Edgar shut the door to his apartment with his foot and breathed a long sigh of relief. He tossed his keys onto his coffee table with a free hand, shifted the bag of groceries he was carrying, and shuffled quickly into the kitchen. He put down the bag with another sigh of relief, then rubbed at his upper arms. He felt as though he had been carrying said bag for ages, and his muscles did not appreciate the treatment.

Ah well, not important. He had food to last him for a while and now he could relax.

He put away the groceries methodically, followed a pattern he had established through many a solitary trip. The only thing that gave him pause was the can of Sketti-Os near the bottom of the paper bag. He picked it up and hesitated for that brief moment. Sketti-Os did not fit into the normal category...

I don't understand. Scriabin had been remarkably sulky lately, which was a definite change from hostile in a way that Edgar appreciated. He had been this way ever since Edgar had spoken with Johnny again after his visit to the church. I've told you, I've told you that he's dangerous, I've told you that he'll kill you. He'll offer you nothing, he'll give you nothing. He'll take from you, Edgar, that's all he'll do. Why do you keep talking to him? Why won't you let him go?

Scriabin sounded resentful, but not openly hostile, so Edgar decided to chance some sarcasm of his own. Oh, the horrors of it all. My bad decisions will be the doom of me. Well, maybe this is something you can never understand.

Don't give me that. I can't believe you went back to him. I can't believe you willingly put yourself right back into your abusive relationship. I've been trying so hard to get you away. I was so close to showing you, showing you the alternative, showing you how to escape. How do you thank me?

If I didn't know better, I'd say you were jealous.

Scriabin sputtered for a few seconds, then regained his composure. It's a good thing you know better then, isn't it?

Biting sarcasm there and Edgar decided to go on guard again. Scriabin had proved recently that he was capable of causing Edgar quite a bit of pain when antagonized, and Edgar tried to avoid that if possible.

You avoid everything.

That's what you want me to do, isn't it?

Scriabin made a frustrated noise, but apparently either didn't want to continue the conversation or couldn't think of a comeback.

Edgar put the can away and got himself a glass of water.

You don't need him, Scriabin muttered as Edgar walked back to his room. You don't need him. You can do so much better.

Coming from you, that means...oh, what was it? Oh yeah, nothing. Edgar smiled at himself. This was easier to do than he thought. You can't constantly belittle me then try to build me up whenever it suits you.

That's not what I'm trying to do. That's the problem.

He walked towards the action figure on his desk. Like I said once before, for someone who wants me to be more self-confident, you sure don't like it when I stand up to you.

God, you make this so difficult. Ugh. You don't understand, Edgar, you don't need Nny. You never did. You've never needed anyone. You can support yourself, that's what I told you before-

Ah, you're cutting out some parts of our previous conversation. Is it because they make you uncomfortable? A momentary thought at how similar he sounded to Scriabin, then it was pushed away. You said you'd support me.

Scriabin mumbled a soft curse. Fine. You don't need Nny, Edgar, you need me. There. I can be everything Nny can't.

You really do sound jealous. Edgar took a sip of his water.

Something brushed lightly across his back.

Edgar promptly dropped the class of water and turned with a noise that could be described as "hgAKWHA" and a great deal of useless arm flailing. Not the most appropriate response to being surprised, but instinctual reactions were regrettably out of his control.

As he suspected, Johnny stood behind him with his hands behind his back. Edgar rested a hand on his chest, took a deep breath, and wished he hadn't reacted in such an embarrassing way.

"Jesus, Nny, you scared me." Edgar took another deep breath, then knelt to pick up the glass. A dark blotch spread across his carpet now, but he didn't worry too much about it. It was just water, after all. "You should've told me you were here."

Yeah, what kind of rude serial killer are you? Scriabin snorted.

"I didn't think you'd be..." Johnny was trying to hide his smile and failing, "so jumpy."

He really does love scaring you. Oh, is this true love?

Shut up.

"Where were you? Were you hiding behind the door?" Edgar put the glass beside Scriabin on the table. Johnny shrugged.

"It's not really important right now."

"Oh?" Edgar sat down on his bed. "Did you want to talk about something?"

Johnny paused, then a smile slowly spread across his face.

"Not exactly."

"Oh..." Quick flash of memories, then Edgar felt heat rise to his face. He decided that the glass on his dresser abruptly needed his complete attention and turned away. "U-um..."

Another meaningless romp for the two of you. It won't solve anything. He sounded bitter. You know it won't.

Scriabin did have a point...although the two of them had found a way to have sex in almost every mundane situation, or so it seemed to Edgar, nothing had changed. The rush that he remembered from their first experience seemed equal parts sexual relief and fervent hope that this was what had been missing. The mystical bonding powers of sex had been romanticized by all forms of the media and to some extent, that belief still lingered. Edgar thought that it was hope that pinned him beneath Johnny at times, that made him cry out his name. A hope that through this kind of connection, maybe things would be easier. Maybe understanding would come quicker.

Not so. It was a quick solution for sexual tension, an enjoyable activity by all rights once one got the hang of it, but it didn't fill the gaps between the two of them. Edgar was still afraid, Johnny still hated himself, and it seemed that no matter how many times Johnny could surprise Edgar in the shower, in the kitchen, in the hallway, that hadn't changed.

They still both hoped for some kind of resolution...that perhaps they could build familiarity, that each coupling might bring desired, understandable depth. At least, that's what Edgar thought when he was reading or working or doing something else suitably mundane. At night, alone, the reasons simplified rather quickly, crystallized into what Scriabin called the truth, although he didn't like to think about that.

Scriabin kept it no secret he hated this. Or hated Johnny. One or the other. The two tended to coincide.

The real emotional honesty that maybe made this as addictive as it was, because it was surely not the physical sensation Edgar assured himself, came after their last gasping cries. Johnny would become incapacitated with regret and fear in varying amounts and before the two of them would fall asleep, Edgar would comfort him as best he knew how. He wasn't particularly good at it, both of them knew that, but it was a moment when barriers were simply too much work to erect. It was a moment of honesty. Pure self-loathing and pure concern before sleep and then everything became complicated again.

Edgar liked to think that was why he submitted to this every time.

You're just a slut, tended to be Scriabin's response, which Edgar studiously ignored.

"I was thinking..." Johnny took a step towards the bed, his hands still behind his back. "You remember the first time we...?"

When they woke up, it was like it never happened. A perpetual elephant in the room that neither really knew how to handle. It was easier to pretend it hadn't happened, although that had no bearing when it would happen again...and again.

First time that Johnny had broached the topic. Edgar tried once, but at Johnny's stare he didn't do it again.

Edgar nodded. He didn't trust his voice at the moment.

"I'd like to think happiness doesn't lie in this." Johnny sighed. "I think that, as real people, we've crossed those boundaries, don't you?"

Sentence vaguely fell apart near the end, but Edgar knew what he was saying. "I think I understand..."

"This...isn't the key to happiness. I'm better than this. You're better than this."

He always did this. Sometimes it wasn't this eloquent. Sometimes it was just harsh whispers into Edgar's ear when he was pushed against a wall and felt those claws run beneath his shirt.

Edgar always wondered if maybe it was an excuse, a justification for Johnny to continue having sex without costing him his internal philosophy. He didn't know for sure.

He was insane, after all...

"Our real connection is deeper, isn't it?" Another step towards the bed. "Real perfection, the perfection I'm searching for, far transcends this, mere physical contact. If anything, this is proof that the body is meaningless, a tool for higher ends."

Edgar nodded again, not sure of what else to say.

You both make me sick, Scriabin spat in his mind. You're both so far in denial. You know what, Nny? You can't hear me, but you know why you keep doing this? There's no philosophy at the heart of it, it's not any symbolic bull$^#$. You keep doing this because you like #$^#ing him, that's why.

Scriabin!

And you, the only reason you do this is because you like being #$^#ed. You're both pathetic.

Edgar did not appreciate Scriabin's attack, and remembered what he said earlier that gave him pause. What, do you think you could do better?

I know I could do better. A quick response that, from the noise that followed, Scriabin didn't intend. But too late now, he had to run with it. You don't need him, I told you. I can be everything he can't...

I-I didn't mean that, I meant-

You don't have to settle for him. You never did. I know exactly what you want. I can make you scream, you know I can.

S-stop it, stop talking like that. You're creeping me out.

You don't need him, Edgar, you need me. I can show you, I can show you what it would be like...

"This doesn't mean anything. It's a connection, one of many, no more important than the connection of words." Johnny stood beside him now and stared down at him. "Less important, actually, considering the body is merely a vessel for the mind. An imperfect one-"

"What are you getting at...exactly...?" Edgar hoped that speaking out loud would quiet Scriabin down. He felt extremely uncomfortable at the possibility Scriabin had presented in ways he wasn't entirely sure he understood.

"I know that...you don't feel the same way I do precisely about how useless the body is." Johnny sounded a bit awkward now. Edgar again wondered if this was merely some elaborate justification, though he'd never say as such out loud. "Choosing to enjoy the ruined machinery one is provided with...there's no harm in that, I don't think. As long as control is maintained, and it is a conscious logical decision that governs the physical process, a deeper kind of motivation beneath it all. I know things must be different for you..."

Shut up, just shut up. Again sounded deeply bitter. Just #$%^ him already, get it over with.

Stop it.

You know, I wouldn't do this, necessarily. I wouldn't have to justify it to myself, I wouldn't have to explain why I'd touch you...

Stop it, seriously.

I can make you need me, need me more-

"I would...like to make this as enjoyable for you as possible. Your happiness does matter to me."

You hypocrite, you god#$^# hypocrite-!

Stop it!

"And sometimes one can find trust in strange ways."

"Nny, what do you want?"

"Do you recall...what you said back then?" Johnny stared at him. "I've kept it in mind."

"U-um..." Edgar scratched at his face for a few seconds and felt the heat from his blush under his fingers. "I...may have said a few things, but I don't recall anything...offhand."

"The opportunity's presented itself in various ways to me, and I've taken advantage of it when I could. For your benefit, of course." Quick afterthought. "A new situation has given me an opportunity to truly explore this. A new level."

Johnny leaned in closer to him, and Edgar's mouth felt dry.

"W-what did I say...?"

Johnny stared at him hard, matched his eyes in a way that made Edgar tremble. That same predatory look...

Johnny moved his hands from behind his back, and Edgar saw light glint off of metal.

Handcuffs.

"Control me..." Johnny whispered.

The sight of the handcuffs caused a physical reaction through his lower body, a deep shudder and sharp twinge of definite sexual response that was so painful and strong that he cringed a little. His lips parted and he stared at Johnny, unable to think of words.

Of course, the fact that he didn't think of words didn't mean that he was silent. Without his knowledge and definitely without his consent, he made a soft kind of whimpering noise.

At the sound Edgar cursed himself and Johnny's smile got wider. Precisely the reaction that he had expected, and this wasn't unusual, exactly. It was a fact they were both well aware of, that the concept of control was something that deeply fascinated Edgar in ways he wasn't comfortable with. Each time Edgar submitted and the same kind of thrill remained, no matter how much he tried to subdue it. He didn't like talking about it and he didn't like to admit it, and perhaps that tinge of shame that came with the strong sexual reaction had more of a part in it than he knew.

Through that small noise consent had been given on Edgar's part. It was always this way...only a few words, soft noises that were encouraging. And then, the temporary resistance...

After all, one has to be sure one can't escape to be really controlled.

The extent to which Edgar pretended to fight varied on the situation. Sometimes it was just a momentary struggle against a viselike grip, the arching of his back to try and get away or maybe get closer. Weakly pressed a hand against his thin chest, words barely given voice that often ran along the lines of "I shouldn't."

This momentary resistance was understood, and Johnny paid no heed. Perhaps that was part of the attraction for him, to so easily thwart an imagined foe. To see the effect of his tightened grip, the fingers tangled in his hair, the occasional jerk and digging of claws into skin.

It was a dangerous game, one that could easily be abused. Then again, their relationship was hardly built on safe ground as it was...

A soft hum deep in Johnny's throat and he leaned forward. Edgar slowly crawled backwards on his bed. Just as they both knew he would, Johnny followed. The appearance of an escape attempt.

"I..."

You like this... Scriabin's voice came to him suddenly, broke through his thoughts. A strange kind of purr. You love this.

The fact that Scriabin was saying it was enough to make Edgar want to say that wasn't true, but he could feel blood throbbing and it was hard to think.

Stop it...

Johnny ran a hand across the side of Edgar's shirt, slowly trailed up to his neck. Edgar shivered at his touch, tried to keep quiet.

Gaaahgh this flash vid is killing my brain. MUST WRITE.

He hasn't even really done anything to you yet, and already you're completely at his mercy. Something flitted in the back of his mind, a dark shadowy kind of thing that Edgar couldn't identify. It came and went too fast. Johnny's fingers moved up across his cheek, glanced over the scars beneath his eyes.

He very slowly pulled Edgar's glasses off, folded them neatly shut, and set them to one side.

I can do so much better... That same strange tone as before. You have no idea.

Stop it.

You wouldn't want me to.

When Johnny's lips touched his own, something jolted through his mind. It was sudden, quick, powerful, and he was not prepared. It took a few moments before he realized it was the same kind of painful twinge of arousal that he had experienced before, the clenching of muscles so strongly it ached.

Johnny paused at the gasp Edgar let out, but it was only for a second. Johnny's hands took firm hold of his face, made it clear again that he wasn't going anywhere. The slight rush that came with that knowledge, but that wasn't the same thing...

You know what that was? That was me.

No it wasn't. Oh God, it couldn't be.

His head pushed back against the backboard and he felt Johnny's breath hissing across his face. No matter how often they had kissed like this, no matter how much effort and research (Scriabin mocked him thoroughly for that) he put into it, he still felt inadequate. Unskilled...amateurish. Wondered if maybe there was more to it than what he did, meeting Johnny's tongue's actions.

His eyes were closed, as he thought they should be, and he saw nothing at the time. He wasn't thinking of anything in particular.

Then a very quick flash, a mental image of Scriabin in front of him, the metal clasp of the leash he remembered softly swaying in his grip.

Control, always control, but that image had a deeper source, something deep that Edgar was sure Scriabin implanted somehow, but he still recognized. The recognition caused a rush of blood to all of his extremities, a strong tingling that was accompanied by a soft moan.

Stop it, stop it right now...

Mental images flickering fast and flickering powerfully. Being hauled to his feet by the collar around his neck, being pushed hard down on a bed, and the metal and chains he remembered...

He opened his eyes and saw Johnny staring at him. Edgar was shivering uncontrollably, trying hard to mask his reaction. Johnny watched him for a few seconds, then ran his hand down along Edgar's arm.

Even with his eyes open, he was still visualizing something in his mind. A hand moving the exact same speed, following the curve of his back. Another shudder with a soft gasp.

Stop I...I'm...

I'm just getting started.

I...I can't...

Johnny took hold of his wrists and lifted. Edgar was in no position to resist. When Johnny had his hands pinned above his head, he leaned in close to Edgar, close enough so that he could feel him breathing.

Again that fear as the same predatory gaze came back, the rush of adrenaline that was so sweet and at the moment, only adding onto his emotional workload.

Johnny smiled at him in that strange crooked way.

"You're mine."

Those words always had an effect on Edgar, even when whispered casually in conversation. Edgar shut his eyes, trembled against his grip, and he felt his eyes sting.

In much the same tone, Scriabin's voice came to him.

You're ours.

At his sudden and deep gasp, Johnny's smile widened.

Nnn...

You know you are.

S...stop I...I can't... He gave a soft whimper. This is too much...

We're just getting started.

I can't do this, I c-can't...

Edgar managed to maintain eye contact, although at the moment he found there was a strong desire to just pull away from all this stimulation. However, as Johnny let one wrist go and began working his hand slowly beneath the edge of his shirt, Edgar also found that, along with the physical desire for more, there was a kind of strange curiosity.

Always just enough, always brought very close to his edge, to his limit, but never quite all the way. In a way he preferred it like that...it meant that there was always some depth, some reservoir of strength or reaction that he had never tapped. It was something that he felt in control over, that even if he had been brought to a shockingly powerful climax at some points, that it was still not quite everything he could experience. He still had some control over it, even just that small piece of himself that wasn't satisfied and he assumed, would never be satisfied. It was his island of control in a situation and relationship where he had almost none, and he held onto it with the tenacity of a drowning man without even realizing it.

And with the thought he could spare, he realized it wasn't curiosity but fear.

He felt the first fingernail brush against the tip of his nipple, and with the feeling he could see Scriabin leering at him, that same irritating hateful smirk on his face, with the leather strap of the leash caught between his teeth.

I can do what he can't. Scriabin held Edgar's chin with one hand, forced him to meet his eyes. Edgar felt himself lean forward in reality in an effort to break away from fantasy. Again, his response encouraged both parties unintentionally, and Johnny moved in closer, let Edgar's arms go completely. What he won't. I can bring you to the edge and, if you ask me nicely enough, maybe I'll even let you come back...

Darn it, I'm actually writing porn and I have to go take a break to go eat. WHAT CRUELTY IS THIS. Okay, omelette time.

He could feel the touches down his neck, the shudders and involuntary muscle twitches that tried to bring him closer, signaled to some unknown audience that it wanted more, it wanted more now. He closed his eyes, forgot for a moment in favor of the feel of lips against his skin, and again his mental picture was overrun, overpowered by Scriabin pressing something against his windpipe, something that brushed against him just a tad too roughly. He felt his fingers at the back of his neck, working something, a tightening, and as Johnny found that same place that always prompted a breathy gasp, Scriabin attached the lead to Edgar's mental collar.

A mental tug and Edgar let his head fall forward and his chin rested on Johnny's shoulder. He felt the initial slight jump at the contact, at the rough scratchy feel of his chin, and then Johnny settled. Edgar felt his bones shift as Johnny raised his arms and his hands again found their familiar place around Edgar's wrists.

Too much too fast, and Edgar was no longer in the mood for temporary resistance, for prolonging the experience. He left his arms fairly limp and did not move, even when Johnny pressed his wrists against another, and he felt the cold shock of metal wrap around them, the sound of the metal links against wood as it looped around one of the bedposts.

There. Johnny's hands trailed down his arms, now trapped above his head. His fingers moved slowly, his nails brushing just lightly enough and Edgar shivered and knew that Johnny could feel it, could feel every motion.

And in his mind, Scriabin tugged at his collar and pulled him forward, and Edgar found his hands behind him, tied together with the same leather straps that had once imprisoned him. He remembered the white space and the same feeling of helplessness, and he stared up at Scriabin.

Please, please, this is...

Scriabin heard his mental pleas and his smile widened. Leaned in close, pulled the leash tight and Edgar could feel his hand moving along his body, and

Oh, you have no say in this anymore. That wicked purr, and Edgar shuddered again.

I'm, I can't...

Just a certain laugh, and then in reality, Johnny pressed his lips against Edgar's with a sudden force that completely surprised him. Shocked out of his mental world, Edgar snapped back into focus with a muffled sound of surprise. Without thought, he opened his mouth as he had many times before, found that even with the amount of true physical stimulation going on at the moment, Johnny's mental competitor was able to blend, to mix. It felt similar and different, and Edgar wasn't sure if Scriabin was just usurping the kiss entirely, or if Johnny and Scriabin were sharing the experience in one way or another.

Both worlds he couldn't move, both realities found him helpless to his dominator, and Edgar made a soft sound under his breath. Johnny pulled away from him slowly, although the kiss in his mind lasted longer, and then he felt a sharp prick of pain, an involuntary jerk as he imagined Scriabin's teeth biting through his skin, just as...

His mental world jerked by false pain, and Edgar let his chin rest on his chest, trying to focus on one reality or the other, but not both. The fact that Johnny's hands were still moving, pulling and undoing clothes, exploring in a way that Edgar had become increasingly familiar with and fond of, made this difficult, because for every touch of those skeletal fingers, he felt matching shadows in his mind across his back, his upper thighs and shoulders, the brief warmth and moisture and he was licking him, he was actually licking him and, and

"Aaah, God..."

"Hmmmm." A kind of contented sound, and while one of Johnny's hands continued its torturously slow progress down the inside of Edgar's thigh, the other reached up to briefly touch his neck. Now familiar, having found it again, he brushed his nails across the one area that Edgar felt such an affinity for. Matching him, Scriabin's hand caressed his neck from behind, fingers moving and shifting under and around the collar that almost blocked that one spot from access, but not quite. His other hand snaked down low, running along his back, his hip, then directly downward.

Did Scriabin plan it, time it so that they would both touch at the same time? The sensation of being touched when so desperately desired on both competing planes at once, the oneness and sheer separateness of the experience, was overwhelming. He leaned his head back and let out a cry much louder than he intended and, judging by the look on Johnny's face, more pained than he honestly felt.

A moment of confusion, a short gap and he took that opportunity without thought. "Anh, please..."

Johnny stared at him, his hand hovering above his skin and he could feel his heart beating, the heat that came in waves that didn't quite coincide. Edgar lowered his head, the heat present and burning and his eyes stung again.

"Please..."

Who are you asking? The clink of chains and whisper beside his ear, soft and dreamlike, taken from the deepest dreams that Edgar dared not admit to having, not to anyone, although that far from prevented Scriabin access to them when he desired it.

A soft whimper, and he knew the answer.

"What...?" A soft question close to his ear where Scriabin's had come so shortly before, and Edgar closed his eyes, turned his face away.

Yes, what do you want? Scriabin's hand on his cheek, turning him to face him. He fought against him for only a few moments before he was able to turn and stare at those glasses, and his eyes still burned.

"Don't..." Edgar shuddered completely, and the motion was enough to remind him of what he wanted. The brief touch, the lingering vibration against where his and Johnny's bodies were in contact, and the thought, the thought of what he wanted and he was sure, he was sure now that he wanted it more than anything, and that just made his face flush more strongly. That small part of him that tried to assure him, to justify just as he had thought Johnny to have done earlier, justifying that there was no guarantee that Edgar would lose complete control, that this would be what he feared, that he'd lose the only bastion of strength, of independence, of control he had over this whole situation, the whole relationship...

Control me, control me, and God, God now more than ever, that was what he wanted, he wanted to be controlled, he wanted to just let it go, let everything go, but that part of him warned him of the consequences, but...

The physical demands of his body were unfamiliar and he had yet to build up the defenses against them. He was unable to look Johnny in the eye, and his voice shook when he spoke.

"Don't...don't stop..."

That's what I wanted to hear. The touch of teeth against his cheek, light moisture from a very quick kiss, and Scriabin's hand moved quickly and forcefully. That's what I want to hear.

"Ah..."

Johnny smiled at Edgar's words, and his fears allayed, he let his fingers close.

Scriabin's mental contact was painful, shockingly so in a way that sent prickles through his entire abdomen. He wanted to raise his hands, to do something, to stop that squeezing pressure that was just a little too hard, a little too rough and he wasn't sure if he liked it. His arms in both worlds remained tied though, and Johnny noticed the clinking of the links on the handcuffs with a smile. A reminder of what he had done...what he said he'd done for him.

For him...

All he wanted now was release, for this throbbing to stop, for the frantic and all-consuming urge to touch, to move, to find something to stimulate, to make it stop. To satisfy it. He wasn't used to having this denied to him, he wasn't used to having satisfaction dangled in front of him like this...

To having it be so far out of his control...

The two of them moved differently, went about it differently and it was hard to match one to the other. The physical sensation and the mental realization kept trying to mesh but the difference made it hard to organize in such a way. His mind fervently traveled from one focus to the other, unable to handle both at once, trying to drown out one for the other without success. Scriabin alternated in a way that Edgar found particularly sadistic, first mimicking Edgar's usual method, softer and with a more delicate touch, and he automatically found himself drawn to it simply as a matter of familiarity. Whenever Edgar allowed himself to dwell more in the mental version of what was happening though, Scriabin would either move his attention to some other area of Edgar's body just to frustrate him, or tighten his grip in a way that never failed to prompt a short pained and surprised gasp, and that sound never failed in return to make Scriabin laugh knowingly.

And when frustrated, he'd return to Johnny, who touched in a way that was unfamiliar and intriguing but still too slow. He wanted it over, he wanted it the way that he knew it would work, fast and hot and blinding and then he wouldn't have to think about it anymore, about what was happening to him. It would be over and then he wouldn't have to deal with this horrible need, this burning desire in him that overruled any other that he could have had, everything in him that focused and circled around the need for contact that neither of the people he was trapped by would allow.

The fact that this need was so powerful, that he had never been aware of just how much this kind of need could take him, could hijack every logical thought and point it to the same conclusion, was something he was not prepared for. He was not prepared for this. He expected quick release, not this kind of teasing. He wasn't used to this, he didn't know to react, and he found that how his body instinctually tried to ease that need embarrassing. That tinge of shame when he noticed the muscles in his thighs flexing, that he was pushing and thrusting, however minute the movement truly was, into Johnny's curled fingers. He wanted it to stop but he realized quickly that that was a lie. He wanted it to be more effective.

For a moment he felt that building tingling rush that went through his whole body, even his mouth and left that strange taste that he was never able to apply real words to, and he felt that if only he had a few more minutes, a few more strokes then that would be it, that would be it and he would finally have what he desired. Edgar felt the rush travel up and down his pinned arms, through his cooling hands and back down across his chest, pricking up his nipples and he wished he hadn't been paying attention to that, in retrospect.

A strong squeeze from the mental world and Edgar did gave a real cry of pain, short and abrupt. A moment of silence from all participants. He felt Scriabin's smug satisfaction in his mind, and when he opened his eyes he saw Johnny staring at him in confusion and what he hoped was some concern.

I'm in control of your mind. That soft whisper and Scriabin moved from behind Edgar to in front of him, settled across his lap and stared at him. And when I want you to come, you will. Not any time sooner.

No words this time, but the look on Edgar's mental face he was sure conveyed how he felt about this plan, and that wordless plea for this to end only prompted him further.

I can do things for you no one else will. Scriabin placed both hands on Edgar's chest, and in reality Edgar felt Johnny's hands match. I can twist and break you and you'll love every minute of it. I can do things that no one else can. You don't need anyone when you have me, I assure you.

Scriabin smiled, let his head drift lower.

"Edgar...?"

Desperate, Edgar returned to reality and smiled at Johnny weakly. "I'm okay, I-I am, I just...I just don't..." He still couldn't keep eye contact and he looked away. "I just...don't stop, I'm..."

Johnny stared at him a few moments, watched his expression. Edgar moved an arm instinctually and felt the metal bite into the bones of his wrist, and he felt another rush of heat to his face. A soft noise cut very short, and Johnny watched. He moved forward and kissed Edgar again, deliberately and slowly. This was unlike the others so far, one that Edgar felt involved him participating rather than just being the recipient, and he decided that regardless of his addled mind, he would try his best with this. Slow motions were easy to copy and easier to interpret than the forceful ones from before, and Edgar for once felt that maybe he was doing this right.

That light touch again, Johnny's hand settling around him and he felt his muscles twitch again, desire friction. Some logical part of him pointed out that the reason that Johnny may have been proceeding with this so slowly may have been that his skin was still rather dry. In the past there had been one particularly unpleasant tryst that Edgar thought would be fun and spontaneous, but as it turned out, there were certain materials required to make sex more fun than painful. He also found that he was not fond of chafing through the experience and had resolved to be more careful.

So much for that.

Johnny must have remembered, and that must have been why he went so slowly. To prevent damage, but it was still agonizing. He was sure that with just a little more pressure, a harder or swifter touch, that would be it. The knowledge that he was so close to it, so close to something that seemed more and more completely and utterly fantastic the more it was denied to him, kept him moving, trying to push into his hand harder.

But the scenario still was not under Edgar's control. Although Edgar was fairly sure he did not make his desire for more unknown, Johnny continued at the same pace. He even placed one hand on his chest to push him back when he shifted far enough that the handcuffs were digging into his skin a little too harshly.

I can do things for you... That soft voice and Edgar found he was afraid of what Scriabin was planning to do. He knew he was planning something. Edgar shut his eyes, turned his face to the sky and hoped that whatever it was would not be too painful, too teasing. Not now.

Please... Completely honest now, begging that this entire thing be over, that he could feel as though his thoughts were under control again. He didn't like feeling this needy, and knowing that his thoughts, his feelings could be hijacked so easily. So much for his hopes of control. Please, just...just...

Just what? He could feel his fingers curl around him, this time without the pressure that he had feared. A soft touch and after the mental abuse, this was a welcome respite. Then he felt him breathe softly, the air moving across swollen and heated skin and Edgar felt a deep shivering pang of what he could best identify as fear. All of his muscles clenched at once, a momentary attempt perhaps to get away, he wasn't sure. God, what was he planning to do, and why wouldn't he do it faster-

Just... Johnny's hand in reality stopped for a moment, and even that short pause was enough to remind Edgar of how intensely and insanely frustrating this was. Submitting control before had never involved something like this, this long. God, why hadn't he told Johnny to get the lube from the bathroom first, why hadn't he planned this, after everything how could he have let himself get into this position he had always managed to fix it before or at least avoid this kind of constant aching frustration-

Just what? More soft breathing, and without Johnny's hand moving the mental sensation had added emphasis that Edgar wasn't comfortable with. He shuddered again. This was a mental world, the same malleable fabric that Scriabin had often exploited before, therefore asking here, asking now, maybe Scriabin could prepare, shift the reality. If it happened mentally it'd be far safer, cleaner, and hopefully less painful than in real life, and if anything could resolve this burning knot in his stomach then God he was going to do it.

Please... Edgar couldn't look down, couldn't see what Scriabin was planning, couldn't bear to have his stomach drop out on him that sharply, that abruptly. The thought made his heart beat too fast, and the sight of it would be far too much in what seemed like the wrong direction, and to be straightforward seemed like the best solution. God, please, please just....j-just take me, just...

"Take me?" That ever-present mental smirk. Oh you have such a flair for the virginal victim, for the perfect submissive. Ever so proper. The appropriate phrase you're looking for, he ran a finger along the seam that traced from base to tip, and Edgar made a shaky sound, ...is #$^# me.

A-aah... Edgar was pretty sure it found a voice in both worlds. Another indulgent smile from Johnny, and that confirmed it. Scriabin softly breathed again, causing every hair on Edgar's body that he could think of to raise on end, if possible.

And remember...you asked me first.

T-this i-isn't a c-con, conte-

Johnny hand returned to motion, and the physical sensation caused Edgar to jerk his head back. It felt like it had been ages, and at the feeling he was reminded of that need more strongly than before.

Then he felt it, felt it in his mind, the brief touch of a tongue to the area where head and shaft met, and Edgar completely froze.

Every logical thought in his mind completely shut down, every potential objection or even the most rudimentary formations of words completely came undone. It was shock at first, complete shock that paralyzed him so. And why not, it was the last thing that he expected, the last thing that he had ever really expected someone to do for him, considering that Johnny seemed too cleanly for it and Edgar found it somehow worse, despite all logic, than any kind of penetrative sex, and Scriabin's strong and intense sense of pride and self-importance had convinced him that Edgar never would have been the one to receive such attention from him. Perhaps forced in one way or another to give it to Scriabin in a nightmare, but no, never to receive.

Shock blurred out all logical thought, everything. The first thing to reboot was the physical need, the drive, and the base physical realization that that felt good, that the momentary heat and pressure and moisture felt good in a way he had never expected, not like this.

Carefully matched, moving and pressing his tongue with the motions of Johnny's fingers in real life, to give it that edge of surreal separation, of physical reality yet separate thoughts, and the sensation of it was enough to erase everything from his mind and all he could do at that point was cry out, repeatedly and at increasing volume, as that burning sensation began to build and he was shaking, he was shaking so fitfully and his muscles fired frantically, desperate to do something more and he strained against his bonds in reality and his mental world, pulled hard enough to feel the stab of pain because more than anything he wanted to tangle his fingers in Scriabin's hair, take hold of Johnny's hand, and finally finish this, finish this because that was it, this felt too good and he was so close, he was so so close he had to do something.

He arched his back, found his mouth open and his breath coming in deep and desperate gasps, tinged with strained sounds from his vocal cords that spoke more of what he wanted than words. He pulled at the metal around his wrists, felt his skin tear and he could feel the heat of blood beginning to pool, the loss of circulation as leather cut deep and sharp.

Johnny saw this, and finally perhaps he understood, or saw how desperate he really was. His movement sped, fast and hard and it hurt in a way that Edgar had sincerely hoped not to feel again, but at the moment he was willing to undergo anything just to fulfill what his body wanted, what his entire being was screaming for.

He wanted it, he wanted it more than anything.

Edgar strained against the leather around his wrists, against the collar pressing hard against his neck, as he felt heat and moisture slide completely over and around and that was enough.

A sharp burst, something that had been building for so long and it came over him intensely and strongly. Every nerve in his body came alive, his entire frame tingling and shuddering. The sharp tang in his mouth overwhelmed him, the comforting and addictive feeling of warmth, of warmth that radiated so strongly, so suddenly, and the feeling that he had never found real words for, but he would never get tired of.

He let out a long strangled cry of relief more than anything else, his eyes shut tight. He felt something within him, deep satisfaction and a sense of completion, the final resolution to the screaming demands of his body for so long.

When he opened his eyes, he found his vision blurred and speckled with red dots, which faded as he blinked at Johnny. Johnny stared at him, having moved to one side just when he must have seen Edgar's climax approaching. After all, as he had said, he was not fond of body fluids, no matter how fond he was of Edgar, and perhaps if they were involved in a more cooperative activity, Johnny would have felt involved enough to forget his dislike for a moment. Not so now. He had moved and Edgar thought with a strange kind of haziness that he was going to have to clean his sheets.

Edgar looked at Johnny, his eyes half-lidded and his mouth slightly open, trying to commit what he had felt to memory. That was unlike anything he had ever experienced, anything like it. Never with-, and from two sources at once, never like that, never...never like that.

He chanced a thought back to his mental world, to find himself. Scriabin as well, had moved away when he felt it coming, and Edgar thought that it would have been far too much to ask of him to...it was hard for him to even think of it. Again, the mechanics in the area that the delusion spent his time in, hollowed out, worked under such different rules, and Edgar wasn't sure if he had left any stain at all anywhere. Maybe it wasn't even an issue. The feeling remained and thankfully lingered, the small remnants of it still shivering through his body.

Edgar panted without shame, breathed hard and shaky and deep, and he looked up at Scriabin, who had the leash wrapped around his knuckles again.

Now tell me... Scriabin sounded slightly breathless himself. Tell me that he could do that for you.

Edgar stared at him and then he didn't want to look anymore, didn't want to think. He turned away and felt his face burning, the logical realization of what had happened and what he had asked for, and, and, wasn't he better than that, wasn't he more in control than that...

Oh, don't you remember? Scriabin shed his trench coat with smooth motions, and he straddled Edgar's hips slowly. You asked me to do something to you...

Edgar took a deep breath, struggled to find words. N-no, I'm...I already-

Oh, so selfish. His hands traced up his chest, lingered around his nipples for a few seconds. Scriabin smirked at him. You know, this isn't a one-player game...and I'm hardly one to leave unsatisfied.

I, I can't. Edgar already knew this was useless, and that sinking sensation was back. After his climax, the continued stimulation to sensitive areas became more painful than pleasurable, a sign that his body wanted some time to rest, a time to repair and come back to equilibrium. I can't, not...I already-

Oh, but we already did you, Scriabin said with a mocking pout. Time to focus on someone else now, and I think I'm not the only one who feels that way.

During his mental conversation, Johnny had gotten up, presumably assuming that Edgar was in a euphoric and vaguely incoherent state and wouldn't mind.

The pressure against his neck and Scriabin's mouth against his own, and with his physical eyes Edgar saw Johnny return with the tube he had wanted before.

Saying no to Scriabin was easier...

"Ah, I..." Words came out clunky and slurred, and Johnny glanced at him momentarily. Watched Edgar breathe in deep, struggling to control his breathing, and he undressed slowly.

"I'm..."

Scriabin's body grinding against his own in a way that made his body scream for less stimulation, for a way to retreat from the frazzled nerve endings that made this an experience definitely leaning more towards pain than pleasure.

Ah, i-it hurts-, please, just let me rest for a while-

It's so cute how you think you have a choice. Scriabin pinched his cheek. Remember, you're the one who gave yourself to me. You asked me. How could I refuse?

Scriabin, please-

It doesn't just apply when you want it to. Right to that place close to his jaw, and the nerves there had been less strenuously worked, more willing to provide shivering pleasure rather than ache. Otherwise you're not really giving away control, are you?

J-just a few minutes, please...

A cool and wet feeling across his skin in reality that reminded him of when he had put Aloe Vera on his sunburns as a child in a way that he never found appropriate yet never could dispel. Staring at Johnny with his eyes still half-closed, too physically drained to put up any kind of resistance, to even speak clearly. His mind was marginally more sharp, though for all the good it did him in this case.

"I..."

Johnny sighed, tenderly touched his face where Scriabin had pinched him, and Edgar found himself wishing that he wasn't so spent, that this would be as pleasurable as Johnny probably thought it would be for the both of them.

Johnny didn't intend to, but Scriabin had full knowledge, and...

Either one at this point couldn't be stopped, not in his current position.

A slick hand across his lower stomach and his muscles twitched instinctually, triggering a kind of uncomfortable reaction. Not pain, but still, a wordless message that they had had enough, that was enough for now, maybe later but not now.

Johnny pushed on Edgar's shoulders, forced him to sit up straighter, reduce the amount of strain on his arms. Edgar followed his directions in a daze, his mind moving as if in some kind of thick mist. Perhaps an attempt to desensitize, to block so much sensation, to reduce the amount of nerves and muscles at work as much as possible.

He sat up, his knees on either side of Johnny, watched as he gestured for him to lift himself and at his lack of response, reached out to lift him up himself.

Edgar helped when he realized what Johnny was doing, felt the initial pressure against him and the instinctual clenching of muscles in response, and that voice that still screamed at him that doing this this soon, so fast, was not a good idea, was not a good idea.

But instead he waited as Johnny shifted position, pressed his knees against the backboard where Edgar's hands were trapped. Edgar's legs in return pressed against his sides, and Johnny still held him up although Edgar at this point was motivated enough to help.

A slow progression, careful balance and a slide that was jerky with long pauses, but not too painful. His body still didn't want it exactly, not yet, but that didn't have much of an effect. Adapt. That's what he could do, as the situation required.

He settled finally, process complete, Edgar with his hands still trapped above his head and the two of them sitting fairly upright, legs intertwined.

And mentally, Scriabin pulled at the leash hard, whipping Edgar up to his feet and his hands came almost free, for those few precious seconds before straps re-materialized, found their place in a way that he wished he wasn't familiar with, locking his arms across each other.

A push from behind, a bounce against a mattress and he felt Scriabin above him, on top of him. His hands dug into Edgar's hips painfully, positioned him despite his body's desire to merely lie flat. No fun in that.

Beyond protesting now, and he found that the memory of what he had felt, how intensely satisfying it was, the memory of it was enough to let him accept it, to let him accept it for now. After all, it was kind of unfair, for him to experience it and them to be so deprived, and really, for him, the pain was fading, equilibrium returning, and it wasn't like it was all bad, really...

In place behind him, the dream landscape preventing pain without actual mess or effort, and Scriabin thrust into him quickly and almost without warning.

Edgar could not prevent a gasp at the feeling, which coincided with Johnny's first slow rocking movement against him, in him. Shifting slightly, and Edgar wondered dimly if they both felt that same intense need to be satisfied, to stop that desire, just as he had earlier. Johnny's eyes were closed, his hands digging into Edgar's shoulders, and he seemed so intent. That must have been it.

Johnny moved with a bit more force and Edgar shifted back slightly. Scriabin pushed into him hard enough to force his head against his crossed arms, his back to arch and the bed to recoil at the sudden pressure.

Similar activities and such different ways of going about it. The same argument arose for a while, of which side to focus on. Edgar was aware on some level that his emotions and logical thought had waged some kind of battle and his emotions had won. The desire, the physical sensation had triumphed. In a way, Edgar did what he had often done when faced with an uncomfortable situation; withdraw. This time, rather than withdraw from his emotions, he did just the opposite. Total abandon, as exhausted as he was. It was the best solution, it seemed the best at the time, so that's what he decided to do, to go with. Thought came weak and fuzzy, and the only thing that Edgar could think of was the dual feelings, the motion, trying to match one with the other, and trying to find the balance where he could experience both as best as possible.

It was a tricky place to find, considering the vicious enthusiasm with which Scriabin veritably pounded Edgar into the mattress, and the very soft, almost hesitant motions from Johnny, which increased in speed and power in a way that Edgar found surprisingly subtle. To differentiate between the two and yet keep them both in mind would have taken a lot of thought, but that wasn't what Edgar was using at that point. He had lapsed into a pleasurable kind of haze that prevented the thoughts of real separation at all, but kept the two sensations unique in their own way. His mental voice became strained and sharp, the reaction that Scriabin wanted and encouraged. With each cry as Scriabin pushed him down, pushed further into him, he could hear that kind of pleased grunt, a vague sense of satisfaction.

And as for Johnny...

Johnny seemed fairly focused on what he was doing, yet he moved slowly enough to convince Edgar that this wasn't entirely a one-person activity. Whenever Edgar could find the sense of mind to move with him, match the rocking motion, he heard the soft appreciative sound deep in his throat.

Keeping mental sounds internal was a challenge in itself, even in his fairly non-lucid state, and therefore the process was much slower than perhaps it may have been, if Edgar had not been distracted from both ends.

Pushed hard and he felt the fabric scrape across his elbows, his head forced down against his arms again and the obligatory gasp that came with it. A response to a soft push, and Johnny made another soft sound.

Throughout it all, what he was doing, what he was participating in, what he was allowing to be done and working for the same goal, to allow himself to do this without any of the guilt that normally followed him, could not break through his pleasant haze. A sense of general euphoria and good will after his own rather powerful climax, and the sense that he should do something in return, to enjoy what was done. A variant on the concept of not thinking about it, of pushing it away and burying it deep. Not a defense mechanism is he was unfamiliar with in the face of something emotionally or physically intense, but merely one he had never engaged in, not in this way or this form.

And this haze was pleasant in a way that he wasn't thinking about. To allow the sensation to come through without thought complicating, to allow the emotion and desire to come over him for now, until he had accomplished what he desired. A logical approach to the situation would have only caused him mental anguish, endless questions and torment and the inability to do what he intended, to repay in a way. The emotional approach, while hazardous, was still something under his control he was sure. He was always in control, or at least, that's the thought that allowed him to risk this.

He arched his back slowly, let his head fall back. Johnny leaned forward in response taking it as an invitation. Again the motion forgotten for a brief second as Johnny again nipped at his neck, and Edgar lolled his head to one side, let off a soft sigh. All the edges seemed dulled now, all the dangers that normally would be present removed. Should have been perhaps been more cautious, but should had no place for him at current.

Scriabin's nails raked across his back, dug deep and Edgar cried out long and loud. Edgar felt his back against the backboard of the bed, pushed just slightly and the knowledge that at this point, both situations were out of their respective control.

Say it, Scriabin gasped out. He didn't specify in words what he was supposed to say, but Edgar knew already.

Ah, Scriabin...

Louder. Dug in painfully, and Edgar again found thoughts dimly trying to return, to wonder if this pain was truly caused by Scriabin, or if he merely allowed him to inflict it. Too deep a thought to be contemplated. Say it louder, #$^#$.

He wasn't sure he liked being called that.

Scriabin, ah God-! Gasping and desperate, just as he wanted. Scriabin paused for a moment, leaned in close and Edgar could hear him humming deep in his throat, satisfied and dominant.

Once more.

Painful, and he began to recognize a familiar heat building. Not this soon, he was sure, not this fast, but it was the pleasant kind associated with this kind of activity, and when Scriabin ran a hand along his side, he found himself shuddering. Edgar wondered if it was just at the touch, or if after the roughness of all contact between the two of them that such gentle contact was so unexpected.

Scriabin...

Not like that. His hand settled around him again, and Edgar remembered previous painful squeezes. He shut his eyes and yelled as best he could.

Scriabin! Scriabin, ah I-, please-

He felt heat near his face, opened his eyes and saw Johnny in front of him, his eyes shut tight and his head bowed. His hands rested on either side of Edgar's face, providing a support as he began to work, to move against his conscious thought. Real sensation and Edgar tugged again at the handcuffs that held him, moaned deep.

Pushed harder and harder in both directions. Scriabin resumed his frantic pace and Edgar knew that if this did have any basis in reality, if Scriabin really had been going at it this hard, then there would have been a chance that the next day Edgar wouldn't even have been able to walk. Edgar wasn't sure if that was intentional on Scriabin's part, if this kind of ferocity was his desire or Scriabin's, but that kind of thing felt too deep to think about just yet. The heat worked through the mist around him, prompted his tongue to move and inarticulate sounds worked through his throat, gave both indications that he appreciated what they were doing.

"Mine..." Johnny whispered and shuddered, and Edgar shuddered with him. It always had such a profound affect on him, even in such a state, but he knew that too was not just a one-way street. To be owned and to own. His lips brushed against Edgar's once, found them with more force again, and then he leaned his head back and away. Edgar could hear a soft sound coming from deep within his throat, one that wouldn't have volume had this been a normal situation.

You're mine... And Edgar gasped as Scriabin thrust into him again, hard and merciless and fast.

Approaching the same and Edgar could appreciate the heat, the loss of control, but he hadn't hit that point yet, and wasn't sure if he could again for a while. But...

"Yes..." He managed to say with a tongue that felt unaccustomed to words.

Sharper sounds from Johnny now, unable to fully silence himself, although they did not match Edgar's for volume or intensity. Soft sounds of effort, of physical exertion, and Edgar echoed them.

When Scriabin came, he pressed his hands down on Edgar's head, pushed him down beneath him as far as he could go. He gave a strangled mixture between a yell and a groan, something almost angry but more dominating, not tolerating any resistance, and Edgar gave him none.

A little after, Johnny found his similar release, and when he did so he tightened his grip on Edgar's shoulder painfully. His body shook in a way that seemed more fitful than of any kind of orgasm, and with his head bent back as it was, the noise he made was like a soft crooning hum.

And when the trembling stopped and Johnny opened his eyes, almost looking confused, Edgar leaned forward as best he could with his arms trapped and kissed him lightly on the mouth.

And mentally, Scriabin pulled away from him, roughly rolled him over onto his back. Edgar let him, let his arms fall above his head, still tied together tightly. His collar still in place and as Scriabin perched above him, daring him, Edgar did not move. A quiet acquiescence, the final submission, and Scriabin was pleased. He smiled, somewhat genuinely Edgar guessed, and let himself come close to rest his head on Edgar's chest, to hold him as if what they had just done had not left Edgar aching and sore, even if it was just in dreams.

After they separated, Johnny took the small key and unlocked the handcuffs and Edgar had his arms back, although his wrists were raw and bleeding. He didn't say anything, still trapped in the remnants of a euphoric daze. Johnny touched his face lightly, noticed his wrists, and got some bandages from the medicine cabinet.

Edgar lay back and let Johnny try to bandage his wounds without the greatest of skill or success, and mentally he heard the soft and even breathing of Scriabin in peaceful, deep sleep.

Wow, that was the longest handjob ever. I WINZ.