When did he?

When did she?

He tips the bottle to her lips, but only a drop, like the drip of the faucet, the drip of condensation that falls from the ceiling and hisses on candle flame, crackles in melted beeswax, a drop on her tongue, and then nothing.

When did she drink?

He poured champagne down her throat.

He poured names in her ears.

Where is Sam Wilson?

Wanda Maximoff?

Clint Barton?

Scott Lang?

Strange names. She has never heard these names. When did he ask her about these strange names?

What was the question?

Was there a question?

He holds the knife. It rips through cloth. That is his power, the power to cut it all away, everything away, until she is clothed in sweat. And the sweat cannot hide her. The sweat cannot protect her.

The air so thick, languorous heat, echoes and drips, heavy, heady breath, narcotic and fever and him.

Surrender to his power. Let him take what he wants.

He pours honey into his hand. "And for my next trick," he says. Trickster demon, foreign demon. He rubs the honey across her wet skin, stripped and wet, wet and arching, arching and longing, longing and begging, oh give, give to me, oh take, take from me, just touch, touch me, just touch there, and there, and there oh there oh there.

"You are golden," he says, as if in awe. "You are made all of gold."

Lips, fingertips, tongue. Surrender. Surrender. Melt into his mouth like the honey that melts on your skin.

Was there a question?

Did she answer the question?

Why did you save my life?

Why did you seduce me?

Why did you marry me?

Ask me again. Ask again. Again. Oh, again and again.

When did he strip himself? Hand full of honey pulling on his cock, his strange, pale cock, so heavy, so hard, balls pulled up so tight.

"Take me," he says. Honey and salt, and then salt, just salt, his salt. "Sword swallower," he groans. "Oh my God." Can a foreign demon invoke the foreign God? Strange pale lover, demon lover, who holds her head tight.

When did he unbind her wrists? When did he lay her down on the cool tiles? When did she wrap arms around him, legs around him? Their bodies slide against each other, slick and sticky, salty and sweet. She sinks her fingernails into his back to see if he is real, or if he is something born of the steam. He cries out and bucks against her. She takes her hand away and tastes blood on her fingers.

"Look at me," he commands her. Or is he begging? Can a demon beg? "Look into my eyes."

She has never seen eyes so blue, blue because they are skies without a soul, blue because he is a demon of air and steam, not an angel of the earth as she is, as are all her people.

She looks into his eyes. She looks and she looks and she says "Come inside me."

With the cry of a lost soul, he does.


He carries her to the bathtub and turns on the shower. He washes her. He washes himself. The honey and sweat swirls down the drain. He sings softly to her, as if singing to a baby.

"'cause tonight I'm going back to where we started from
"You can dream that we were dreaming that we fell in love."

He turns off the water. He wraps her in a soft, thick white robe and carries her to the bed. He lays her down, and he opens her legs, and he lies face down between them, his tongue so gentle, so slow, so perfect that it lulls her to exhausted sleep.