he could fall asleep like this.
"Hmm." Altare makes a weird clicking sound in the back of his throat and shifts his hands in Bettel's hair. The jester seizes a precious breath of fresh air, still tainted with Altare's cologne. "I like this... but you need that mark gone, don't you?"
Bettel wrenches out of his grip, coughing and wiping his mouth. "I'm not here to suck you off-"
"That's exactly why you're here. Didn't you say you wanted the mark gone? I know it's your first time, but you're already a natural."
Dizzying despair settles over him as Altare pushes his head back down. The mocking encouragement stings worse than a slap. He'd almost prefer being hit. Gods forbid Altare's actually enjoying this... and might make him do it again...
"Gaak," Bettel coughs, sucking in fresh air as Altare lets him pull free again. "This can't... be..."
"Can't be what?" Altare asks sweetly. "Can't be possible, or can't happen to you? I've heard that at least six times by now."
Six.
The look on Bettel's face must have given away all of his thoughts. Altare looks down at him and breaks into hysterical, horrible laughter. He sounds like he's truly lost his mind now, and Bettel tries to shrink away, but Altare grabs him by the scarf and drags his mouth back onto his cock again, hard enough to press the tip against the back of Bettel's throat until he's gagging through a haze of tears.
"You know, I wasn't expecting you tonight," Altare says. "Your mark needed a little bit more time to come up to full strength. Shinri's though... he's been fighting it for about a month now. Won't even look at me. But I'll have him too eventually."
Bettel can only shake his head, speechless. Not Shinri... he can't bear the thought of the ronin suffering any more than he already has...
"Don't look so shocked. You brought back two prime cuts of meat and thought I wouldn't help myself to a taste." His small giggle feels like salt sprinkled into an open wound. "Yes. I've already claimed your little bird too. He has such soft skin, you know, it shows every bruise. And I left plenty of them."
Monster. Bettel finally shakes himself free and forces his numb, heavy hands to reach for Altare's throat, but the guild leader just clicks his tongue disapprovingly and takes him by the wrists. "Careful sweetheart, that kind of playtime needs a safeword."
"You can't keep doing this," Bettel sobs weakly. "The others are going to hear about-"
"So naive," Altare croons. He digs his fingers into Bettel's throat and leans down, trailing small, cold kisses from his cheek to his bruised lips. "None of it concerns you. All you have to worry about is pleasing me. Life would be easier if you gave me what I want."
This is what he means. Bettel manages to take a deep breath before Altare stuffs his mouth and throat full again, fucking his face with slow, deep strokes. He wonders vaguely if he could have fought it for longer, like Shinri, but something within him is already shrinking back, cowed and broken. He isn't a fighter. He never has been. And Altare isn't a force that can be fought.
His vision starts to blur and tunnel down. It might be easier like this. Let Altare use him while he's unconscious. At least he won't remember.
But Altare gasps sharply, thighs tensing under Bettel's grip. Hot salty bitterness floods his mouth a second later. Bettel's entire face feels sore and battered, but some distant part of him demands that he swallow instead of spitting it out in disgust, so he does.
"See? You do know how to behave." Two little spots of color have appeared on Altare's pale face, high on his sharp cheekbones, but they don't make him look any more alive. He brushes his thumb across Bettel's lip, wiping away a stray drop. "You're learning faster than usual."
"I did what you wanted," Bettel slurs through numb lips. "It's not gone. It fucking hurts-"
"You think I'm done?" Altare grabs a handful of his hair again, wrenching his head back, and Bettel chokes back a scream as some of the colored strands are torn loose. "There's one more thing. Maybe a few more things if you've got the stamina for it."
He can barely hear every gloating word out of Altare's mouth. The floating feeling is starting to fade, leaving him shaky, sore, and lightheaded. As he comes back down to earth, he realizes something is unbearably wet and slick between his thighs, soaking his underwear all the way through to his shorts. The tattoo is hotter than ever and frighteningly swollen, like he's been attacked by a swarm of hornets.
"What the fuck did you do to me?" he whispers.
"Nothing that can't be undone." Altare runs his hand down Bettel's lower back, coming to rest much too close to the wetness. "Trust me, it helps."
"Helps with what-"
"I think you know what."
There's no mistaking it, Altare's touching him in a place where he's never let anyone touch him, ever. But the words "no" and "stop" refuse to leave his mouth, and the only sound he can make is an embarrassing, desperate, high-pitched whimper-
But he is desperate. He wants this-
No! He wants to fight Altare off of him and flee the guild hall forever until he's forgotten those dead eyes boring into his, and the feeling of cold hands all over him. But something new is tearing at him, wiping out the fear and horror that's begun to rise. The empty ache has come screaming back, turning into a deep gouge that makes him want to curl up again. Unprompted, he remembers how Altare's cock felt on his tongue and wonders how it would feel pushing into him, splitting him open-
"You're getting even wetter," Altare whispers. His hand is well below the waist of Bettel's shorts, slicked fingertips teasing his aching hole. "But I won't give it to you if you don't ask."
"Altare-"
"Beg. Do it." Altare's other hand finds his nipples, scraping and pinching the sensitive skin until the burn almost blinds him. "It'll make you sound like Dez, and that's kind of hot."
"Fuck you, I'm not-"
Bright, sharp pain erupts across the side of his face. Bettel gasps as tears blur his vision, staring up at Altare in horror.
The guild leader just shakes his head disapprovingly and strokes Bettel's burning cheek with the tips of his nails until lines of fresh fire are igniting from his jaw to his eye.
"Do that again, and it'll be your balls next."
"F-fuck..." Bettel stammers. His pride hurts more than anything, and he knows Altare just wants to see him grovel, but he's spent too long waiting. He chooses his words carefully, shutting his eyes as he speaks as if it'll spare him from knowing what's about to happen. "Fuck me. Please. I need it-"
"Since you asked nicely."
Altare hoists him up and drags him easily onto the bed. The cool, soft silk against his stinging skin is a breath of pure relief. Bettel buries his face in the sheets, trying to wipe away tears as Altare unsnaps the buttons on his shorts and slides them down to his thighs, along with his underwear.
"Messy." Altare presses just a fingertip directly against the mark, and an edge of pain seeps in alongside the pleasure. "Get up. Ride me if you want it."
Fuck. There's no way he can be hard again this soon, but he is. Bettel shivers again, resisting the urge to reach down and cover himself from Altare's cruel, dead gaze. "I... it's my first time, don't make me do this..."
"Get up, or I'll try something else, and you won't enjoy it half as much."
Bettel thinks about testing him only once more before struggling up to his knees. No one knows what's happened to him, or where he is. Altare could kill him, right here, right now. He can't risk it. Altare sits up and maneuvers Bettel's bare legs around his hips, pushing him down until the head of his cock is pressed up against his entrance.
"Altare- don't, it's not gonna fit," Bettel pleads. He's not even in and it doesn't hurt yet, but the anticipation of pain is worse than the feeling.
"Don't clench down." Altare's hands are still wet with his slick, leaving cold, slimy trails up his back and hips as he rubs little circles against Bettel's spine. "I'll let you take it slow, don't worry."
"Damn it, you need to fucking... I don't know, prep me first or something-"
"Did you forget about this?" Altare traces the outline of the tattoo with his fingertip, leaving more vicious burning in the wake of his touch. "You won't need prep as long as it's on you."
He bites his tongue to stop himself from crying out as Altare repositions his hands on his hips and pushes him down. Just the head of his cock slowly stretches him open and it feels unbearably massive inside him, but Bettel can't stop himself from moving his hips eagerly, needing more.
"You're so wet for me," Altare whispers. "I think you're enjoying this."
He can't answer. He's got a vicious comeback all lined up, but words float just out of his reach as Altare strokes up and down his spine, pressing down on his hips to guide him. The last few inches feel impossible. Bettel holds his breath, shaking as he lets gravity do the rest of the work. It only takes a moment for his ass to press against Altare's thighs, letting his cock bottom out inside him.
"Mmmmph," Altare groans against his shoulder. "That was your virginity, sweetheart. All mine, like it should be."
Bettel can't even force out a moan of protest. Altare is a smug piece of shit, and he hates this-
-but pure satisfaction seems to flow from the mark straight into his blood and suddenly he needs Altare to fuck him more than he needs air. He forces himself up with shaky thighs and sinks back down, nearly sobbing as the tip presses against something needy and swollen inside him.
"You're a natural." Altare's breath hisses through clenched teeth. "So good... letting me take your first time."
I didn't let you do a damn thing, Bettel thinks about yelling at him, but the scream turns into a long, drawn-out moan of relief as he sinks down again, and he decides this might be okay after all.
"Come on," Altare whispers. "You need this."
His mouth finds Bettel's again when he doesn't respond. His tongue feels warm and far too silky running down Bettel's jaw to his neck, but every soft caress, no matter how vile, sends the jester's body quivering into mush as he settles into an uncomfortable rhythm.
"Oh fuck," Altare's panting. "Yes, baby, you feel so good..."
"I can't, I can't, fuck, stop..." Bettel struggles desperately, feeling tears sting his eyes. "Altare, please-"
"Shhh. Careful."
The pain he expected is there, but at the same time, it doesn't feel like enough. Bettel buries his face in the crook of Altare's neck, gasping through clenched teeth, lightheaded, as Altare presses another finger into him alongside his dick.
"Relax."
He's more relaxed than he's ever been in his life. His body feels like a sandbag. He can't even hold his head up. Every muscle is liquid as Altare takes him by the hips and thrusts lazily into him. More slick is dripping hot down his thighs, drenching the sheets underneath them.
"I should keep you like this," Altare murmurs. "Helpless little mess, tied up for everyone to use. I think you'd learn to love it..."
"No!" Bettel gasps. "Altare, please, I'm sorry!"
"I know. I know. Shh." Altare runs his free hand down Bettel's side with more tenderness than he'd thought the guild leader was capable of. "But I need the lesson to really stick. And you've always been a slow learner."
His fingers find Bettel's dick again, squeezing and stroking hard enough to hurt. Needy hunger buries the jester's protests deeper and deeper, making him push against Altare harder, trying to let more of him in. Finally, and it's almost enough to make Bettel burst into tears, finally that empty misery is fading away.
The mark throbs hot and quick, like a second heartbeat. Someone's moaning, pleading for more in the background. He thinks it's Altare until he recognizes his own voice.
"Touch yourself," Altare orders, and Bettel's hand drifts to his cock automatically. He's cautious at first, not wanting to repeat his last few fruitless attempts, but his body responds eagerly. Pleasure more intense than anything he's ever felt burns through him in waves. His eyes sting and his vision starts to blur, but he can't tell if it's from sweat or tears.
Cold hands grip his face and pull him down for a bruising kiss that's more teeth than real affection. Bettel lets it happen, half because he can't stop himself, and half because the mark practically vibrates at his touch. Blind pleasure explodes across every inch of his nerves. He buries his face in the crook of Altare's neck, shaking as he comes harder than he's ever felt in his life.
Distantly, he feels Altare's cock twitch inside him as hot liquid floods his insides, filling him until he feels it in his stomach. He collapses, exhausted and spent against Altare, too limp to resist as the guild leader strokes his face slowly.
"There," Altare says. His palm presses flat against Bettel's abdomen again, this time without the expected pain. "See? I told you it would go away."
Bettel gathers the courage to peek down. His skin is blank. The burning, swollen, sensitive patch marking the tattoo's boundaries is gone.
"Bastard," Bettel coughs weakly. The hot, dizzying flush of his orgasm is fading already, leaving him painfully aware of Altare's softening cock inside him. "Get the fuck off me!"
"Whatever you want," Altare says. "A little rude, but we can work on that too."
He shoves Bettel aside without warning, nearly tumbling him off the bed before he catches himself. The jester lies still, too stunned to try to move. His thighs are sticky with slick and come, and the sweat coating his body makes the sheets cling to him.
"I'll kill you," Bettel whispers. "I will fucking kill you if it's the last thing I do."
"You're free to try." Altare stretches languidly. His shirt rides up for a moment, showing off dozens of scratches streaking his chest and stomach. "Come here. One last taste before your little walk of shame."
Bettle just nods silently. He hates himself for not refusing, but Altare's so close, and the smell of his cologne is thickly bittersweet in his nose. He shuts his eyes again as the guild leader leans forward, trying to shield himself from that horrible stare.
Quick, hot pain clamps down on Bettel's lower lip. He screams and wrenches away, but there's already blood staining Altare's teeth when he smiles.
His teeth...
They're sharp. Lethal, perfect points, like arrowheads. Bettel blinks hard, trying to clear his head. He has to be seeing things. They haven't always been like that. He'd remember if they were, wouldn't he?
"Just what I needed. You're free to go," Altare says easily. "I'll see you again soon enough."
He gets up, zips his jeans, and steps out the door.
Bettel wraps his arms around himself. He's still shaking, but not from cold.
He wants to believe he'll never come back. He'll never let this happen again. But a familiar, painful lurch deep in his body tells him he might not have a choice.