Also, I am working on another Tybalt story. I hope to have it done by con-time, but I’m not completely sure about that. By the end of the year, for sure. Two Tybalt stories in one year… it can happen.

Even with his heart pounding in time to the DJ’s command, a hundred and twenty-six beats per minute, Jamie could feel the one it skipped. Someone was watching him; he’d felt it, uncoiling a tight, nervous desire from the base of his spine, sliding it up his back until it made the hairs on his neck stand on end and his knees go weak, made him excited and just a little scared.

For months he’d walked past the door here, stolen glances past the curtain at the slender, pretty boys dancing together here, taking each other home, but he’d never dared step in before. Now he wasn’t sure whether he should have come. Someone would notice him; someone would tell; people would know; they would be polite of course, nothing overt. It was the twenty-first century after all, but he would hear their whispers, notice their sideways glances in his direction, and he would move again, unable to cope, unwilling to be that token friend, unwilling to be treated so differently. It wasn’t his fault he’d been born this way.

But there was that look. It promised so much.

Staggering off the dance floor, he scanned the crowd as he made his way, panting, to the bar. Through the back of his mind he remembered a glimpse of perfect golden skin and kinetic black hair beneath the DJ’s lights, but most of all the flash of bright green eyes, inviting and seductive, even from across the room. Somehow he knew he needed to find them.

He hopped up onto a stool. He needed a drink, too. It was hot out there.

A bartender caught his glance and bounced over, his hair spiked and glowing electric, fluorescent blue under the blacklights. “You look good out there!” he said, nearly shouting to be heard over the DJ. “What can I get you?”

“Black Widow!” he ordered, relaxing at the compliment.

“Sambuca?”

“Blavod!”

“You got it!” The bartender turned away catching a gleam of light across the glossy seat of his polished vinyl pants. Jamie leaned forward, against the counter, trying not to think about the sudden tightness in the bottom of his stomach or the tiny unf of appreciation that it tried to squeeze from him.

A hand cupped his rear. “Can I buy that for you?” a voice asked, trying to turn itself into a vague impression of “seductive”.

“I don’t think he’s for sale,” Jamie said, pointedly ignoring the question. He didn’t need to look to know he wouldn’t find those beautiful green eyes behind him. Someone who could buckle his knees with a look wouldn’t have to be so crude. He smiled politely to the bartender, exchanging a ten for his drink and a smile that said he’d been heard. “And take your hand off my ass.”

“Aw, come on… don’t be like that.” The hand gave him a squeeze. Jamie felt the muscles in his shoulders tense at the unwelcome touch.

The crisp taste of the vodka layered itself over the tart, gentle sweetness of cranberry as Jamie sipped at his drink. He tried to put a little bass and edge into his voice. “Mister, if you keep touching me, I’m going to have to be a lot worse.”

The man leaned closer, whispering into his ear, making him bristle at the scratchy feel of rough, stubbled skin against his own. “Bad boy, hmm? We could get a hotel room. Have some fun, find out how bad you are.” Jamie felt the hand move lower, headed between his legs.

That was it. Jamie set his drink on the bar, tapping his fingertips against the scarred wood. “OK, mister, if that’s how you want it, let’s find out. Right now.” He ducked forward and twisted from the hips. His elbow caught the man hard, just below the jaw, and sent him sprawling. Jamie’s boot followed him, delivering a savage kick to his stomach.

The man twisted around on the ground, trying to vomit and gasp for breath at the same time. “The… what the fuck is wrong with you?”

Jamie crouched beside him, his stare cold and angry at the man’s incomprehension. “Maybe next time you can introduce yourself, huh? And listen when a boy tells you he’s not interested.” He stood up again and found himself staring into someone’s chest. The someone was a bouncer. The bouncer was annoyed.

Nobody wants to trifle with an annoyed bouncer.

Jamie fought down the surge of energy. “He wouldn’t keep his hands off me,” he offered.

“This is a queer club, sir. You do realize that, right?”

Sir. He liked that. “Just because I like men, doesn’t mean I like him.”

“You could talk to one of us, you know. That’s what we’re here for.”

“Yeah, well, I told him twice, and he was still grabbing for my crotch. Kinda late to talk about it, don’t you think?”

“Look, let’s step outside for a minute, cool off, calm down, OK?”

Jamie took the last swallow of his drink and pushed his two dollars’ change back across the bar. “Sure. Let’s get out of here.”

The night was surprisingly cold, refreshing and almost calm. Jamie sucked the air deep into his lungs, relishing the moment of clarity.

“Okay, sir, we’re just going to stand out here, let you sober up some. We can talk it out if you want, and maybe you should go home for the night. We can call you a cab if you want.”

Jamie shook his head, trying to see if he’d misheard. “Wait, you’re throwing me out? He started it.”

The bouncer looked down at him with weary eyes. “No, it’s perfectly cool if you come back, I don’t know, next week or something. We just don’t want trouble, and it’s going to be a lot easier if you guys aren’t in the same club.”

“So throw him out!” Painfully aware of the way the bouncer towered over his short, compact frame, Jamie straightened up, trying to make himself larger.

“Look…” As if on cue, another bouncer shoved the man Jamie had kicked out the door, watching stolidly as he staggered down the street. “Huh. So, we sending them both home?”

“Eh. Give it ten minutes and you can let this one back in if you feel like it. His story checks out. Some of the other guys in there say that one’s been an obnoxious little fuck all night.” He turned to Jamie. “Don’t do that again, okay? You got a problem with someone, you tell me. That’s my job. Last thing we need is a barfight.”

“Yeah. Yeah, sure.” Jamie leaned up against the wall and cursed himself in silence. There goes your low profile, you idiot. Maybe you should just go home. Why are you even here?

From the alley he heard a pair of low, half-stifled moans. The bouncer managed a quiet laugh. “At least someone’s having a good time tonight.”

Oh. Damnit. It’s been so long… Toys and porn just don’t cut it sometimes. Maybe that green-eyed boy will give you a quickie. It’s dark out here. I bet he’d be fun for hours, but ten or twenty minutes should be OK too. Jamie fingered the condom and the sachet of lube in his pocket. He doesn’t have to get a good look at you, doesn’t even have to get your pants all the way off… you can get a good nailing, button up, and get out of here. The beat from inside the club broke his thoughts, disintegrating them with its familiar electric progression. He palmed a twenty-dollar bill. “Listen, uh, Volker Zacharias is about to command that I go dance to his music. Are we done? Can I go now? Promise to be good.”

The bouncer tapped his watch a few times, peering at it in the dim light. “Sure, whatever.” He shook Jamie’s hand, and the money disappeared. “Keep out of trouble this time. Don’t make me come get you again.”

The dance floor came alive beneath him, sweeping him up effortlessly into the beat’s slow, thoughtful transformations. He could feel the eyes around him, dozens of people watching him move. From some of them he could feel desire, from some of them, a little fear. That gaze he’d felt before was missing, though, that wash of anticipation and the confident, half-breathed offer of shameless pleasure.

Jamie took a deep breath and tried to forget. It was probably better that way. Coming here was a big enough step for one night. Another rush of music washed over him, and he went delirious with energy, spinning as the words dissolved his thoughts. When I think about you…

A wet spot of floor made his balance slip, sending him crashing into another dancer’s arms.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, trying to pull away again, but he felt someone guiding him, gently correcting his rhythm, and he felt himself dancing again before he could realize.

“It’s okay,” his partner said, his whisper somehow delightfully clear beneath the music. “I’ve been watching you. You look like fun.” The voice stirred something deep and primal in the back of Jamie’s mind.

Biting his lip, Jamie held his breath and looked up.

The eyes he remembered glittered back down at him, glowing brilliant, copper-fire green in the darkness. Their pupils narrowed to slits.

Jamie nearly melted.

His name was Tybalt, he said, the Prince of Cats, whose title trailed off into something that Jamie couldn’t quite understand through the music. It would have been ridiculous if it hadn’t felt so right. He didn’t know why, and really it didn’t seem important. Maybe it was the soft, expressive cat-ears that perched on his head; maybe it was the long, black tail that moved behind him; maybe it was just his effortless grace, the unmistakably feline way he moved. After a few minutes – two tracks, maybe three – it seemed only natural, and he surrendered to the beat.

It was like dancing into a fairy tale, a powerful, intoxicating dream that gave him confidence and made him feel that he belonged. Somehow Tybalt knew exactly what Jamie needed, exactly how he wanted to touch and how he needed touching, exactly how he needed to move and how he wanted moving. Before he could realize, before he could stop himself, he was dancing beneath the spotlight, grinding his hips shamelessly back against Tybalt’s leather pants. He reached back, over his head, and ran his fingers through the thick, silky-black mess of Tybalt’s hair, scratching behind one feline ear. It twitched, alive, beneath his fingers; Tybalt purred and pulled him closer. A hundred eyes were on him, pinning him in place with their jealous, hungry looks, but for once it didn’t matter.

This time, for once, he didn’t care.

Jamie broke his third long, sweet kiss of the night with a sigh. Catching his breath, he stood back up on tiptoe and licked the last hints of absinthe from Tybalt’s lips. “Mmm, wow,” he panted, fumes of anise still curling in his lungs. “You kiss like a god.” Unbidden his fingers counted down the inches of Tybalt’s shirt, enchanted by the black silk gauze and soft, tanned skin just barely out of reach, the long, smooth curves and the sleek, unspoken power of the muscles underneath. “You have the body of one, too.”

Cracking a smile, Tybalt tucked his fingers under the light curve of Jamie’s jaw. “It’s a nice perk of being one,” he murmured, tipping Jamie’s head just slightly further back.

What did he mean by that? The last milky-green sip of liquor dissolved the question from Jamie’s mind, drop by drop, as Tybalt dripped it over his eager, outstretched tongue. “I bet,” was all that he could muster. Fingers of herbal-sweet, opiate clarity caressed his brainstem, whispering courage to him even as they half-lidded his eyes. Through his lashes he looked up, kissing at the glass and Tybalt’s fingers. “You want to go out back, show me how much of a god you are?”

Tybalt laughed, once, and flicked his tongue across his teeth. “I don’t think I feel like being an alleycat tonight.”

“Maybe somewhere else, then?” He tried not to let his disappointment show.

Tybalt’s fingers spider-walked down the small of Jamie’s back as he weighed the possibilities. “The Saint Regis has a room waiting. It’s only for tonight.”

Two thoughts raced through Jamie’s mind, a whisper of excitement and a thrill of fear. Tybalt wanted to take him home. Tybalt wanted to take him home. He shied back from that edge of no return. “I have work in the morning,” he lied.

“Sleep over, then. I’ll order breakfast.”

Despite all his better judgment, excitement won. Jamie sucked in a deep, ragged breath, trying to take control of himself. “I’m parked across the street,” he offered, trembling at Tybalt’s touch. “The black Mustang. Soft-top. Wait there a minute. I’ll be right out.”

Jamie yanked himself back to reality with a splash of shock-cold water from the bathroom sink. “What the hell are you doing, Jamie?” he asked himself, staring at himself in the mirror. “You’re out of your mind, spending the night.”

Maybe it won’t be so bad. If he’s in a hotel he’s not from around here. You can live through one awkward morning, right?

He closed his eyes and splashed himself again, trying to forget the way Tybalt held him. It didn’t work. “One of these days you’re going to wind up like Brandon. You’re going to run out of places to move. You’re going to get yourself killed.”

His reflection offered him a wistful, knowing smile. “But what a way to go.”

In the parking lot, he found Tybalt already waiting in the driver’s seat, his tail twitching idly behind him as he rested his head out the open window. Funny, Jamie thought. Could’ve sworn I left the top up. “You OK to drive?” he asked, fishing around in his pockets for his keys.

“Always.” Tybalt smiled wide. Even in the dull streetlamp glow his teeth gleamed, sharp points only barely hiding in the corners of his mouth.

Jamie let himself in to the passenger seat, handing over the keys. “Just be careful, ‘kay? He’s the only one I got.”

The engine growled to life, low and throaty, and Tybalt folded his ears back, flat, growling playfully back. “Supercharger,” he said, a note of approval deepening his voice.

“‘course. What’s the use of such a pretty toy if you can’t ride it hard?”

“I’ll have to remember that,” Tybalt purred, his eyes glowing bright with the promise. He paused, looking down at his hand, floating over the center console. “But… why go automatic?”

Blushing hot at the tease, Jamie turned away and looked out the window. “I… uh… I didn’t learn how to drive a stick until a couple years ago.” He glanced back, scratching nervously at the back of his neck. “I’m stuck with the car until I can afford a new one, y’know? He’s still a lot of fun.”

Tybalt reached out and ruffled his hair. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure he is.”

The car lunged hard into the night, leaving Jamie’s answer to drown beneath the engine’s roar.

I needed this, Jamie thought, struggling happily as Tybalt wrestled him face-first into the bed. He felt pointed, feline teeth dig into the naked flesh of his shoulder, and he surrendered, crying out into the pillow.

Tybalt growled his approval. “You’re stronger than you look.”

“I let you win,” Jamie panted. He turned over onto his back and grinned. It was a lie, of course, or at least half of one. Even play-wrestling he could tell that Tybalt was indulging him like a plaything, impossibly strong beneath the soft perfection of his golden skin. Then again, Jamie had been fighting to lose.

“Oh, really now?” The glow in Tybalt’s eyes flared brighter for an instant. “Prove it.”

Taking a deep breath, Jamie lunged up, scrambling for position. For a few moments he found some deep, animal energy and lost himself in the moment, in the sheer joy of touch, and once or twice he thought he was almost winning. It didn’t last, though; this time, when Tybalt caught him, the bite came harder; this time, he marked Jamie as his own. Jamie felt his voice curl up into itself and his breathing slow, heavy and eager. “You win.”

“Is that so? What do I win?” Tybalt’s voice circled his, like a tomcat around his queen.

“You win a toy for the night,” Jamie giggled, grinding back against the hard bulge in Tybalt’s pants. “And he’ll do any-thing you want.” He blushed, suddenly aware of the thin, slippery smear he was leaving in his boxers. When Tybalt bit him, he’d very nearly come.

Tybalt cupped Jamie’s cheek in his hand, turning his head for a kiss. “Such a pretty, pretty toy,” he whispered, their lips nearly touching. “Don’t worry. You’ll get the ride you’re looking for.”

Jamie clutched at the sheets, mewling in frustration as Tybalt’s fingers wandered down his chest. How many times had they played this game? It was getting hard to count. Every time, Tybalt found another touch that made him squirm. Every time, impatient, he tried to tease Tybalt back, to hurry things along with the motion of his hips and the friction of denim and leather, but he only made it worse. Every time, Tybalt bit him again, kissed him and held him still. Every time, Jamie felt his control slip, just a little more.

The point of Tybalt’s tongue traced a warm shiver down the back of Jamie’s neck. “You’re so responsive,” he said, making a soft noise of approval. “I could get used to a boy like you.” He stopped for a moment, pulling himself into a crouch, and pressed a kiss between Jamie’s shoulders. Another one followed, and then a third, counting lower along his vertebrae.

Was it agony or bliss? He wasn’t sure anymore, or even if he cared. Maybe Tybalt was all that mattered. His skin flushed hot under every touch, with every breath and every motion, and he tucked his legs beneath himself, arching his back to meet the kisses. They stopped between his shoulders, but Tybalt’s hands kept creeping lower, lower, until they curled over his belt and held him tight.

Obediently Jamie raised his hips, letting Tybalt’s hands ease forward and undo his belt. Button by button Tybalt opened his fly, measuring the time with Jamie’s whimpers, and finally, finally, pulled his jeans down his thighs, leaving them wrapped around his knees. Yes, Tybalt was all that mattered now. Tybalt began to kiss his way back up, retracing his path in careful, metered time. Tybalt held him close and still, undoing his own pants with his one free hand. Tybalt slid his cock along the crease of Jamie’s rear, making him feel the heat of his body through the thin fabric, and Jamie closed his eyes, waiting to surrender. Tybalt stopped.

He stopped.

“Tybalt… please…” Jamie felt his voice crack in desperation.

Tybalt purred, obviously enjoying himself. “Please what?”

“I want you,” he whined. “Please. I can’t take it anymore. I need you.”

“You need me to what?”

Jamie bit at his lower lip, savoring the sweet obscenity. “I need you to fuck me. Now. Please.”

“You’re so cute when you beg.”

Jamie made a small, frustrated noise, rolling over onto his back, and reached up to scratch behind one of Tybalt’s ears. “You think I’m cute, mister Tybalt?” He pulled him down, gently, and dropped his voice to a whisper. “What’s a boy gotta do to get from cute to fuckable, huh?”

The fire in Tybalt’s eyes flared brighter at the possibilities, and his tail flicked thoughtfully through the air behind him. “Keep talking.”

“Is that all? What do you want me to say?” Jamie raised his chin, sucking in his breath as Tybalt’s tongue flicked against the pit of his collar. “Should I tell you all the things I want you to do to me?”

At the base of Jamie’s spine, Tybalt’s hand tightened, pulling him closer. His answer was a low, possessive growl.

Jamie nuzzled gently at the base of Tybalt’s ear, feeling the silky fur against his lips. “Do you want to know how I get all hot and bothered when you hold me like that?” he breathed. “I went into that club just looking for a quickie, but I found you, you beautiful fucking catboy tease. You caught me and suddenly all I can think about is how good it feels when you hold me, and how much better it’ll be when you start sliding your big, wonderful cock up my ass.”

Tybalt crept lower, kissing a trail down Jamie’s chest, and breathed a hard, dirty promise that he could only barely hear. It didn’t matter much. Jamie knew he would be begging for it all the same.

The packet of lube had fallen out of Jamie’s pocket. After a moment, he found it and tore it open, squeezing the warm, slick gel into his hands. “You’d start slow, wouldn’t you?” Tybalt’s cock felt just right in his hands, smooth and gracefully shaped, almost-not-quite-too-big, and Jamie felt his body taking over, stroking him automatically, begging with his hands. He struggled to keep his thoughts clear, fumbling with the words. “Make me show you how deep I can take it. Make me find out how much you stretch me out. Make me work it. Make me prove what a nice toy I can be for you.”

Bringing his hand to Jamie’s hip, Tybalt tucked his thumb into the waistband of Jamie’s boxers, pulling them just slightly lower.

It was so close. Jamie felt a sudden panic, something important, he knew, something he’d forgotten in the sheer pleasure of Tybalt, but the thought drowned beneath the low, throaty growl of his raw sexual instinct. Stroking Tybalt one last time, he took his hands away and posed as invitingly as he could. “Or maybe you just want to fuck my brains out. You’ve been revving me up all night, and I don’t really care anymore. You could’ve done me right there on the fucking dance floor if you wanted it.”

Tybalt paused for a moment, staring into his eyes like some feral jungle cat.

“I bet you knew that.” Jamie shivered, somehow knowing that it was true. “That’s the way you want it, isn’t it? You want to get me all worked up, see how far you can take me. You can hear my heart going right now, can’t you? I bet you can smell how much I need it. Taste it on my skin.” “Fuck, I want it so bad I can taste it.”

Tybalt slid his other hand to Jamie’s waist and tugged at the elastic, lapping at the naked arch of his hip. He pet Jamie through the fabric, stroking him, squeezing him, and spreading him, just a little, offering silent teases of things to come. Again, just as Jamie had almost caught his breath, just as he was almost ready to face the next wash of pleasure, Tybalt stopped.

It was too much. By now Jamie knew that it was coming, but still it was too much. He sank back into his pillow, giving in to the babble, to the incoherent pleasure of the words rolling across his tongue. “Don’t do this again, Tybalt, not again, please. I can’t take it anymore. I want you, need you, please, Tybalt, please,” he panted. “Just fuck me. It’s been a year, Tybalt. Fuck me senseless. Please…”

All at once the panic returned.

This time it caught him; this time he could recognize it; this time even the promise of Tybalt could not pull it from his mind. “Crap, oh, fuck me, wait,” he babbled, feeling his fears and desires crash and tumble together, tripping him up like a thousand marbles dropped down the stairs. “Please, fuck, Tybalt, you need to know, please, down there, wait…”

It was too late. Jamie twisted, trying to hide, but he only managed to tangle himself in his jeans, exposing himself more. He felt his boxers pull over his hips, partly Tybalt’s doing and partly his own, sliding effortlessly down his thighs.

“Fuck.” Jamie slumped and looked away, unwilling to accept the soft, naked mons between his legs.

“I’m not a girl,” Jamie said, breaking the long silence. He started wriggling back into his jeans, still unable to meet Tybalt’s gaze. “I mean, I have girl parts, but they’re not…” He took a deep breath and hung his head in resignation. “I’ll go, if you want. Take you back to the club. You can find a normal boy. I think you have a couple hours left.”

Tybalt pressed him back down to the bed, spaying his fingers flat across the pit of Jamie’s ribs. “Stay,” he whispered, crawling up until his breath teased Jamie’s lips. “I wanted you.”

Still uncertain, Jamie let himself relax into bed’s soft, inviting support, whimpering at the distracting nakedness of Tybalt’s body. It had been a long time, and he felt too good, too warm, too close to argue. “If… uhm… I… ehr…”

Settling above him, Tybalt silenced him with a touch, and his weight became soothing and comfortable. “Stop,” he said. “Breathe. In. Out. Deeper. In. Out.” One breath at a time Jamie began to obey, letting his body fall into step with Tybalt’s slow, patient rhythm. “Better.”

“I’m not a girl,” Jamie repeated, licking timidly at the tease of Tybalt’s fingertips.

“Shhh. I wasn’t looking for one tonight.” Again Tybalt kissed him, carefully, showering him with feather-light touches.

Slowly, Jamie began to respond, drawing them out deeper and longer, until he nearly forgot himself once more. This time, though, he could not forget; this time he had to break the kiss; this time he could not help but remember himself, and he pushed himself away. “I can’t do this,” he said, shaking his head. “Not like this.”

Tybalt cocked his head to one side, curious. “You don’t like it?”

“Of course I do! You feel fantastic. It’s… it’s hard to describe. Most of the time I feel like I’m living in someone else’s skin, or maybe in one of those nightmares where something is just slightly off, and I feel like I’m tossing around somewhere, but I can’t get scared enough yet to wake up.” Jamie swallowed hard, piecing his thoughts together. “Then, for a little while there, I forgot, Tybalt. I felt natural.”

“Natural?”

“Like a natural boy. I mean, I had some work done, a little bit of surgery up top, and I’ve been on a pretty low dose of T for about three months now. If I take too much it starts making me kinda stupid, but it’s pretty awesome. I like it, but this… this felt right.”

Smiling his mysterious feline smile, Tybalt rolled to one side and propped himself up on one arm. Slowly his fingers began to follow Jamie’s scars, learning the faint, nearly-forgotten lines in the flesh.

It felt as though Tybalt were pulling heavy weights lifted from his chest, one at a time, and Jamie let his story come pouring out, grateful to find someone who would listen. “When I was a kid, I was friends with this cute little boy named Rio, and I kept making him help me sneak into the boys’ room when I needed to go. It felt better somehow. We were seven years old when I had to move. He came over on my last day, and I was bawling, because I was so scared I wouldn’t have anyone to help me anymore.” He let himself laugh at the childish absurdity of it all. “He gave me a hug and said to pretend I was a boy sneaking into the girl’s room, and that would be okay.”

Tybalt looked amused. “Did it work?”

“For a while, yeah. High school was complicated,” Jamie said, turning to snuggle himself back against the warmth of Tybalt’s body. “Hormones made a lot less sense the first time around, ’cause I like the way boys are put together, but I never clicked right with the straight ones. After that I was a lesbian for a couple years, because being gay felt a whole lot better than being straight, but in the end, I couldn’t get over the huge lack of cock in my life.”

“It’s good that you found yourself,” Tybalt said, squeezing Jamie closer, making him feel small and warm and helpless as he nuzzled at the nape of his neck. “And it’s even better that you wound up here with me.”

“Thanks for not freaking out, by the way.” Jamie looked down at his hands. They were shaking, and he curled his fingers together to stop them. “I guess what I’m saying is… I want you so, so much, but… you feel… I don’t know, better than anything. I know it’s just one night, but I don’t think I’m going to want to go back.”

For a few moments, the room was silent, and Tybalt only continued his slow, thoughtful study of Jamie’s scars. When he finally spoke, it felt as though he were sharing a secret, so soft and confidential that he could only barely hear it as his heart began to race. “Maybe you don’t have to.”

“What do you mean?” Jamie asked, or at least he tried; the words caught in his throat, unspoken, as he felt his jeans begin to tighten and fill. “What are you…”

“Don’t look,” Tybalt warned, guiding his hands back to Jamie’s waist. “I’ll stop if you look.”

Reflexively Jamie closed his eyes, holding them tight, not knowing what to believe. It wasn’t real, he told himself; it couldn’t be. Still, somehow he couldn’t resist the urge to imagine himself growing as Tybalt touched him through the denim; somehow he felt a vague but definite sense of self, stiffening, straining to be freed.

“Would you be average-sized?” Tybalt whispered, unbuttoning him again, one slow pop at a time. “I think you would. It’d look big on you, because you’re so small.”

“Uh-huh,” Jamie murmured, too enchanted by the fantasy to imagine himself any other way. The feeling began to take shape, a dream of flesh becoming warm and firm.

“Maybe it would be a little bit longer, just a little bit slim. That would be the perfect cock for you, wouldn’t it? Don’t fight it, Jamie. Let yourself believe. Let this be real.”

Jamie lay there, breathing deeply as he felt Tybalt’s hand moving over the dream of his cock. How did he know? How could Tybalt know how he’d imagined himself, so many times? Perhaps it didn’t matter. With the last of one breath he whispered, only to himself. “Please, let this be real.”

And it was real. Jamie was complete, and it was good.

For the first time in his life, Jamie was no longer pretending, or even forgetting. He simply was. Where he hadn’t been before, he now was, unmistakably hard, and he called it cock. The word felt right as he mouthed it, opening his jaws and shaping his tongue with its single, perfect syllable, but more than that, now, it had truth, urgency and form, daring him to open his eyes and see. It wasn’t just a word anymore; it was his word now, his cock, with the slight, graceful curve that he’d somehow known would be there, and the full, soft feeling of weight at its base, pulled up taut between his legs.

Soon, Jamie was squirming again. Tybalt was making him touch himself, and it was even more fun than he’d imagined. He loved the warm, satisfying weight of his cock, filling his hand, and the way he couldn’t help making small, happy noises whenever he brushed the little collar of skin around the base of its head. Warm, fat droplets of pre formed at his tip, and Tybalt marked him with them, one at a time. He smeared them across his skin and lips, making him suck his fingers clean, and he made Jamie count aloud.

By the time he counted twenty-five, every slow, measured pump of his fist made his hips tense up, twitching with anticipation, but he didn’t dare go faster. Once, he’d tried it, and Tybalt had made him stop entirely and pull his hand away. The night had been cool against Jamie’s skin in a way it had never been before, and Tybalt had held him there until he whimpered his contrition and promised to be good.

Part of him wanted to break that promise, just to see what punishment might wait in store.

Tybalt pressed closer up behind Jamie and nibbled at the edge of his ear. “This is exactly what you wanted, isn’t it?”

It was.

Tybalt’s hand slipped lower, curling over Jamie’s. “I want something in return,” he whispered, and Jamie moaned his assent.

The spell faded, for an instant, and Jamie felt Tybalt’s fingers brush against the memories of his old, too-familiar body, teasing at the edges of the slit between his legs. Panic flooded his mind, blinding him with hot, painful tears, and he twisted away from Tybalt’s arms, shoving him hard. Tybalt’s body fell heavily to the floor, and the magic came crashing down with it. Jamie’s eyes flew open, and he doubled over with loss as he tried desperately to reclaim himself, tried desperately to believe again, even for just another minute.

In the loose tangle of sheets, Tybalt sat up, waiting for Jamie came back to grips with himself. “I don’t think that’s ever happened before, actually,” he said, lacing his fingers together in bemused indignation. “I have to say I wasn’t expecting it.”

Jamie glared, still seething. “No. Not for anyone. Not for anything.”

Tybalt shrugged in unmistakably feline dismissal, rising to his feet, and turned to go. “The hotel will be happy to bring you breakfast,” he said, not looking back. “I think they’ll expect you out by noon.”

“Wait.” Jamie felt his voice crack, his anger breaking into sudden desperation. “Please wait. Just one minute. Just to think.”

Tybalt slid two fingers beneath Jamie’s chin and lifted, pulling his gaze back to those unearthly green eyes. “Make the most of it,” he whispered, and for a moment Jamie felt himself whole again, caught again, instantly, on the desperate edge of climax.

“Fine,” Jamie gasped, trying to keep the stammer out of his voice. He kicked his jeans to the floor. “Go ahead. Let’s get this over with.”

Tybalt smiled and slipped back into bed, his gentle kiss a sweet and terrifying reminder that it would not be that easy. He tsked, and his teeth brushed the edge of Jamie’s ear. “Do you really think I’d be so crude?”

As hard as he would try, Jamie would never more than half-remember the things that Tybalt did to him that night, and as hard as he would try, he would never more than half-forget. Even while he lived it, Jamie drifted in and out of his body, watching it through eyes glazed and unfocused by trauma and pleasure, and it would return to him only in flashes, in fleeting dreams of beautiful, Technicolor panic on cold-sweat nights.

At first Jamie only let himself be held, not moving, only barely letting himself feel the touch of Tybalt’s hands. Soon he was touching back, unable to resist the warm, possessive embrace that he’d needed since their first dance together. At first he only let himself be kissed, not moving, only barely letting himself feel the press of Tybalt’s lips. Soon he was kissing back, unable to resist the weak-kneed surrender that he’d known was coming from the instant he’d felt Tybalt watching.

Jamie squeezed at the long, smooth curves of Tybalt’s muscles, closing his eyes again as they moved beneath his fingers. Fitting himself into the cradle of Tybalt’s arms, he felt his rear settle into Tybalt’s waiting hand, as if it belonged there. Between their bodies he felt Tybalt stiffening, and a deep, golden pleasure shuddered. By some unnamable instinct he curled his legs around Tybalt’s hips, and by the same instinct he crossed his feet over the base of Tybalt’s tail, pulling himself closer, wanting the contact just a little bit more. Before he knew it, kissing gave way to grinding, to the sweet, warm friction of the moment, and it was good.

Somehow Tybalt knew exactly what Jamie’s body needed, or perhaps Jamie’s body needed exactly what Tybalt wanted from it. It had been a long, long time since Jamie had let anyone touch him this way, longer still since he had let himself enjoy it, and the bright, cold terror of his body still howled in the back of his mind, more savagely real than he remembered it ever before. It almost didn’t matter anymore. The smooth, hairless length of Tybalt’s cock slid against Jamie’s clit, a slow, rhythmic friction, and Jamie was wet, soaking wet. Every motion of his hips felt smoother than the one before, sweeter and more natural. He made a plaintive little noise, shifting his hips, begging again but too proud to admit it, and bit his lower lip in nervous hopes that Tybalt might take the hint.

He did.

Inevitably grinding gave way to fucking, to the violent, blacked-out urgency of desire, and for Jamie, it could not have come too soon.

Jamie felt himself stretching, slowly accepting Tybalt deep into his body, a nightmare from which he very nearly didn’t want to wake. For the first time in his life the fundamental, inescapable girlishness of his body seemed almost natural, swirling around him in a haze of almost-boy and not-quite-girl, there and not-there, should-be and was-not; he felt his scars healing and dreamed that his cock was painfully hard; he came, violently, and accepted the marks that Tybalt left on his skin. So often he screamed that beautiful feline name into the darkness that she lost count of the times, and soon it didn’t even matter what she was, or he was, or really anything else. Nobody and nothing else mattered, only his beautiful prince, her gold-tanned lover, only the pleasure that they shared, only his kisses and his touch, only his perfect golden tan, only his soft black hair and his even softer fur, and slowly, fucking gave way to making love, to the green, unearthly poetry of motion.

Tybalt came. They didn’t stop. It was that simple.

Finally making love slowed even more, to cuddling, and Jamie held Tybalt close, wanting to keep him deep inside as he softened. “You’re so amazing.” He couldn’t think of any other words.

Tybalt stroked idly at Jamie’s cheek. “I could get used to a boy like you.”

Exhausted, Jamie could only barely manage a smile, imagining how nice that might be. “You could, you know.” Summoning up a last bit of strength, he rolled Tybalt onto his back. His legs were barely working, but he crawled lower, leaving a trail of kisses down his prince’s body, as Tybalt had done for him before. “I won’t be able to do this again, though, so you’ll have to enjoy it now.” He dipped his head, intoxicated with the seductive dirtiness of the idea, and began to lick Tybalt clean again.

“No.” Tybalt shook his head, as if it couldn’t be that simple. “I could get used to a boy like you.”

Jamie stopped and turned away, curling up into a naked, shivering ball. He didn’t want to understand, but it was all too clear. “That’s the choice, isn’t it? Is that the way it works? I can have you, or I can have me?”

Tybalt did not speak again.

Jamie slid his fingers between his legs, feeling the still-warm drops of Tybalt oozing from his body, and all the pleasure that they brought; he felt the pleasantly tender slit they oozed from, and all the wrongness that that implied. Either choice, he knew, he would regret. “I’ll miss you always,” he said, giving up, and welcomed his hot and bitter tears.

“I…” Tybalt shrugged. “Amen,” he whispered, almost sadly, and Jamie’s world dissolved into a deep and dreamless slumber.

Jamie woke up holding ten years of morning hard-ons all rolled into one. He groaned, twisting uncomfortably in bed before he realized what that meant. “Holy crap!” He jolted awake. “That wasn’t!” A blindfold was tied tightly around his head, and his hands shook as he reached up to tear it away.

Someone caught him by the wrist, though, holding it tightly to the mattress. “It was.”

“Tybalt? You’re still here?” Jamie’s heart surged. “Did you…”

“No.” Tybalt kissed the words away. “I just couldn’t leave without saying goodbye.”

On shaky, nervous legs, Jamie eased himself out of bed. The cool air alone was an ecstasy against his new and naked skin. Tybalt guided him over soft, plush carpet and cold, stone tiles, into the shower, and soon he began to wash Jamie, holding him close and stroking him all over, sheeting his body in soap and steamy, hot water.

“It really is just right for you,” Tybalt purred, sliding a finger up the underside of Jamie’s shaft, and laughed at Jamie’s eager, desperate response.

Jamie whined. He was at least as sensitive as he’d been the night before, and maybe even more. It was cruel and he loved it.

“It’s time to say goodbye,” Tybalt said, turning Jamie in his arms.

For a moment Jamie felt himself slide against Tybalt, cock on cock, before he was pressed back against the wall. It felt so warm, so smooth, so overwhelmingly natural, that he could barely stand. He bit his lip, not knowing what would come.

Tybalt crouched, nuzzling against the plain of Jamie’s belly. “You would have been a lot of fun.”

Jamie would never really remember the rest. In truth he would not care. Even the shadow of the memory was enough. He knew that Tybalt kissed him, suckling gently on his tip, sliding him slowly deeper and deeper into his mouth, and that his tongue was rough and slippery, gentle and insistent, all at once. He knew that Tybalt knew when to stop, and when to tease, when to lap and when to suck, when to indulge him and when to make him beg. Most of all, though, he knew that when he finally came, he seemed to come for hours, from the very core of his being, as though he’d spent his entire life waiting for this single moment with this single lover, and that he never wanted it to end.

Panting, Jamie rested his head against the smooth, wet tile, trying to catch his breath not just from the pleasure, but more than that from the unspeakable rightness of the way he’d come.

“Close your eyes,” Tybalt whispered, rising.

He did as he was told. Tybalt held him close, peeling away the blindfold. Jamie nuzzled under his chin, warm and happy, not daring to look. He wanted to stay like this forever.

Tybalt’s fingers slid along his jaw, tilting his head up just one more time. For an instant he felt the fleeting kiss goodbye, the sticky-salt taste of himself on Tybalt’s lips.

“I hope you think it’s worth it,” his prince whispered. Then, with a cold rush of air, he was gone.

With a whimper, Jamie crumbled to the floor and hoped that he did, too.

I suspect, much to my disappointment, that there are no plans for further issues. It’s been about a month since I emailed Anne, and I noticed that her contact information has been locked at the YaoiCon site.

This doesn’t mean much, if anything, for Tybalt’s future. The past two Anthologies have paired me with Tammy Lee, and I don’t think we have very good creative chemistry. Tybalt remains one of my favorite (if most demanding) characters, and I’m sure he’ll continue to slink into my writing life whenever he has a story to share.

For now, I’ve been sidetracked by an interesting little experiment (you can expect it in time for Christmas), and First and Last and Always will go back to the top of my stack once it’s done.

Just in time for Christmas, Tanko has given her permission for us to post the first Tybalt pictures ever! She drew them for The Tears of Anael when it was published in the YaoiCon 2004 fiction anthology.

Tybalt is very pretty, but in these pictures he is also very naked! Please use your best judgement before you click on the story.

Thank you and Merry Christmas,
~Catboy! =^.^=

Yellow-throated songbirds pecked at the bars of their tiny, gold-wire cage, blinded and too fat to fly, searching in vain for the trays of millet and grapes, oats and figs that someone had taken away that morning. A soft mewling startled them, but they soon forgot it, oblivious to the sleek, golden-skinned cat-prince watching them. Tybalt licked his teeth contemplatively, sprawling in the Roman couch beside the cage. He flicked open the top and plucked out the fattest, laughing quietly at its futile squirming. It amused him for a moment, but soon he grew bored again, and he thrust it, head first, into a glass of brandy.

It didn’t take long. The bird drowned in minutes, its struggles against his hand growing weaker and weaker until they stopped altogether.

“That’s cruel, Tybalt, even for you.” Tybalt’s guest, a gentle sylph of a boy, just barely a man, tried to look away, but the beautiful tragedy entranced him, somehow, and he could not.

“Well, I miss her, and their suffering eases my own.” He plucked the bird’s feathers deliberately, one at a time, tossing them back into the cage. “You wouldn’t deny me that, would you, Methyst?”

Methyst buried his face in his hands, running his fingers back through his short, dirty-blonde hair. “Still her, even now… Tybalt… It’s been seven hundred and fifty years.”

“Seven hundred and forty-nine, two hundred eighty-seven days.”

“Even still.”

“Seven hundred and fifty years, seventy-nine days yet to pass.” He shrugged, opening the little iron broiler he kept beside the birdcage, and rested the tiny, naked body above the coals, watching its skin crisp and turn rich, caramel brown. “With all that waiting, I deserve an indulgence.”

“Tybalt, that’s not actually very long. You slept through the Third Punic War, remember? You woke up and held a hundred-year grudge against the Romans over razing that bakery in Carthage.”

“Well, I forgave them once they invented those little pastries with the fat dormice in them.”

“Still, if you can wait a hundred years for pastries…”

“Quiet, you.” He folded his ears flat in mock annoyance. “Can’t you see I’m sulking?”

“Do they really have to die for that?”

“I feel like an hour of pleasure now and then. Nothing else amuses me quite so much right now.” Tybalt laughed quietly, shaking his head, and turned away to watch the bird for a few silent moments, stretching his back in that slow, distinctly feline way.

Methyst bit his lip. From the back he could almost mistake Tybalt for some tall, finely-muscled girl, and he found it impossible not to imagine how it might feel to hold him, to feel those long, sleek muscles holding him down, daring him to explore their sheath of soft, perfect skin, or the gentle curve of his hips, just barely hidden by his thin silk pants. He swallowed hard, trying to think of something else. “Aren’t you at least supposed to wear a blindfold?”

Tybalt turned, looking over his shoulder to offer an impish little smile. “I’m not afraid of my sins.” A few minutes later, his snack was ready. In a smooth, practiced gesture, he took the bird from the oven, closed his eyes, and popped it into his mouth, its entire body a single mouthful. It was hot, still steaming, and he sucked in his breath, savoring the moment.

The prince’s back arched sharply as the rush of sudden, delicious heat washed over him, every muscle going tense and highlighting itself in perfect, subtle relief. It lasted for only a moment, though; he flopped over into the sofa, rolling onto his back as he settled into its thick, soft cushions. As he began to chew, a warm, contented purring rose from deep in his chest, nearly drowning the quiet sounds of his teeth shredding the soft, delicate flesh, and even in his horror Methyst wanted nothing so much as to feel that purring, to stroke his hands down Tybalt’s chest, down the smooth, slender plain of his belly, to feel that obvious pleasure made flesh and motion.

The temptation was too much. He crept closer, crouching beside the sofa, and brushed his fingertips against the arch of the prince’s hip, feeling his skin’s soft, supple perfection. It was everything he imagined, and he was about to stroke his hand up the long, gentle curve of Tybalt’s side when the songbird’s tiny bones began to break, making wet, cracking noises that seemed to go on forever.

Tybalt swallowed, eventually, picking the beak from between his lips as he rose from his little trance. “Would you like to try it, Methyst?” he asked, his voice mockingly innocent. “I have more.”

“That’s disgusting.” The spell was broken, and Methyst felt a queasy, sinking feeling in his stomach as he watched the prince lick away a shred of wing and fleck of brain from the edge of his lip.

Tybalt only smiled, leaning over to press a light, gentle kiss to his lips, teasing him with the faint, dying memory of the bird’s last breath, of crisp sea air spiced with warm, smooth armagnac, of the quiet pop as its tiny lungs burst between pointed, feline teeth. “It’s delicious.”

“It’s both,” he murmured. His knees started to weaken as his senses clutched at the little flash of pleasure, feeling it die off into the faintest wisps of memory. “Like so many other things you love.”

He felt another kiss, harder, more insistent this time, coaxing his mouth open with gentle, soothing strokes of Tybalt’s tongue. It held him tight, until his breath was sucked away and Tybalt’s filled his lungs, until he could smell nothing but that rich, intoxicating scent, taste nothing but its memory, rich and sweet, hauntingly delicate, and most of all feel nothing but Tybalt’s arms around him and Tybalt’s kiss against his lips.

“Like the things you want to try.”

It wasn’t a question. Methyst blushed hotly, resting his cheek against the slight curve of the prince’s shoulder. His voice was barely a whisper. “Yes.” And then, unbidden, “Like all the things I want to learn.”

Tybalt purred again, bemused, standing and slipping behind him as he took a beautiful strip of embroidered white silk from the table. “I’ll teach you a few sins, then. Don’t be ashamed.” He tied it over Methyst’s eyes, turning the world into faint, hazy blobs of light. “We’ll hide your pretty face from God.”

Tybalt knows so very many sins, Methyst thought, feeling a square of chocolate press between his lips. Porcelana, he called it, and the name fit, creamy-smooth, luxurious and faintly smoky, a dozen variations on that simple theme evolving as it melted across his tongue. He’d laid his guest out on the couch, sprawling lazily over him, and introduced them to him, one at a time, pausing just long enough to whisper each new name, each new story, just long enough to hear him whimper, begging for more.

It started with that beautiful, terrible thing, the blindfold, smooth as water and decorated with something called the Forbidden Stitch, embroidery so fine and painstaking that the peasant-girls hired for it went blind if they practiced for too many years. He’d wanted to tear it off the moment he heard, but Tybalt held his hands, binding them with another strip of that unspeakable brocade. He left for a moment, and the next Methyst knew, stuffed a piece of sashimi into his mouth. It was very fresh, crisp, sweet, and lightly briny, but it had been cut from a still-living fish; he could hear it flopping weakly on a plate, somewhere close by. He wanted to spit it out, but Tybalt held his mouth closed, made him chew and swallow the delicious abomination. The little bowl of soup held pieces of a dozen lives stewed into a broth of Shaoxing wine and rare mushrooms, abalone and scallops, shark fins and choice bits of fish, quail eggs and shreds of chicken. After the fish it seemed not so bad, clear and gentle as a kiss on the forehead, so temptingly fragrant that his protests died in his throat, surrendering before the endless string of pleasures.

Like porcelana. Always porcelana, another square with each new story. It tasted the way Tybalt felt, so perfectly right that it had to be wrong, melting away his guilt the way Tybalt peeled away his clothes, so comfortable that it seemed only natural. By the time he tasted the third he couldn’t tell which was smoother or sweeter, the chocolates in his mouth or the feelings all around him, the effortless warmth of skin on skin.

Then there was a tiny sip of wine he called eszencia, the cask tended for him through good years and bad by three generations of cellarmasters, sharp and powerful, clean-finished and almost painfully sweet. And another, a cognac he’d commissioned six hundred and fifty years ago to drown his loneliness, after a hundred years without his beloved, a blend of priceless eau de vie, one from each year they’d shared together. It tasted like passion, like love and excitement and sweet, bitter sorrow, like spice and oak, flowers and hot summer nights of sweaty, frantic sex, winding down to slow, gentle lovemaking and cuddling with the dawn. It slipped down Methyst’s throat like a dream, trickled down his spine, and reached up to caress his brain with ghostly, vaporous fingertips.

It left him panting, senseless, knowing nothing else but want.

But that was nothing, a shadow to the way Tybalt turned his head afterwards, kissing away a drop from his chin, dragging it out into a long, slow lick along his jaw, curving back down his cheekbone, warm and rough, wet and slippery. That stopped, though. It stopped, just before the kiss that seemed so inevitable, that Methyst needed now so badly. He squirmed, realizing how uncomfortably hard he’d grown beneath the prince’s weight. He could feel Tybalt’s breath on his lips.

“You want something, Methyst?” Tybalt asked, stroking his captive’s hair.

“Kiss me.”

The hand in his hair tightened, pulling his head back slightly. “You know I don’t take orders.”

Methyst whimpered. “Please!”

He felt Tybalt grind his hips against him, felt Tybalt hard, too, sliding against him with the promise of forbidden pleasure. “Should I take care of this, too?”

Even through the blindfold he knew Tybalt was smiling, amused by the deep, hot blush that overtook him. His answer came out as a whisper that even he could barely hear. “Yes, please, Tybalt, please.”

Tybalt purred, his breath warm and inviting. “How much do you want it?”

“I don’t even know anymore, just please give it to me. You’re right, about everything; it’s wonderful, it’s horrible but I love it, I’ll do anything, just… mmmph.” He melted into the kiss, thrilling with excitement as Tybalt slid away the thin layers of fabric that separated them, ecstatic when his hands caressed his thighs, pulling them up, along the arches of his hips. Methyst crossed his feet neatly behind the prince’s back, just over the base of his tail, squeezing him a little closer, enjoying that warm, intimate embrace.

He could have been happy there, only kissing, only cuddling, naked and together, but to Tybalt it was not enough. The prince sat up again, and Methyst felt something cool and slippery pressing just beneath the base of his spine.

Oh, he thought, half in contentment, half in nervous surprise. He wriggled his hips a little, trying to decide whether he liked it or not. By accident he pushed himself down, feeling about an inch of slender fingertip press into the tight ring of muscle, and he gasped, his back going tight as a sharp, pleasurable heat raced along the nerves and muscles. Oh, yes. Oh, yes, he liked that. He pressed down a little more, squeezing experimentally, and he made a small, happy sound at the feelings he found. This was definitely the most shameful thing Tybalt had shared with him, but he thought he might like it best of all. It was only a finger, gently exploring the first few inches of his body, but it was making him pant, a little faster with each tiny motion, building to something wonderful that he did not know.

Then it was gone, a worse tease even than the almost-kiss. A silent scream forced Methyst’s mouth open wide as he pushed his hips into Tybalt’s hands, needing the release he knew, somehow, would come. A measure of molten chocolate spilled into his open mouth, spreading hot across his tongue, smooth as porcelana but stronger, almost overwhelming, so intense that it was almost bitter. He heard laughing. “You’re going to like this even better, don’t worry.”

Tybalt’s shaft settled into the crease of his rear, the thick tip coming to a stop in the little pit beneath the base of his spine. He swallowed hard. This was much bigger than a finger. It felt big enough to hurt.

It was. It was big enough to hurt quite a lot.

His scream burst out of his throat as Tybalt pushed into him, and he grabbed at the cushions, digging in his nails to ease the pain. Tears rushed to his eyes, soaking into the blindfold. And then Tybalt was into him, past his resistance, and he was no longer stretching, but stretched, no longer sinking into worse pain with every passing moment, only accepting Tybalt deeper and deeper into his body. He stopped screaming, only panting now, trying to come to grips with the pain as Tybalt began to thrust into him, slowly back and forth.

He could probe much deeper than a finger this way. Tybalt whispered the most wonderfully soothing things to him, and the thick, smooth shaft pressed against places Methyst only dimly knew he had, touched them in the most seductively, distressingly enjoyable ways, made him writhe in unfamiliar delight. A single thrust at a time, agony turned into pleasure.

It swallowed up his world. The prince knew exactly how to rob him of his breath, exactly how to break his control, one slow, perfectly natural stroke at a time. Every breath came as a little moan or grunt. Nothing really mattered, nothing but being taken, being owned this way. He wanted to spend days like this, with his mouth and belly full of these wonderful, sinful things, his rear full of this wonderful, sinful lover, who treated him as his plaything, who was tying this wonderful knot of pleasure, building to a climax.

Climax did not come. For what felt like hours it failed to come.

Pleasure turned slowly into agony. Or perhaps it didn’t. It was hard to tell anymore. He was babbling, he knew, trying to beg Tybalt to release him, not sure what he meant at all, moving like a puppet in the prince’s hands, his strings pulling tighter with every passing moment. And when he felt him lean down, felt his breath against his skin and the long, slow caress of that rough, feline tongue against his shaft, the torrent of release battered his mind into darkness.

How long Methyst slept, he could not tell. A long, dull, half-pleasurable ache flared into pain every time he tried to move his legs, but at least his hands were free. He reached up, pulling the blindfold down around his neck. Tybalt slept beside him, naked and content, holding him comfortably. In sleep he looked almost innocent, with soft, angelic features and a shock of messy, ink-black hair. It was hard to believe he could be so cruel. For a while he just lay there, feeling thick, sticky fluid running down his thigh, and tried to weigh the absurd blend of shame and pleasure.

Wincing, he sat up, reaching tentatively for the cage and its fat, blinded treats of little singing birds.

Somewhere out on the distant, fuzzy edges of the world, Tybalt, Prince of Cats, whose subjects were once as gods and have never forgotten, was begging for a bite of fruit. He made sad kitten faces up at the tall, delightfully boyish girl who held him pinned to the sand, kissing at her fingertips when she finally pressed the crisp white wedge of peach-flesh between his lips. She settled against him, letting his arm curl across the small of her back. They fed each other, stopping now and again to kiss and share the sweet, delicate aftertastes that lingered on their lips.

She kissed him a little harder, pressing her tongue against his own, sliding it along his smooth, pointed teeth. Then she was laughing and teasing, gone in an instant, running down the beach until he ran her down, bringing her to the sand and holding her as though he wished never to let her go.

Cool surf washed up around them, making the black silk of her dress gleam wet against her skin, like India ink against the finest porcelain. She kissed him again, scratching behind his ear, always amazed by the smooth, perfect blend of sleek black cat and golden-skinned youth. He closed his eyes, purring his contentment to her, and the world faded away.

The kisses felt different when the world returned, as light and timid as feather touches. Tybalt found himself in his bath, cradling a lithe little creature, not so much unlike himself. His name was Adam, he remembered, some priceless gift from human folly. His hair was white and pure as milk, and his eyes were sparkling, cobalt blue, bright and full of endless, perfect love. Tybalt smiled and held his subject tightly, pressing a kiss between his ears, remembering those early times. First like a child and then like a man, Adam had learned each day a new saintly virtue, and each night a sweet and secret sin. Most of all, Tybalt remembered the way Adam loved to snuggle close, sliding his naked, perfect skin against his prince’s own, first in innocence, then in desire. But then the angels had taken him away.

The angels had taken him away.

He bolted up in bed, panting heavily as his heart raced to bring him out of slumber. His sheets were damp with sweat, and no one slept beside him in the darkness. “Only a dream,” he breathed, over and over again, trying to calm himself. Adam had been lost to him for half of a thousand years, like the girl whose name he could still not bear to speak. The realization settled in, curling its icy coils deep in the pit of his stomach, and his eyes narrowed to slits. His roar echoed in the empty halls.

Tybalt stumbled aimlessly through the night, trying desperately to clear his head, searching for the peace his dreams had shattered. The hours slipped by, and he found himself before a heavy-grained oaken door, tracing his fingertips against the glyphs burnt into the wood. Chalam, the dreamer, lived there, sculpting the dreams of the poets and the lovers and the blind.

But he could make all the dreams he wanted. Even for the gods.

Tybalt’s suspicions flared, for a moment, and subsided almost as quickly. It must have been coincidence; an uninvited dream was unthinkable. Yes, it must have been a coincidence; Chalam’s dreams were powerful, staggering things. The poets would chase them for months, when he poured them across their minds, intoxicated by their beauty. As real, as powerful as it had felt, though, Tybalt was already calming; his breathing was even, now, and he could almost dismiss the last remnants of memory from his mind. He pressed his forehead against the cool, unforgiving wood, closing his eyes as he tried to soothe himself into some kind of calm.

Like a ghost out of a dream, a girl’s sweet breath – hers – caressed his lips, filling his mouth with its subtle, half-forgotten taste. He gasped in surprise, sucking it into his lungs, and the memory slammed into him again, with the strength of the centuries that had buried it away. Frustrated, he roared again, swinging at the door. He shattered its frame as he slammed it open, filling the room with the sounds of cracking wood and his furious, half-coherent growl. “Chalam! Stay out of my head!”

A small, sylph-bodied boy peered around a corner, studying Tybalt through amethyst-colored eyes full of some absurd blend of awe and expectation, innocence and martyred pain. “I really got to you, didn’t I?” he laughed.

Tybalt’s ears folded back, flat against his head, as his muscles tightened to steel-cable bundles beneath his skin. Ignoring his emerald, slit-eyed glare, Chalam slipped a little closer, his eyes growing wide in enchantment.

He reached out, tracing his tongue across his lips, and brushed his fingertips down the edge of Tybalt’s jaw and along the long tendons of his neck. “That’s so beautiful…”

Before he could finish his sentence, Tybalt’s anger exploded, like a striking cobra, and the prince threw him to the floor, sending him sprawling across the tiles of polished chrome and glossy black marble. “If you ever do it again, I’ll kill you, I swear.”

Chalam made a soft, whining noise as he sat up, reaching into a half-finished dream that lay nearby to pluck the head from a sparkling white rose that bloomed within. “I won’t,” he murmured, turning it over in his soft, long-fingered hands. “I only want one, that’s all.”
Tybalt silently traced his tongue across his lips, not understanding.

“There’s a reason you came here, and it’s more than your hour of sleep.”

“My reasons are my own, sculptor.”

Chalam licked his lips, thinking as he rolled the rose-blossom into a smooth, even ball, working with the slow, confident strokes of a sculptor in porcelain. “You loved them, didn’t you?”

Tybalt closed his eyes and turned his head away for a moment, unwilling to answer.

A flick of Chalam’s fingertips sent the tiny bit of dream flying, and it splattered against Tybalt’s skin, gleaming like mother-of-pearl against the soft-tanned gold, and flashes of memory seared themselves across his mind, one after another, until his knees buckled and he slid to the floor. Adam stretched out across the sheets and gingerly settled his hips on a pillow, looking back over his shoulder, eager and nervous beneath his prince’s hands. He tasted his tears against her cheek, the only ones he had ever shed. He remembered smiles and laughter and long, adoring kisses, sweet and pure and better than sex, all as clear as the moments he’d shared them, and just as freshly, he remembered the pain of their loss, pain that had taken centuries to lock away.

Chalam smiled again, smiled that absurd blend of emotions, as though it were all the explanation he needed.

Tybalt roared and lunged for Chalam, slamming him to the ground in a shower of jeweled dream-shards. “Stay. Out. Of. My. Head!” he growled, punctuating the words with the fury of a god, throwing heavy, savage punches across the sculptor’s face. Over and over he swung, sometimes missing and cracking the stone beneath, until even an immortal’s rage could burn no more, until his fists hurt and Chalam lay stunned beneath him, until one of those absurd purple eyes began to swell shut and the other stared emptily up at the ceiling. He sat there, keeping him pinned, and waited.

He didn’t have to wait long. A few minutes later, Chalam stirred, spitting blood across the floor. “That’s… that’s beautiful” he said, half to himself, as he watched the brilliant red pool against a mirrored tile. “Can’t you see why I chose you?”

“Damn it, no,” Tybalt growled, taking Chalam’s neck and slamming his head back against the tile once more. “And if you don’t tell me, I’m just going to kill you and leave.” His claws slid out of his fingertips, stiletto sharp against china-white skin.

Chalam started to roll his eyes, thinking better of it at a twitch from Tybalt’s hand. “Love, Tybalt. Hope. Fear. Lust. Despair. I’ve never felt them before, never felt those big and wonderful feelings, only little ones. I only want a little.”

“How would I give them?”

“I only want a dream, Tybalt.”

Tybalt’s eyes narrowed again, instantly suspicious. “You want me to make you a dream? Make one of your own.”

“I can’t.” He shook his head, as much as he could without tearing open his throat. “Those are the rules, Tybalt. That’s the way magic works. The maker of dreams has none of his own; the bringer of passion has a heart of stone.” His eyes closed, resigned to it. “Look at me, Tybalt. Closer.”

His skin was crossed with lacework scars, a million threads of starlight woven through the pristine white, down his face and chest and arms and belly, disappearing beneath the soft white pants he wore. Tybalt sheathed his claws and traced one, his curiosity caught by their delicate beauty.

“Every dream I make, Tybalt, every one that goes unfilled. Every one leaves a scar, mirrored from the soul I touched. But none of them are mine.” He opened his eyes again, meeting Tybalt’s gaze, and twisted, showing a long, angry scar across his back. “I left that on a poet,” he whispered, “But still he believes; still he comes back and pleads for more.”

A faint little smile cracked Tybalt’s glare. “That’s the power of kink, Chalam.”

The joke passed unnoticed. “That’s the power of love, Tybalt. He’ll adore her forever, but she will never know.” He was almost begging, now. “So this thing… these feelings… they must be truly beautiful, or why else would he come?”

Tybalt rose to his feet, turning to walk away, and Chalam scrambled behind him. “I’ll do this,” the prince growled. “Once. And then you’ll stay out of my head.”

Chalam had only just begun his thanks when Tybalt spun, throwing a vicious punch to his jaw, and faded the world to black.

Chalam heard the gentle wash of surf against the beach as he returned to the world, underlined by a low, rumbling purr. He was napping, with his head in a soft, warm lap and a soft-furred tail draped along his side.

“Wake up, little dreamer,” Tybalt purred to him, stroking his fingers gently along the spiderweb of scars. “Today your dreams come true.”

He snuggled a little closer to Tybalt’s thigh, pressing his cheek against the smooth, perfect skin beneath, wondering how long it might be, before the sun might kiss his own skin to that warm, golden color. How long could he stay there? Forever would have been too little, but Tybalt helped him up, and they walked along the edge of the surf, in silence. They shared no words, but didn’t need them; he slipped close against Tybalt’s side, content in the warm, mysterious pleasure of his touch, and everywhere the prince’s fingers roamed, the scars would fade away, as though the rules that bound him would never dare to touch the Prince of Cats.

It was magical.

He felt cleaner, stronger, more than he had in centuries, and maybe for all of time, like he could be happy walking this stretch of beach for eternity, melting a little inside, every time Tybalt flashed him another carefree smile, pearly-white and framed by the points of his long, feline teeth.

They passed a pair of footprints in the soft, wet sand, and the dying memories of the place where their owners had lain together in the sand, but Tybalt didn’t seem to notice. He slipped his arm around Chalam’s waist, holding him a little closer, and rose a deep blush in his cheeks with a single word, breathed against his ear. “Love.”

In time, they walked up to a beach-house, elegant and pristine in that long-dead plantation style. They found it filled with the music of sweet-voiced violins, somewhere far away, so they shared a dance, slow and deliciously sensual in its long, effortless spirals through its empty halls. It filled him with the indescribable ecstasy of Tybalt’s bare skin against his chest, and the shame that he was still clothed, hidden from the touch of that confident, naked beauty.

He chanced a kiss, a feather-light brush of his lips against Tybalt’s own. A fiery hunger answered it, a hard, full-mouthed kiss that sucked out his breath and filled his mouth with the slippery-rough caresses of a feline tongue, and strong, soft hands, holding him tight, sliding down the curves of his body until his pants fell away, and there was nothing, anymore, to hide him from the hot press of golden, supple flesh.

The kiss pressed him backwards through the halls, lost in pleasure, until he felt Tybalt lowering him into a deliciously hot bath. Then it broke, with much gasping for breath, and Tybalt slipped in behind him, holding him comfortably in place as he began to stroke him, tracing the lines of long, gentle muscle that hid beneath his pure white skin. He answered, of course, drunk on the pleasures of his touch and the gentle strength that overpowered him so very easily, and he squirmed in his prince’s arms, feeling himself harden in the hot, delicate caresses of the water.

He felt Tybalt harden, too, between his legs, and he blushed deep red, whispering a quiet prayer of desire into the steamy air as his hands slid down and caressed the thick, smooth flesh.

Tybalt whispered, too, a single word. “Hope.”

Lost in the smoothness of skin and the heat of water, they lay there, how long Chalam could neither tell nor care, until Tybalt whispered again, his voice slowly edging itself with steel. “Right here, Chalam, right here I remembered. Right here, I knew that you were in my head.”

Chalam’s eyes widened in horror as understood, watching Tybalt’s narrow to feral, angry slits.

“It’s time to pay your consequences, dreamer,” he growled, “It’s time to you to hurt. It’s time for you to fear.”

Even in the steaming-hot water, Chalam’s blood ran cold as Tybalt slid himself along his inner thigh, and then the crease of his rear, settling into the sensitive little pit at the base of his spine. “Tybalt… I’m sorry. Please…”

“Yes, please,” Tybalt laughed, toying with his prey. “I’m going to like this, Chalam. This is how much it hurt.” His hips thrust savagely, driving him deep into the tiny body beneath him, barely an inch at a time.

Chalam screamed. It was like being torn in half.

He tried to fight back, tried to push Tybalt away, but he was stronger, heavier, faster, angrier, but most of all he wanted it more, and thrashing and kicks only seemed to urge him on. Worse, though, his body answered the prince’s touch, slowly accepting him and turning every vicious, hateful thrust into a hot, fast burn of agony that exploded into pleasure as it began to pull away.

In time the pain began to wear away, softening at the edges until he could almost accept it, almost enjoy the hard, animal rhythm of it. Tybalt must have sensed it, must not have been satisfied in his revenge; he shoved him hard to the floor of the tub, deep beneath the water. He choked, looking back to see that beautiful, sadistic smile, and thrashed hard, desperate to get away, but Tybalt only slowed, savoring the feeling of the stretched-tight muscles playing against his skin.

His lungs burned. Surely Tybalt meant to kill him.

Then he could breathe again, clean, steamy air, pulled up for a single breath, a feeling so beautiful that nothing else mattered, not protest, not escape, not even the agonizing invasion of his body. It lasted for a moment before Tybalt shoved him down again. And again. And again.

Every time he was sure he would die; every time Tybalt held him down for a few moments more. Each gasp of air came sweeter than the last, more desperate, a moment’s respite from his burning lungs, the naked pleasure of life writ large and urgent, until there could be nothing else, and every tiny sensation, from the water in his hair to claw-marks in his skin, raced along his fraying nerves, a sacred, perfect reminder that he was alive, gloriously alive. Even Tybalt was pleasure, stretching him tight and moving deep within his body, smooth and perfect as he writhed upon him, pressing back, deliriously eager for it, as though his degradation were life itself.

The world began to dim around him as he choked, spasming hard as his body slipped from his control, just a slutty little plaything now, and far off in the distance, out on the edges of his mind, he felt Tybalt’s hot, savage climax, and, to his horror, his own, coiling around each other to explode in a brilliant silver light, wiping clean his sins and soul. He looked back, through the graying waters, as Tybalt pushed him further down, mouthing a single word: “Lust.”

And then there was only darkness.

Chalam bolted awake, sweating ice onto the cold stone floor, and sucked in the air with deep, starving gasps. It was only a dream, he told himself, but what a dream it had been, everything he could have imagined, and a thousand times more. He was terrified, he knew, but he’d loved it, too; the splatter of blood on his floor had been shot through with thick globs of white, and he felt a wet, sticky puddle beneath his hip.

He staggered to his feet, halfway between fear and longing, and stumbled to his work. What did it mean? Surely he could ask; surely Tybalt would not mind a harmless whisper in his sleep.

Or perhaps he would. It was pointless to ask; the prince had ruined the tools and sacred names that would let him know, burned and smashed them beyond repair. In the pile of ashes and broken wire, he’d left a single card, scribed with a single word: Despair.

Chalam took it, turning it in his hands, and found the note written on the back.

Maybe you’ll have a dream unrealized, or maybe dreams come true.
Stay out of my head, Chalam. You’ll learn soon enough.
Sweet dreams.

-T

As he sat there, reading, again and again, a long, red scar, jagged and angry with pain, etched itself above his heart.

A cat-eared youth lay sprawled in folded a bed, his tanned, golden skin gleaming with sweat as it lay against the watery blue sheets and the sleek, powerful leopardess who shared them. The jungle cat yawned, baring her great, sharp teeth, and Ta’avahiel stopped his approach, waiting as she nosed her companion awake. The youth barely seemed to notice his presence, as though members of Heaven’s Choir came daily to his door, and drew the great cat’s head to him, kissing her between the eyes.

“Tybalt…”

The youth’s ears twitched a little, as though expecting Ta’avahiel to continue, and the kiss slipped lower, until his lips met the cat’s, lingering there in a deep, gentle touch of affection.

It was pointless to argue. “Tybalt, Prince of Cats, whose subjects were once as gods and have never forgotten…”

The kiss broke for a moment as Tybalt peered over his companion’s head, narrowing his bright green eyes to slits. He considered the angel with slow, lazy confidence, twitching his tail beneath the sheets. “You forgot ‘each equal to any king’, but that may pass.” The kiss resumed, dying off into a show of warm, contented nuzzling, as if he enjoyed watching Ta’avahiel squirm in discomfort at their open, bestial affection. “Go, Remi,” he murmured, sending his subject away, and the leopardess stalked from the room, glaring at her master’s visitor for his intrusion.

The angel closed the door, unfurling his wings once more. The gesture would be lost on the Prince, he knew, but it always felt better to speak bathed in His glory. “If a man layeth with any animal, he must be stoned.”

Tybalt yawned, in his peculiarly feline way, running his tongue across the edges of his teeth. “Higher than a kite, Tavah, but I am both and neither, and the rules bear little upon me, as well you ought to know.” His ears folded flat against his head, as though in demonstration.

Ta’avahiel bristled a little at the Prince’s defiance. “That was an abomination, before the eyes of God.”

A low chuckle served as an answer. “You saw only a kiss, little bird. Leave it be.”

“Judas betrayed the Son with the same.”

The Prince stretched, letting the sheets fall around his body as he raised his hips, cracking each joint in his back in a slow, lazy rise to his hands and knees, then fell over to his side again, considering his visitor. “You didn’t come to lecture me, Tavah. You want something from me, and it must be something that no one else can give.” He thought for a moment, gesturing to a small pouch on a nearby table. “It’s probably not the catnip, but you’re welcome to some if you want.”

Ta’avahiel shifted awkwardly, trying to recover his dignity from beneath the Prince’s idle, uncaring gaze. “Something only you can bring me, yes.”

Tybalt traced his long, elegant fingers along the sleek, naked curves of his belly as he considered the statement. “You mean something only I can steal,” he purred, rising to his feet, and began his slow, jungle-cat walk to the door, unashamed of his nakedness or his lithe, androgynous beauty. “But Heaven has no need of thieves, or so you’ve said before… it needs only ask.” His fingertips brushed against Ta’avahiel’s chest, their claws bared just enough to slice razor-thin cuts into his robes. “So this must be something special… something trusted to you and lost, or something secret you wish to have.” A hot blush was all the confirmation he needed, and he leaned in, standing up on tiptoe, until his breath teased against the angel’s lips. “What is it, Tavah? What tempts you so?”

“The tears of Anael, keeper of love and passion,” Ta’avahiel explained, trying desperately to ignore the fleeting, guilty pleasure of the Prince’s touch. “There are three, shed when Cain slew Abel, and turned to priceless gems.”

As any of his subjects might have done, the Prince turned away as he grew tired of the history lesson, idly watching the sunlight play over his supple, perfect skin. “Where and who, Tavah. Where and who?”

“The Second Circle of Hell, Tybalt, kept by the daemon-wolf Andrealphus.”

The comment barely escaped Ta’avahiel’s lips before Tybalt interrupted. “No, no, absolutely not. Last time an angel sent me to the Second Circle, I came back with this awful burning for a month.” He grinned, having too much fun to be embarrassed. “She did make it worth my time, though… would you?”

Ta’avahiel set his jaw, determined not to play the Prince’s game. He was losing patience. “Naturally.”

Tybalt’s eyes grew wide, and he pressed up against his visitor once more. “Did you say Andrealphus had them?”

“Yes.”

The cat-eyes narrowed once more, and the angel felt a little shiver of uncertainty prickling up his spine. He could almost hear the gears turning behind the Prince’s emerald green gaze. “You used to be on… special terms with him, didn’t you?” Tybalt asked.

“As Saint Bacchus was to Saint Serge, yes. But that was long ago, before the Fall.”

“Oh, yes…. I remember them.” The gears spun a little faster as the cat-ears flicked back and forth.

Now he was interested, the angel knew. Why he was interested might be better off left unknown, but for now, it was a matter of price. The wheels turning in the Prince’s head were almost audible in their machinations. “Give me day from you, Tavah, bound to my will.”

A day’s absence was inexcusable; he would be missed. “One hour.”

“For that I wouldn’t leave my door.” The Prince cocked his head to one side, raising an eyebrow in that unsettling way, as though judging the value of Ta’avahiel’s time. “Even Michael gave me two. Six.”

“Two, then, the same as he did.”

“Don’t toy with me, Tavah. You want the Tears more than I want your time. Three.”

Three hours at the Prince’s hands seemed reasonable. Others of the Choir said he usually wanted softness and warmth, curling up in comfort as cats were known to do, and that his attention ran short at other times. “Done.”

“Come back in a week, then. I’ll have your Tears then.”

A silence hung in the air, and Ta’avahiel smiled. This would be easy. Already the Prince’s attention had run out, and the he was dressing, leaving his black leather clothing open as he chose from his hundreds of bright, shiny ornaments, as though they mattered more than all the world.

Tybalt missed Remi, though he’d only left her a day before. Remi was fun, clever, eager to please, and warm. He wanted to play with her, to be surrounded by her warmth again, not the icy winds of the Second Circle that bit deep, even through the sleek black leather that stretched tight against his flesh. The cold made him angry. He found a foothold behind the neck of some poor condemned soul caught alive in the rough, jagged rock, and pulled himself a little higher. A foot above him, a woman wailed, some nasty bitch who had slept her way to the top, passing deserving men and women along her way, until she found that He could not be seduced. A quick slap shut her up, the back of his glove against her face, though the column of her imprisoned lovers began to scream. For a moment, he considered breaking out her teeth, or even better, their teeth, to give them something real to scream about, but other things came first. He had cursed himself for ever coming and cursed the parted lovers for the screams that broke his concentration, but now, he cursed the daemons, cursed their endless savage rape of the damned, for having so much fun, even as he traveled in misery.

Despite his lamentations, it was a short climb to the top of the arch he’d chosen, and from there a single leap, a long, fluid motion to cut the eternal night, to land on Andrealphus’s roof, where he dropped into a neat, predatory crouch. The air here was thick with the daemon’s essence, a palpable weight against his body that tensed his muscles and filled his lungs with the heavy scents of wolf and cedar wood. An entrance there had been abandoned there, long ago, but he’d never forgotten it, and the heavy stone lifted free as cleanly as it did so many years before. That was good. The room beneath him was a little warmer, stoked by a fire that gave no light, and black as pitch, dark beyond even his sight, save for the faint blue sparkle of the Tears that awaited him. He let out his line, tested it, and descended, headfirst, into the darkness.

It was a long way down, and he’d barely gone halfway when he heard the hard, rhythmic clicking of claws against the stony floor. The cool, daemonic gaze of Andrealphus fixed itself upon the back of his neck, sending the downy little hairs there pricking up in alarm, and he froze, coiled tight in the impenetrable blackness. He heard a low, growling laugh. “Nice of you to drop in, Tybalt.”

He allowed himself a little smile. “It’s been too long, Andrea. I hear you’ve a new plaything… Catherine, right?”

The voice came a little closer. “Oh, yes. So much hate, she has. So much fear. She makes her own prison, where a look becomes a rape becomes her murder for my amusement.” He laughed again. “But you didn’t come to play with her.” It wasn’t a question.

Tybalt gave a little twirl, letting his tail brush against Andrealphus’s thick mane of hair, and they watched each other, now face to face, their eyes glowing faintly in the darkness, one pair green, and the other gold. “Of course I didn’t. I came to play with you.”

Ice-white teeth sparkled in the darkness. “I don’t believe that for a second, kitty,” the daemon-wolf laughed. “Though I’m flattered by the lie.” His huge pink tongue darted out for a moment, tracing its way across the shining teeth. “You came to take something, didn’t you?”

Tybalt didn’t feel any particular need to deny it, especially now, as his fingertips ran long, delicate trails up the hard expanse of the daemon’s chest. The muscles in his legs relaxed, just a little bit, until he felt the daemon’s cool, even breath against his own. “I need the Tears of Anael, lover. There’s an angel who needs corrupting, and I’ll make it worth your while.”

Andrealphus’s tongue lapped out again as he considered that. “I haven’t played with Tavah since the fall,” he murmured, and smiled brightly, leaning forward to press his lips against the Prince’s skin. “They say you have a silver tongue, Tybalt. Let’s see you use it.”

No more invitation was offered, and no more was needed, as Tybalt slid his hands through the daemon’s thick fur. Still upside-down, he began to uncoil, lowering himself further, ever so slowly, as he kissed his way down the daemon’s body, every press of his lips tied gently to the one before, every inch of the journey a slow, sensuous tease, pressing smooth skin and warm leather against the hard, stony flesh before him.

He kept his touches gentle, almost loving, subtle against a body jaded by eons of butchering eternity’s tide of fresh meat with perversion honed sharp by boredom and cruelty. It had been centuries since the last time, but Tybalt still knew the soft, comfortable tease that would drive Andrealphus mad. Already he could feel a deep, aching desire growing in the daemon’s body, a thousand little spasms that sparked over his stony muscles. They egged him on, and he crept lower, teasing them, until bright icy-blue flashes of hellfire crackled over the midnight fur and the gleaming obelisk of flesh that rose to greet him, towering far below like an ancient, forbidden tribute to perversion as he slid slowly down the rope.

The daemon-wolf cupped Tybalt’s rear in his hands, feeling it slide beneath his palms. He earned a low purring for that, from deep in the cat-boy’s chest, as his hands slid the soft flesh beneath their palms, as though the time between them had never passed. “You’ve missed that, haven’t you, kitty?”

Tybalt’s answer came as a kiss, a gentle caress of lips and teeth and tongue, all warm and rough and slippery, his soft, sensuous nuzzling better at home against a lover’s cheek than this seat of raw, sexual power. “Why don’t you find out?”

Andrealphus growled playfully at the treat suspended before him, tightening his grip on Tybalt’s leather-clad hips until the seams gave way. Cool air licked against Tybalt’s newly-naked flesh, making him yelp in surprise. “I should say so,” the daemon hissed, pressing his cheek against Tybalt’s thigh. “You’re all pink and excited under that tail of yours.” He pressed a finger there, sliding it closer along the ragged seams and the crease of golden skin beneath. Tybalt squirmed in delight, finding himself the victim of a tease for once. “Are you excited anywhere else?”

Again Tybalt’s answer was a kiss, this time a tight-lipped, eager suckling that sank down the daemon’s thick, sensitive phallus. He bathed it with the hot, gentle caresses of an almost-feline tongue, even as it forced his jaws open wide and pressed into the barely willing tightness of his throat. The daemon was swallowed by pleasure, just as surely as Tybalt swallowed him, and even had he tried to press the matter, Tybalt still, lowering his legs to the floor in a fluid, gymnastic motion that let him hold his intimate kiss until his feet touched ground.

He drew away, feeling the demon-flesh slip from his jaws, and slid forward into a sleek, inviting crouch, like the jungle cat he was. His tail lashed the air, as though drawing attention to the long, jagged tear in the seat of his pants. “Isn’t this good enough?”

Crackling hellfire, Andrealphus slid over him, lapping at the newly exposed flesh with his long, wet tongue. “No,” he growled. “There’s nothing in it yet, and you’re not making those sexy yowling noises.”

Purring his satisfaction, Tybalt reached back, running his fingers through the daemon’s thick, ice-white hair, teasing the edge of a soft-furred ear. “You’re going to have to fix that, aren’t you?” he laughed, teasing his former lover with the warm, soft crease of his rear.

The daemon’s grip tightened, putting an end to his squirming, and he called long, obsidian tentacles from the floor to coil around Tybalt’s wrists and ankles. “In time.” Glittering black cuffs of stone held him fast, as cold and vulnerable as he had pretended to be. “You’re not begging yet.”

Tybalt thrashed hard at the indignity of being bound, but he remained victim to the stone’s implacable grasp, his hips raised against the thick shaft of daemonic flesh that pressed against him. He settled, growling deep in his throat. “Cats don’t beg.”

Great licks of icy-blue hellfire rose from the floor, turning his sleek bodysuit to dust in long, sudden streaks of hot pleasure. Cold air flowed in to fill the void blowing the white ash off into the darkness, leaving only naked skin in its wake. “Oh, but you will, Tybalt,” the daemon-wolf laughed, letting his hands trace the lines of Tybalt’s supple flesh. “This is Hell. Everyone begs.”

Tybalt’s breath grew hot and ragged under Andrealphus’s warm, possessive stroking. The hellfire cast long, faint shadows across the room, playing over him like a thousand ghostly lovers that danced the sweet, hot edge between ecstasy and agony. Save for his tail, he was deliciously hairless, the better to feel his pleasure, but now the blessing had become a curse. He found himself purring, pressing up against the hands that explored him, or bucking hungrily as they encouraged his own excitement.

The blossom of pleasure that held him might well have been enough, but a new sensation pressed its way in, a kiss from the daemon-wolf against the curve of his hip. Like a serpent, Andrealphus’s long wolf-tongue slithered along his flesh, taking slow circles that drew steadily closer to the star of flesh beneath his twitching black tail. Even as he pressed back, it denied him satisfaction, lingering just beyond the edge of his sensitive ring. “Beg, Tybalt. Beg.”

Tybalt’s roar of frustration echoed across the room, and he clenched his teeth again as he fought to break his stony bonds. It was useless, he knew, but still he tried, forcing out his response. “Cats. Don’t. Beg.” He calmed again, beaten. “But dogs do catch them.”

Darkness swept over the room once more, and the hellfire disappeared into long, coiling trails of grey-white smoke. “So be it,” the daemon-wolf growled, creeping over him once more, pressing into him, thick and unforgiving, still slick with saliva and the evidence of his excitement. “So much harder for you.” He pushed in savagely, hard enough to force a yelp from Tybalt’s throat as the tight ring of feline muscle stretched taut, almost tearing against his bulk, then held down snugly around the shaft beyond.

A long, silent scream of pleasure-pain drowned in Tybalt’s throat as the daemon took him, a deep, brutal thrusting that threatened to tear him in half with its invasion. Like an animal, Andrealphus drove into him, hard and feral as the wolves in his hellish lineage. Deeper, harder, faster, the daemon claimed him, and Tybalt pushed back, ever hungry for more. Slowly, his world began to fade away, into and the smell and taste and feel of the sex, then not even that, just hot, luxurious pleasure, melted down and condensed into a single pure ecstasy made liquid and poured over both their bodies, trickling like honey down curves of black and gold.

“Six days, Tavah, six days in the Second Circle it took, to get those for you.” The Prince stepped into the light of the lone candle in his chamber, seemingly content despite the fading chafe marks that ringed his wrists and ankles, and the slight wobble in his step. “I hope you appreciate it.”

“More than you know, Tybalt.” Ta’avahiel watched the Tears sparkle on the Prince’s mantle, even more beautiful than he remembered. “I’ll serve your three hours, now.”

The Prince flopped into bed. “The Second Circle is very cold, Tavah,” he murmured, stretching out against the silk. “And they say the wings of an angel are soft and warm, and their embrace snug and happy.”

A little smile crept across Ta’avahiel’s lips. He had been right, after all. The bed flexed beneath his weight as he slid in beside the beautiful youth, sweeping him up and holding him in healing, holy light. Tybalt was soft and comfortable against him, and seemed to invite the gentle pats that the angel offered, like one of his more domesticated subjects. Only when the cat-boy squirmed against him, only when faced with his body’s betrayal, did Ta’avahiel remember the way the Prince’s touch brought out the secret, primal urges of his soul. He might have recoiled in horror, but Tybalt’s sudden, predatory weight was upon him.

“You want more, don’t you. You like the way I tease you.” The Prince meowed in amusement, smiling cruelly, his ears pricked up in excitement. “You’d like to know me better, as Andrealphus once knew you. Admit it.”

Ta’avahiel bristled again, trying to wrench himself away, but it was useless, so he merely protested. “It is an abomination, Tybalt, before the eyes of God.”

The Prince’s smile grew wider as he pressed his weight more firmly. “But the eyes of God don’t see here, now do they? You’re free here, for whatever ends you’d like.”

“But men were not to love one another so, Tybalt.” Ta’avahiel’s voice wavered a little, still trying to deny his dark and secret desires.

The Prince shook his head, leaning in a little closer, feeling the excitement that the angel could not deny. “Such a simple thing, Tavah, a hardness or a softness, one tightness or another. You might as well split my subjects into white and black.” He laughed a little, leaning over to blow out the candle, watching its smoke curl up into a long, beautiful trail of infinity. “But in the dark, all cats are grey.”