Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Late at night, in his own assigned dorm room without any pesky roommates, amidst the stress of the constant effort the road to a degree in medical science requires, Cynte found himself taking advantage of one of the many opportunities for stress relief available to a young adult like him.

This time, like many others, started as a blur. There was some sort of encounter outside the room, a low conversation Cynte could smell the destination of, something rough and unromantic yet unfathomably tempting. It wasn't long before he had dragged that man closer, vaguely negotiating the terms of something mutually beneficial with harsh whispers into each other's space, swiftly earning him a strong arm around the waist to press him to the door of his own room.

The rush lit his insides with excitement—once inside, the two’s need to devour was perfectly matched, bodies intertwined and pushed against the wall because it just felt so damn good to let go. Cynte had run his fingers through his hair as he kissed back enthusiastically, before finding himself flipped and pushed chest-first into that wall. An arm rammed his shoulders forward, shoving the side of his face flat to the surface, and another quickly found its way between his legs. He could certainly work with this.

And he did—gods, it was good to feel someone writhe against him again. There was beauty in such a mutual drop of all dignity, unclothed and equally servile. The breath of an unfamiliar and faintly intriguing man was damp against his skin, fingers and claws reaching and tugging as they so blissfully meet in the middle, sensation reaching so deep inside him and forcing him into an arch. As he pulled Cynte in by the waist, shifting the angle to really start fucking him, Cynte had let out a long, shaking curse.

That man seemed to like that, holding his hip close and gripping his hair against the wall. That's it, he had growled. That's it. Take it.

A sharp retort leapt to Cynte’s tongue, but was dashed aside as he drove into him. His hand almost pounded against the wall from the unexpected feeling, but by the Gods, he couldn't complain one bit. 

Except of course, when it happened again. He was veering closer to release, the persistent thrusts grinding him up the wall, when that imbecile had opened his mouth again. Come on and take it, sweetheart, he grunted, gripping his thigh tighter.

Shut up, Cynte had sneered. Shut the fuck up and keep moving.

To his vague disgust, he had kept moving. It made it all the more difficult to object when he started to whisper. Pretty thing, clearly muttered into Cynte's ear to spite his clear distaste, like he was some pet to him. A pet that's kept quiet, trapped in the pleasure forced into him. The loss of dignity wasn't mutual anymore—this vermin was trying to take his.

He had tried to shove him off, then, weak limbs failing miserably as he fucked him harder. There wasn't much purpose behind it, anyway—as much Cynte despises it, resisting that addictive rise in pleasure wasn't anywhere near a priority. He had instead gritted his teeth, blocking out the revolting air the arrangement had acquired as he grinded and pulled to take what's left for himself.

With his face and torso pinned to the wall, a hand hoisting his thigh up to crowd him somehow further with each shove, he thought he had gotten away with it—he panted and moaned at the swiftly multiplying euphoria in his nerves, so close to that temporary peace, that much-needed release of tension–

–At the very peak, a hand gripped his dark hair to the scalp, tugging his head back to snarl one last abhorrent praise into his ear: Good boy, Cynte.

Cynte shouted against the wall as he came, fury shoving up his voice until he’s left groaning breathlessly—damn the neighbors, it wasn't his fault, it was–

The man left one final, sharp thrust inside him, interrupting his thoughts, and the second Cynte could think again, he shoved him off with all his infuriated, debauched strength.

Clutching the wall, he watched as that moron stumbled back, his face now alight with senseless fury. Let him be angry, then; he'll know not to try this again. 

Cynte had yelled something at him—damned if he could remember what—and that simpleminded prick had fixed his clothes and stormed out on his own, slamming the door behind him. The room rattled, his legs quaked, soon giving out beneath him as he slid to the floor, nothing left to keep him suspended. He shivered in the sudden chill of the room, left used and disgusting, curling in and holding his legs close—cursing himself for caring that much, for letting himself give in to words like that…

He was supposed to be better than this. This shouldn't– sway him, he's endured worse encounters—and as he crawled into bed, he knew he was bound to gamble again with another eventually.

---

Karis holds him close in his own bed, tracing circles on his back as Cynte shakily pries his face from where it was buried in his shoulder. Cynte looks away almost immediately; he hopes Karis will grant him this one form of mercy, to let this moment remain wordless. Surprisingly, he does—the only move he makes is to press a soft kiss next to his lips, a gesture expecting nothing in return.

I love you, Cynte, he had uttered just before.

He keeps his arms where they lay around Karis’ shoulders, unable to fully pull back. It's just… beyond him how things have led to this. It all felt so undetectably gradual, even after their first kiss and every lovely moment spent together from then on. There was no real effort put into this—at least, not a kind he is in any way used to recognizing. He can't believe that this is something he could have possibly earned.

The faint sting of repressed tears remains in his eyes as he relaxes into the bed again. He can explain them away tomorrow, explain that outburst of his he had to keep trapped between a desperate embrace, sparked only by four words he should still consider pathetic. He feels that he should be above this, but he would be lying if he said he didn't feel like he was grasping heaven when Karis starts to card his fingers through his hair. Soft, repetitive, and his heart is stolen away once more, kept safe under Karis’ warm palms.

With stroking hands lulling his mind to peace, Cynte falls asleep in another man’s arms for the first time.

Chapter Text

Another instance, another attempt—at what, Cynte wasn't sure. All he was concerned about is crowding this new man against the wall, shoving him there by his shoulders and pushing his thigh between his. 

He responded exactly how Cynte wanted him to—he dug his nails into his hips, anchoring him closer until Cynte could feel heated breaths and the gentle brush of bared teeth against his neck. The space between them was eradicated, the two grinding their thighs eagerly into the join of their legs, grating and panting vigorously and when Cynte felt eager hands start to press on his shoulders, trying to weigh him down to where he's truly wanted, he was happy to oblige—he wanted to feel it just as much.

He fell to his knees below this stranger, already reaching to knead at the hardening length beneath the trousers in front of him. Cynte tried to wait—to give him a few more moments of this rough mimicry of pleasure, to tease him a little further and make him work for this—but the promise of the rush of what's ahead got to him too quickly. Soon, he was fidgeting with the man’s belt and tugging it all down himself just to grasp skin against skin.

Cynte leaned back for a second to examine the length before him, already circling his hands around the base to prepare to take it in. It seemed good enough—gods, better than enough—and as a hand reached down to grip his hair, he found himself salivating at the sight of a perfect specimen to shove down his throat.

The low, attractive noise from above him as he stroked it in preparation spurred him on, and he soon leaned forward to press his tongue at the head, to suck, to taste another man with force. He slowly, shakily lapped at the underside, wetting his lips to kiss the very tip, before giving in and sliding that thick length deep into his mouth.

He felt the man tense, breathe, mutter some form of praise as he took it further, the salt of tender flesh flooding his mouth with slick saliva. Cynte’s eyes fluttered shut through a muffled noise, both to please him further with the vibrations and in response to the shoe suddenly pressing right on the ache between his legs. Starting to grind forward into the weight, he brought his own hand up to the one gripping his hair uselessly. With no words other than a glance up past his furrowed brow and an insistent grip on that wrist, he established what he'd really allow for tonight.

His guest got the message, and started to tug his head further onto his cock. Receiving no protest from Cynte but a low, passive sound, he took initiative and freely fucked himself into his craving mouth.

Cynte savored it all—savored the steady, shifting pressure on his clothed length, reveled in the sharp thrusts and pulls of a man taking him down to the back of his warm and needy throat, delighted in every one of his own rough gags and chokes. The man above him cursed, whispered his name in a rough, perfectly unloving tone—Gods know how he knew his name, they hadn't said a word before leaping to take this chance, but he gripped his legs harder anyway, letting himself be taken with force.

Grinding up into the heel with more and more desperation, throbbing and groaning brokenly through every slide into where he needed it all most, he felt himself really start to burn. What a find, this stranger was, so gifted in size and capacity to consider his needs too–

“That's good, Cynte,” he purred above him.

He moaned in response—this stranger deserved it. Just as long as he keeps moving–

“Look at you. They were right, huh? So needy…”

Cynte’s eyes snapped open. The next thrust caught him by surprise, and he choked—harder than expected, panic shooting through him as he painfully jerked himself free from his grip and immediately coughed into his own arm. He barely managed to catch and steady himself on the floor, and as he wheezed and attempted to recover, the shoe on his cock pressed heavily.

His mouth locked open, his hips rolled into it on reflex, and he was suddenly reminded of what words sparked this.

That man looked down at him—looked down on him—and Cynte started to feel a familiar fury boil from within. “What did you call me?” he lowly demanded, voice cracking and chest heaving.

“What, like you aren't?” The pressure returned, pushing up his length torturously. He clenched his fists against the floor. The cur smirked. “Hmm… Feels like you're enjoying this quite a lot.”

Cynte glared into him, with all the defiance and rage he could muster. “I am not your whore.”

“Then stop drooling like one.”

Affronted, Cynte shoved his leg away—but his guest was faster. He dove down on top of him, managing to grasp his wrists and pin them above his head while Cynte was still reeling with anger. He shouted as the weight of someone roughly his size kicked his legs apart, to straddle one of his thighs and push them together like before—only now, with the express purpose to force him into submissive pleasure. Cynte yelped, kicked again and reached nothing, wide-eyed and furious through the suffocation of unwanted sensation and he still wants to feel close to someone to take this like before to give in to feel something again and even as his heart pounded in helplessness towards the onslaught—even as everything inside him wanted to pull and break free from the tight grasp on his arms, from the insistently pushing weight keeping his hips down—he groaned, ground his teeth and finally, glanced up into revoltingly smug eyes to sneer, “You’d best make this count.”

The man didn't risk anything with a response—he only dived down to latch onto his neck with teeth, biting into him just as a roll into just the right angle made him quiver for more. 

A hand slipped into his pants, dragging him out to start frantically grasping and tugging each other together—and Cynte anchored his arm around his back in turn. They rocked together into the floor, grunting and growling out sounds of hatred and building ecstasy and grasping and tugging and that other hand curled around him, stroked down the small of his back almost delicately to prove a point to keep him willing and Cynte shuddered and keened at it anyway. His eyes rolled back during the tension and sting of another bite into his shoulder and he was coming he was going to come he was—

–crying out roughly just as the husky gasps above him reached a peak. Disgustingly, they released together, onto each other, curving into each other and it was unsatisfactory and the buzz in his lower stomach didn't reach nearly deep enough, even as he panted and groaned with all of his chest to try and catch more relief, anything for the hollow deep inside him. He couldn't help but keep his grip on this person, still grinding through overstimulation because he just needed more even if every muscle in his body cried for mercy. Cynte whined, digging his nails in deep and hooking his legs around him, curling every part of him further into touch—and suddenly, he was shoved away across the floor.

The weight that had left him stood up to right himself, snatching the belt thrown aside. Cynte rolled over to make eye contact—but the look he was met with was one of utter disinterest.

Useless fury found him again, and he was made all the more aware of the fear standing right behind it. “Wait,” Cynte warned.

“What, do you want me to hold you more?”

The words hit him like a bullet before he even realized it. “Shut your goddamn mouth.”

The man scoffed, heading for the door. 

Cynte couldn't stand for that. “No.” He climbed up, pulling his clothes together. “No, don't you dare leave yet.” 

Scrambling after him the second he’s able, Cynte watched him crack the door inwards—and collided with him, shoving the door back closed. He grasped his shoulders, his face, to wrench him into looking back at him.

Those eyes remained callous as he startled at the contact, like he was grabbed by some bottomfeeder. “We’re done, Cynte.”

“I said shut up!” Cynte snarled, keeping his grip on his jaw. “We are not. Do you think I can just abide by this– this disrespect?”

“Disrespect?” he laughed. Condescending. “It's just some fun. I thought you knew how this works.”

“What on earth are you– You–!” It's not fair. It’s just not—Cynte gave his share, he gave everything he had! “You used me! You can't just– just leave me like this!” His voice broke—he couldn't believe the words coming out of his mouth. The young hands around the man’s shoulder and jaw began to tremble.

His ensnared victim, despite it all, smirked in the face of his anger. Like it was all simple. “...Easy and clingy, huh?”

Cynte stopped. A hole deep inside him started to screech.

Sensing his hesitation, the man kicked him off—Cynte stumbled to the floor, staring up as he finally opened the door.

“Don't,” he called, clawing himself upright. “No, no, don't just leave–!”

The door slammed behind him like a shotgun blast. Cynte shot up, driving towards it to find him, to bring him back, and instead found his weight thudding against the shut door, his side pressing and sliding down as he crumbled to the floor in defeat.

He gripped his hair, curling into himself. He pulled at it, starting to take deeper breaths, starting to pant, starting to wheeze, rocking pathetically on the floor he settled on.

The breaths increased, his grip tightened, and that face that damned face when his hands were pinned when he was all his– Cynte shouted. He tugged at his hair, ripped at it and felt the sting the memory of the sting—stomping at the sudden and rapid waves of shame and longing alike, the need to follow him, to do better for him, to do better and fuck him properly, to fuck him until he's begging, to be the one to beg because even as his dignity shrieked for mercy he just wanted to feel this it was all he had; his work needed him, and he needed to grasp this fleeting thing that wouldn't stop taunting him just outside of his reach. What was he missing? What was he doing wrong?!

He lied there, shaking and feeling bile at the back of his throat—but he still wanted that touch. He needed touch. How was it so hard to understand?

Slipping his hand under the front of his messed trousers, Cynte let himself try to fall away again. He could do better—keening against the door at his own initial strokes, he could do better, and he would recover on his own.

He shut his eyes tight and sighed, trying his best to ignore the fleeting memories of restraint.

---

“Karis?”

His partner looks up from the book he was reading. They're pressed side-by-side, warmth shared freely despite all the work Cynte had done to ensure that his could never leave his shell again, despite the repressed and foul memories of it being taken from him starting to occasionally spring up into his mind. Karis’ soft eyes trace his features, likely already sensing the shift in his demeanor. 

“I…” Cynte starts—somehow, he's not sure he actually had a point when he spoke up. 

He finally grasped something when Karis started to spend time with him. And to his surprise, his first instinct wasn't to tug it close, to shove it inside where the feeling can be kept safe forever. Rather, he felt the need to protect it—to run his fingers over the shape of it, to hold on to that sensation but keep it open to breathe—to feel it breathe. And he could feel it examining him with just as much interest, especially when Karis unthinkingly reached over to hold his hand.

It was a foreign compound, this arrangement and Cynte. It felt as though a new part of him had opened up—one fresher than the older side that had been opened and left to rot so long ago. He had a new chance to come closer to something this pleasant.

Language returns to him. “I was… reflecting. And I think that I’ve come to a conclusion.”

An intrigued smile blooms across his partner's face. “And that is?”

“I enjoy the balance we've created. I appreciate what you've given me by staying, and I would like to continue to repay it further in the future.”

Karis chuckles. “You're thinking too much again, Cynte.”

He frowns. “Am I?”

“Well, I understand what you're saying, don't get me wrong. I love you too. But you kind of sound like you're getting into transactional territory again.” Karis squeezes his hand. “I’m not here because you're giving back to me, there's more to it than that.”

“I know,” Cynte whispers.

“Good.” He lets go, only to rest his hand on Cynte’s thigh in comfort. “You're good company. I hope you know that.”

That makes Cynte chuckle, too—he had certainly soured over the years, that was just a fact. His partner simply had a talent for dissolving him. “Only for you.”

They returned to comfortable silence. Cynte is happy to savor it.

Chapter Text

Even as it’s happening, Cynte knows this one is a mistake. 

The stress towards the end of his degree has hurtled him headfirst into the same old habit; he just can’t think in all the noise inside his head, the tension he carries at all times tears that same hole in his chest—and the harder it pulses, the louder it shrieks, the more aware he is that there is a way to let it all quiet. It has been a while since his last encounter, but they all weigh on him anyway. Every thought in his fogged head comes back to one central truth—maybe he just needs to stop fighting.

It doesn't matter what this man's name is, where he came from, or the nature of that dark look in his eyes as Cynte shows his first sign of submission in hushed words—all things he perhaps might have cared for before his head started to cave in on itself with need. Maybe he would have resisted when this new man couldn't wait to get to where Cynte was staying at the time, hand already slipped around his waist and keeping him much too close. Maybe he would have called things off when outside of his door, he leaned in to whisper “heard so much about you” into his neck. Maybe he would have fought back when he was shoved and pinned into his own bed, already knowing that the man’s smell would linger in the sheets.

Back pressed into the mattress with clothes long gone, he bares his neck to whatever is coming, long since given up on things like dignity. It's just for a night. He can abide.

Shame cast aside, Cynte runs his hands up the man’s arms, reaching for warmth before they are harshly shoved away.  

“Hands off,” that man spits. “Don't be a brat, now.”

His pride stings, biting into his core and begging him to stop before it all gets worse. This is juvenile, he knows it is, but he can't bring himself to give up that chance that the pieces will finally fit.

He soon pries Cynte’s legs apart with little effort, filling him with the heat of anticipation. Cynte doesn't dare say a word—he forfeited those the second he let himself be pinned down. “Oh, poor thing,” the man mumbles darkly. The heat starts to scorch him as he traces a hand down his jaw, almost gently, almost forcibly. “Be good for me, angel.” It starts to mix with something much more concerning when that hand closes around his neck. “You're all mine for tonight, aren't you?”

He doesn't wait for an answer, even as Cynte’s panic starts to grow with every slightly-more-challenging huff past that rough palm. Just as his own arm shoots up to claw at that grip, the man’s other hand gathers his own saliva to shove inside him in the exact way Cynte knows best, the way he's used to—only, a bit more barbaric. 

As fingers impatiently and persistently curl inwards to really make him want it, he gapes and tries to choke back a whine, stifled by overwhelming tension still present in his body, kept in place by fear and distaste. Doesn't he want to rid himself of that? How can he come this far and still feel apprehensive?

He wants this. He has to want this. Cynte swallows tightly, and hooks his leg around the man's shoulders as he pulls back to align something much more overwhelming, to shove himself right back inside–

---

–Cynte startles awake, and he can't breathe, he can’t breathe. Even as his chest heaves and his heart pounds, his gasps don't feel like enough, his body pulsing with both adrenaline and a sudden, overwhelming need to escape.

He grips the sheets, panting, trying to steady himself–

–he gripped the sheets and lied on his back as the man held his throat tight, as he thrusted inside and made him cry out in–

–Good gods, is this all truly coming back to him now? Now? The memories invade him far too swiftly, grazing past him and opening painful scars as he trembles in the bed where he lies–

–lied on his back. lied on his back. Willingly will-less and taken and shoved and reaching up to cling to him in fear in deprivation despite the overwhelming coarse frantic pleasure-pain–

He grips his hair, sliding his palms down his face–

–followed by a rough strike of that cruel palm across his face that he took and savored A tender touch down the side of his face, Karis’ warm hands had soothed him took and savored its simply another kind of touch its what he deserved anything could be tender and fulfilling compared to nothing he needed this, needed every second of this, until unmistakable perfect sensation started to break his voice and spirit combined–

“Stop,” he shudders to himself, muffled through his hands–

“–Don't stop,” he begged. “Don't stop,” he begged Karis. 

“No,” Cynte gasps. He's not in control. “No, no, damn it, no.”

He needed this he needed every sting every dig of blunt nails into flesh every bite every bruise every stroke and thrust and A soft kiss that was pressed against his trembling and willing neck it's all the same to his naive heart he's never felt this horribly alive–

A hand meets his shoulder, and he jolts away and chokes on a sharp inhale. Coughing, reeling, he can't breathe–

“Cynte? Cynte, what's–”

“Don't,” Cynte snarls. “Don't touch me! Get off–”

“I’m not, I'm not. Easy, Cynte.” He knows who that voice belongs to, but it's too close, it's too close to demeaning him, to relaxing him to make him complicit. “What's wrong? Are you alright?”

Poor thing.

Look at you.

Too soft, too comforting, too close.

Easy, Cynte.

Angel.

Sweetheart.

Good boy.

He covers his ears in cowardice, curling up in what he hates to call defense. His voice cracks as he shouts, “Shut up! Shut up!” 

Silence, sweet silence. He won't submit again, won't bend to anyone's will. Never again, he told himself, never again. Never again. But as he desperately mutters it to himself, as he gathers his thoughts, the silence starts to become more clear.

He opens his eyes. Karis’ faint silhouette in the dark lies next to him, completely still.

…Cynte is grown. He’s almost forty now, and he thought he had moved past that immature period of his life, left it to die with that thirst he had carried with him throughout it all, after he started to pursue his career in full. Had he not been– distracted enough? Is he really that weak, to fall back into old mindsets the second he is left with a moment to breathe?

No. No, it's not simply rest that's tearing open his scars. Hasn't he been opening himself up to someone recently?

Karis seems to notice his slowing wheezes and words. He doesn't dare speak up, but he slowly reaches his hand out again. Cynte settles as it rests on his tense forearm. He takes in deep breaths, trying to will away the shivers from the touch. It takes him another uncertain moment to finally speak up. “I’m– I did not want to…” 

After his words fall away from him completely, Karis fills the gap. “Will you tell me?” he whispers.

…Can he?

His legs tightened and weakened around him, and with that free hand his wrists were gathered and pinned above his head. Exposed, submissive, and every time his eyes fluttered open, the expression he was met with was enjoying every second of his surrender—of the helplessness that stretched him across the bed, that forced whines and quick, pleasured breaths out of him, that surely wrecked his expression, that made him curve and grind back with eyes shut tight, made him look uncharacteristically weak and innocent under any unremarkable visitor’s touch, that ripped away his stable identity and whatever dignity he had left.

“No,” Cynte declares. “Forgive me, but you should forget this. All of it.”

“I don't think I can do that,” Karis mutters. “I’m worried. I just want to help you.”

“I’m not a child, Karis,” he spits. “I’m perfectly capable of handling myself.”

Karis sighs. “Alright. I’m here though, okay?” His weakened, tired voice starts to get to Cynte. “I love you, you know?”

…But Karis has always been different. Beyond words, beyond belief. His touch was never insistent, never predatory. When Cynte gave into it, Karis let him ease into that feeling, courteous for fears neither of them realized he had. 

And of course, there were those words.

“Not many have told me that before,” Cynte quietly admits.

Karis remains silent, which is possibly for the best. Cynte feels vulnerable like this, almost cornered. He can't trust that any sudden movements will not make him bite.

He takes a moment, begrudgingly collecting the right words for this. “Not many at all. But I have been– well, I’ve come… quite close to…” He breathes. “You know you're not the first I’ve, well, had.”

Karis tentatively strokes his arm, just softly enough to not intrude. “Had?”

Cynte pauses again.

A realization seems to hit Karis. “You don't have to–”

“–And I haven't been touched in a long, long time.”

Karis starts to put things together a little too quickly. “Cynte, were you…” he whispers, concerned. “Did someone–?”

Too close. “Don't push it,” Cynte snaps.

“Okay.” 

Another moment, another second to breathe before he tries to start again, gritting his teeth through aversion. “...You scare me. Your effect– scares me. I thought I was prepared to try this, but it all will not stop coming back.”

Karis stops. “What about my effect?”

Cynte does not answer this. It's difficult to describe—with how intensely his instincts already loathe to say anything at all, digging any further into himself feels too dangerous.

He seems to get the message, despite the stark lack of communication. Either way, he still struggles to respond for a moment. It’s understandable of him—this isn’t a side he has ever seen, and Cynte should fight to keep it that way. There can’t be any good in exposure anymore, not for something this raw and damaged. But soon, Karis shifts a little closer to him. “I’m sorry, Cynte,” he inanely mumbles. “We don't have to talk about this. I didn't mean to– intrude, I guess.”

Cynte hesitates—the tone in Karis’ voice fell much too easily into saddened pain. He hasn't been fair. He’s sure he hasn't, but he– he cannot just humor this any longer, can he? At any cost, Cynte needs these memories to return to where they belong, to be shoved into the deepest pit of his heart where they won't get in the way anymore–

–Wrists in pain as he tugged them away from that grasp unsuccessfully—not to escape, but to react, to feel like he could do something, anything. 

Cynte’s hands return to his face, pressing against his eyes–

–wet tears from anything but sorrow in his eyes, legs pushed apart, torso bare and arched and this stung, it ached, he felt violated down to the core, used and pliant and it hurt so much in every feasible way but not enough to slow the approach of mindnumbing release to make him beg for it–

“Gods,” he whispers hopelessly, feeling himself curl up again. 

–Nothing he could do, even if he wanted to stop, and he couldn't even begin to. Stretched and pinned and almost-choked, the shoves and grinds against that place inside him, his voice cracking on a shout as he reeled closer and higher and gods it was so good–

His leg brushes against someone else's. The warmth stuns him.

Praise in his ears for giving in and taking it and moaning so prettily and all those things he couldn't see in himself, but even through orgasm, even as his mind was stolen once and for all, all he wanted to do was

Cynte shifts over and wraps his arms around Karis.

Karis doesn't say a word as he clings back, letting him bury his face into the crook of his neck. He sighs against Cynte’s ear, caressing him with open palms and keeping him as close as possible, unconditionally letting him remain in an embrace.

Unconditionally.

He tries, he truly tries to stay collected. To not let himself falter like he had in this position before, when– when Karis–

Fingers weave gently through his hair. “You’re safe,” he whispers, and Cynte breaks.

He clutches onto him with everything he has, taking in shaking breaths with a tight grip that makes every part of him start to tremble, start to feel a weakness far more foreign than the one he knew during those years—this time, his release has someone to support him through, someone who understands, someone who can show him how to let it all go. His legs intertwine with Karis’, dragging him in where he can receive that total comfort he's been craving even after they started to share a bed. It's so much more and less than he could ever have imagined—more, in that he was violently aware of how little he had ever truly understood about connection; and less, in that this experience didn't even need to shatter his worldview in order to simply feel perfect.

“Please,” Cynte whispers through his gritted teeth, meaningless.

“It's alright. It's okay, Cynte.” Cynte presses a stifled noise to Karis' neck. “You can rest now.”

Empty. Bruised at the wrists. Neck aching, head light, body too heavy to move, and his face still stung from that strike.

He didn't know what to do. He didn't know how to feel.

No one would help him through any of it. Maybe no one needed to.

It all still hurts—but now, he has Karis.

Gratefulness floods him, making him sigh and relax into his arms, letting tension flow out of him and dissipate into the air they breathe together. He pulls his face away from skin for one moment—only to lean in for a slow kiss Karis seems happy to return. Tonight, he trusts Karis to keep his hold on him, to keep his steady hands on his psyche, to protect his mind while he lets it float away in a different, more calming manner. 

And as they part, as his eyes flutter shut when fingers brush down the back of his neck, lulling him to sleep, Cynte could never be more satisfied.

Maybe he could tell him one day.