With a Vengeance

by Freydís Moon

“Open your mouth,” he growled. “Fuck you.” Kye’s entire body burned. “You’re obviously trying to.”

“What do you want?” Eli asked. That was the question, wasn’t it? The same one they’d been asking themself since they were a stupid teenager surfing queer chat websites, asking questions—is this normal? Does it have a name? Wait, really? IDK, I feel different—watching amateur porn filled with strap-on sex and men with cunts, buying sports bras that were one size too small, screwing their economics professor after class because he called them

Kye hadn’t known what to expect. Sex? Obviously. Being beaten? Maybe. Being fucked straight out of a trauma fantasy? Hell no. But they were too drunk to care, too deep in sub-space to stay quiet, and too overwhelmed with yes and now and please to even consider stop

“For they weep unto me,” he said, breaching them on a slow, steady thrust, “and say give us flesh

gallop. So, are rape fantasies your thing or my thing? The question danced on the tip of their tongue. What’s yours is mine.

“Let’s not…” They paused, clearing complicated emotion from their throat. “Let’s not do that again. Not for a while, at least.” This feeling will pass, baby. It’s a common response to— “Eli.” “All right, I hear you,” he said, and offered his hand. “C’mon.”

“How many people have you kissed?” Kye cracked their eyes open. Eli furrowed his brow. “Not to be a dick, but that’s none of your business.” “So, a lot,” they whispered. “Hundreds? Thousands?” “I’ve been around for a while.” “Okay, then how many people have you made deals with? That’s my business.” “Twelve,” he said, nosing cutely at their cheek.

Autumn turned Louisiana gold.

They opened the freezer. You’re kidding. Pulled out the handle. Woooooow. Tequila for breakfast, huh? Rinsed orange pulp out of a sticky glass; poured a shot. Boss babe material. “It’s, like, eleven o’clock.” They tossed the liquor back and exhaled through the sting. “If you ever call me boss babe again, I’ll exorcise your fuckboy ass right out of—”

“What’s it like making a deal with someone?” “Hard to explain. It was easy with you. I asked for something you didn’t have a problem giving.” They snorted out a laugh. “What, sex?” “No, worship.” He furrowed his brow. “You’re the one who chose hedonism, baby. I would’ve been happy with a bedtime prayer.” Kye blushed. “Liar.”

They used to have people in New Orleans, but over the last twelve months, after COVID-19 had torn through the world and lingered like a reaper, Kye had stopped responding to texts, deleted most of their social media, and allowed themself to disappear. Depression was mean like that. It was the ultimate equalizer—a deadly separation device.

“We’re magical fuckbuddies,” they snapped. Laughter barked from him. “Is that right?” “What the hell would you call it?” He crossed the room in a puff of smoke and placed his lips close to their ear. “The start of a really sexy cult.”

“Are you serious?” Eli howled like a wounded dog. “Leave it alone!” “Let me get this straight, I can snuff-fuck you, but I can’t eat your—” “Leave it!”

Finally, Kye snapped, “What?” “You’re hilarious.” “I hate you.” “Mean and hilarious.” “I am not,” they said, fake-aghast. They were very, very mean. They knew that. “When the hell was I mean to you? Besides spitting at you—that was dicey.”

They admitted to themself, miserably, that he was right. Kye had always equated being wanted with being worthy. They allowed themself to be wanted on the surface. Selfishly, for a purpose. If someone intended to use them, fine. But accepting praise, or unearned pleasure, or gentleness made them uneasy. How could someone possibly mean it? That was always the question. For as long as Kye could remember, they’d never believed in their own desirability.

They’d never been so attentive to a partner. Never felt the urge to make it good, to make it last. But they wanted Eli to fall apart. Wanted him to keep looking at them like that—reverently, like they were holy—while they pulled their lips along his dick. They kept their face pretty. Their eyes drooped, half- lidded and glassy, and they whimpered when he reached down and cupped the bottom of their chin, holding them steady.

Oh, you’re famous, baby. Yeah, like the plague.

“I can pay for my own shit.” “I know,” he said, like someone would say obviously. He toyed with their hand the same way a lover would. “I didn’t need a Satanic coupon, Eli.” He leaned toward them, grinning an inch from their mouth. “What crawled up your ass and turned you into Mother fuckin’ Theresa—” They palmed his face and shoved him away, muffling triumphant laughter.

Eli entered their mind abruptly. Come down for dinner. I’ll get dressed. You certainly don’t have to.

“You’ve been with men?” Eli had tapped his claw on their bottom lip. “I’m with one now.” Their heart had ached and soared. “Sort of. Almost.” “Sometimes,” he’d offered. “Sometimes,” they’d agreed.

They’d wondered about having a different body, different parts, different opportunities. But committing to one always felt wrong, somehow. Like a piece of them knew they would miss what they’d had.

“I could give you that,” Eli said, drowsy and half-hard against their thigh. “It’s rude to watch me dream.” “I could, though. I’d let you fuck me, too,” he mumbled.

Kye surged against him, but he held them at bay. “I’m not your property.” “Mi alma,” he seethed impatiently, speaking against their cheek. “You’re my temple.” My soul.