Fic: Suborned - Part 2

[melworks]

Fandom: DC Comics
Rating: NC-17
Archive: Sure, just give credit where it’s due.
Disclaimer: I don’t own any of the DC Comics characters and aren’t making any money off of them.
Notes: Part two of Suborned. More tentacles, I'm afraid and a bit with Tim Drake that's freaky even by my standards. That should tell you something right there. There was going to be more after this, but I never got around to writing it. Who knows? After posting this, I may go back and reconsider. - xoxo MEL

Suborned - Part 2
Tim Drake yawned as he stepped into the kitchen of Wayne Manor. He glanced at the clock over the stove and saw he was early. Alfred was probably still out shopping and Bruce would be in the city until later in the afternoon. That left Tim with a few hours to fill on his own, unless he could get Dick to do something.
Normally, Tim wouldn’t have been at the Manor so early, but it had been a half day at his school. This late in the year, they were just marking time, making up days missed earlier because of bad weather or the latest super-villain attack. The school year ended this week and the teachers had pretty much packed it in, doing little more than keeping the kids in the class rooms. No one made any effort to teach and none of the kids were in any mood to learn.
Tim had used his free time constructively, designing new search programs for Oracle and mentally updating the Titans’ database of villains. Cyborg would have done it eventually, but Tim doubted that Cyborg’s research would be as comprehensive as his own. If there was one thing Batman had drummed into him, it was the importance of intelligence.
As he left his backpack at the kitchen table, Tim thought Dick might want to help with the file upgrades. He had to get bored, haunting the Manor all day, restricted to doing nothing more strenuous than watching television by Dr. Thompkins. She’d drilled that into Bruce and Alfred and they, in turn, had passed on the instruction to Tim.
So, technically, Tim thought, I should probably leave him alone. But he’s got to be bored and maybe this’ll pull Dick out of the funk he’s been in these last few weeks.
Tim didn’t know exactly what had happened to Dick, this was one of the rare instances where Bruce and Barbara were presenting a united front. They weren’t telling Tim a thing, and every time he asked Alfred, the Englishman always found something ‘more worthwhile’ for Tim to do. Alfred’s response was guaranteed to ensure Tim quit bothering him after a while. Babs and Bruce had been more blunt, telling him to stop asking them and to be damn sure he didn’t pester Dick.
And of course Tim wasn’t going to pester Dick with stupid questions. He had seen him, seen how bad he looked. Tim knew his training as Robin was preparing him for almost anything Gotham’s underworld could throw at him, but looking at Dick, sometimes he wondered about the effectiveness of that training. What had happened to Dick? Tim wasn’t going to ask, but he was dying to know.
So, if he was updating the files with Dick, and the conversation happened to turn to what had happened to him, well, no one could accuse him of asking any questions. If Dick had wanted to talk about it, how could Tim say no? Weren’t they supposed to be there for each other?
A logical explanation firmly in mind, Tim headed upstairs.
* * * * * * * * * *
Roy’s cock was thick and vieny, rising from a nest of copper-red curls. Dick ran his tongue along the underside, tracing one of the veins. He was rewarded with a soft grunt and the feel of Roy’s hand on his head, petting him. Dick had the sudden, ridiculous urge to bark like a dog. The sheer oddness of that thought, contrasted with what he was doing now, made Dick snort.
“What?” Asked Roy.
He had drawn his cock away from Dick’s mouth, was watching Dick with unreadable eyes. Kneeling on the floor, it seemed to Dick that Roy was towering over him. Shaking his head, Dick leaned in to lick Roy’s prick again.
The scent of his friend filled his nostrils. It was hot and Roy had abandoned underwear for the season, preferring to go commando. As such, his groin was redolent with the scent of sweat and male musk. Dick bent his head, diving under the cock, to press his nose against Roy’s balls. He inhaled deeply, and worked his way back up, kissing and licking the redhead’s penis. When he reached the head, he was rewarded with a dribble of thick, white precum.
Opening his mouth, Dick moved to engulf the cockhead. Roy pulled away and Dick growled and tried to grip the bouncing cock.
“No,” said Roy, simply and firmly. He batted Dick’s hands away and gripped the base of his own cock. “Put your hands on the back of your neck and keep them there.”
Dick obeyed, leaning back to shoot Roy a questioning look. As he did, Dick became aware of his own erection. It was red and swollen, almost painfully hard. His cock jutted obscenely against his shorts, staining the front with precum.
Roy looked at him and Dick felt himself blush. He wanted to look down, but didn’t. His belly trembled and knotted.
Silently, Roy knelt and gripped the hem of Dick’s sweatshirt. For a moment, Dick thought he would bolt, once he realized what Roy was going to do. Something of his fear must have shown on his face. Roy leaned in and murmured, “I’ve got you.”
Those three little words made Dick feel impossibly safe. Roy lifted the shirt, pulling it up, letting Dick move his hands away from his neck to free it completely. Tossing it aside, Roy looked down.
“You didn’t just cut your arms,” said Roy.
Now Dick did look away, biting his lip. There weren’t many cuts on his abdomen, but they were longer and more pronounced.
“Did you cut your thighs?” Asked Roy. “Your genitals?”
Dick blinked and turned, stared up at Roy. The redhead’s expression was impassive.
“No,” said Dick.
“Good.” Roy pulled his shirt over his head and stood there, naked. He tossed the shirt on the carpet with his pants and shoes. He bent and picked up the belt, lying on his chair. Grasping it in one hand, he gripped his penis with the other.
“Suck me,” he commanded.
Dick fell on him, eagerly. Roy’s cock was hot, slick with precum, salty and bittersweet. The taste made Dick’s mouth water, made him remember the huge tentacle that had raped his throat weeks ago. He moaned at the memory and shut his eyes. The sting of the belt across his bare back made Dick groan and bob his head.
Roy licked his lips and raised the belt again.
* * * * * * * * * *
Tim stumbled away from the library, stunned by what he had seen. He took to the stairs, stepping lightly, trying to remember if any of the stairs creaked when weight was put upon them. It was hard to remember. Other . . . things were filling his mind.
Dick, shirtless, kneeling before a naked Roy Harper, sucking the redhead’s cock like a . . . like a. . . .
Comparisons totally escaped Tim’s startled mind and he realized he had made it to the bottom of the stairs without being discovered. For a moment, he thought of going to the front door, opening it, making some noise and then heading upstairs, calling for Dick. That would . . .
Tim stopped. What would that do? Why did he want to interrupt Dick and Roy?
He swallowed and glanced upstairs, heard the crack of leather on flesh. Trembling, Tim realized he didn’t want to stop Roy and Dick. Turning away from the stairs, Tim bolted for the downstairs bathroom.
* * * * * * * * * *
Roy had paused, his head cocked to one side. “Did you hear something?”
Dick let Roy’s cock slide from his mouth. His lips were bruised and gleaming. “Nothing.” He lapped at the piss-slit, whimpering.
“What time is Alfred supposed to get back?”
Dick frowned, licked his lips. “Not until about three. It’s fine.”
Roy nodded and pushed his hips forward. His cock pressed against Dick’s face, hot and slimy. “More.”
Dick obliged.
* * * * * * * * * *
Tim had shut the bathroom door and locked it. He had splashed cold water on his face and stared at his reflection in the mirror. His cheeks were flushed and his skin felt too tight. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to will away the images that flashed across his mind’s eye. Sometimes, having a good memory was a curse.
There was one window in the upstairs library. Sunlight was pouring through it, pouring down on Roy’s bare skin. He was deeply tanned, all over. There had been droplets of perspiration, gleaming like diamonds, sliding down his smooth chest.
“Fuck,” murmured Tim.
He was hard. Harder than he could ever remember being.
Licking his lips, he turned to make sure the bathroom door was locked. Only then did he start to undress.
* * * * * * * * * *
“Open your eyes,” gasped Roy.
Kneeling between his legs, Dick obeyed. His expression was hungry, his blue eyes burning with need. The lips of his mouth, red and puffy, were ringed around Roy’s cock.
“I want to see your eyes when I come,” growled Roy.
Dick moaned at that, a loud wanton sound that vibrated up through Roy’s erection and seemed to go right into his soul. He grabbed a handful of Dick’s hair with one hand and lifted the belt with the other.
One-handed, Roy yanked Dick forward. His cock slid over Dick’s tongue, the head stabbing at the opening to Dick’s throat. Gagging, Dick blinked hot tears from the corner of his eyes.
With a shout, Roy came.
Dick shuddered at the expression on Roy’s face, the feel of his hand tightening in Dick’s short hair. He pulled back and Roy’s seed filled his mouth. Hungrily, Dick swallowed but he could not catch all of Roy’s semen. Some flowed out of Dick’s mouth, dribbling down his chin.
Roy’s hips jerked violently and he panted, staring down. Dick met his gaze and held it, his throat working to swallow the last of Roy’s load.
Slowly, carefully, he drew back. Roy’s penis slid from his mouth. Dick licked his lips. His hands were still resting on his neck, fingers laced tightly together.
“Thank you.”
Roy moved his foot forward, bare toes brushing Dick’s erection through his shorts. The front of those shorts was slick with precum, but Dick was still hard.
“We’re not done yet,” said Roy.
Dick shut his eyes and shuddered.
* * * * * * * * * *
Tim Drake was naked, sprawled on the cool tile of the bathroom floor. He had found a bottle of hand lotion, not ideal but good enough for what he wanted, and used it to slick his fingers. Now, lying on his left side, his right leg raised, Tim worked his slick fingers in and out of his hole.
His eyes were shut and he was imagining the library, picturing himself on the floor in front of Roy, the redhead’s cock pushing into his mouth. Vaguely, Tim wondered what that would feel like? What would it taste like? Not knowing was frustrating. So frustrating.
His bare fingers pistoned in and out of his hole. There was a delicious friction building, but that wasn’t what Tim wanted. He wanted something else, something harder, something besides his own fingers. His cock was half-erect, dribbling precum on the white tile.
This wasn’t enough, Tim decided, stopping his frantic masturbation.
I need something more, thought Tim.
* * * * * * * * * *
Dick knelt against the leather chair, naked now. His shorts had joined the pile of discarded clothing. He took a deep breath and waited. The sweat on his skin chilled.
Roy stood behind him, admiring the curve of Dick’s ass, the elegant spread of his shoulders, his tapered waist. He wanted to kneel behind Dick and lick his spine from top to bottom, but resisted the impulse.
Instead, he drew back his arm. The belt dangled from his hand. He brought it down, hard, against Dick’s buttocks. Dick yelped and surged forward, his skin reddening. His cock bounced, faster.
The next blow made him shout.
* * * * * * * * * *
Tim was sobbing, tears sliding down his red, straining face.
After a quick search of the bathroom, he had found something he thought would work. The toilet brush was long with a solid plastic handle that was wide and round at the grip. Tim had experimented with it, making sure the piece was actually solid and boasted no sharp edges. When he was satisfied that it was safe, he had laid on his back. Bracing his legs against the door, he tilted his hips upward and, using one hand, slowly began to push his improvised dildo inside himself.
His fingers had stretched him wide and left plenty of lubricant behind. Slowly, Tim pushed the handle inside, shivering at the unfamiliar sensation of cool plastic against his tender flesh. It had taken some experimenting to find the right angle, but once he had, Tim had sped up.
Now, he writhed on the floor, his weight resting on his shoulders. He was practically bent double, the muscles of his legs taught and strained. His own cock throbbed and bounced before his face. If Tim had been more limber, he could have sucked himself as he thrust the handle faster and faster.
His body was on autopilot at this point, his mind conjuring more sexual images to fuel his masturbation. Images of himself and Roy, himself and Dick. It was like a floodgate had opened somewhere inside him and now Tim couldn’t stop the images, was barely aware of the pleasure building faster and faster. The images grew more fevered: Tim on the table at the old Young Justice Hangout, Kon and Bart taking him at the same time; bent over one of the benches in his gym class, a long line of faceless jocks waiting their turn; policemen with handcuffs and nightsticks; henchmen with ropes and uncut cocks; athletes, movie stars, friends, neighbors.
Tim fucked himself, desperate for release, his mind conjuring darker and raunchier fantasies.
* * * * * * * * * *
By the fifth blow, Dick’s ass was red and he was trembling, tears streaming down his face. He buried his head in his arms and thrust his ass back to meet the blows, whimpering.
Roy drew the belt back for the sixth blow and paused. Dick was pushing his hips back, his legs spread wide. The redhead had an excellent view of Dick’s most secret area. His anus pulsed and winked at Roy like a pink star.
He made a decision and dropped the belt. Falling to his knees, Roy placed one hand on Dick’s unmarked back, above the aching red flesh. His other hand moved between the round globes of Dick’s ass, his callused fingertips brushing against Dick’s anus.
“Come for me, Dick,” hissed Roy.
With a guttural sob, Dick obeyed. His body jerked and twitched, his balls drawing up tight. He could almost hear his load, spattering against the dark wool carpet. Roy’s hand slid low, gripping his aching flesh. The redhead’s callused fingertips remained pressed against Dick’s fluttering asshole. With a desperate moan, Dick fell forward, his face pressed into the leather seat of the chair. Behind him, Roy smiled and leaned in, kissed his back.
“Good boy,” Roy murmured against the olive skin.
Dick said nothing, too busy trying to catch his breath to speak.
* * * * * * * * * *
“Ah! Ah! Ah!”
Gasping, Tim’s motion with the brush handle became erratic. His body twitched, his toes curled. He opened his mouth in a soundless cry and came, his own sperm spattering his face and mouth. His ass clenched wildly around the handle and Tim whimpered, eyes opening groggily to stare at the bathroom’s white ceiling. Gently, he raised a hand to his chest, slid his fingers around a pebble-hard nipple. The contact sent a spasm of fresh sensation through the teenager’s body.
“Dad,” he breathed, barely loud enough to hear himself.
Very gently he removed the brush and threw it in the tub. He lay, naked and breathless, on the bathroom floor for a time, cheeks flushed with something like shame as he realized what fantasy it was that had pushed him over the edge. Only when his cock had shriveled, to lay flaccid and tender against his belly, did Tim stand.
He climbed into the tub, wary of the brush, and pulled the shower curtain shut. After some thought, he turned on the water, making it as hot as he could stand it, then reached for the soap.
It would take a while before he felt truly clean.
* * * * * * * * * *
Dick sprawled, boneless, on the floor. Roy lay beside him, his head pillowed on his arm.
“We should get dressed,” said Dick, mildly. “And clean the place up before Alfred gets home.”
Roy grunted.
Dick rolled on his side. Roy was running his hand absently over his stomach. His cock lay, plump and half-erect, against his belly.
“Are you going to be around for a while?”
“No,” said Roy. “I’m heading back out west in a couple of days.”
“Oh.”
Roy turned and pulled Dick on top of him. His free hand rested lightly on Dick’s butt. “You should probably think about what you’re going to tell Bruce.”
“About what?” Asked Dick, head pressed to Roy’s chest.
“About why you’re coming out west with me.”
Dick lifted his head to stare at Roy. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.” Roy’s grin was quirky. He stroked Dick’s back. “You don’t cut yourself any more. Okay?”
“Okay.” Dick lowered his head. He could hear Roy’s heart. “Leslie’s going to fuss.”
“Let her.”
“So,” mused Dick, “does this mean we’re dating?”
He lifted his head to peer into Roy’s face. Both men burst into laughter at the same time.
“Donna’d love to hear that,” said Roy, rolling his eyes. He let go of Dick to reach for the pile of clothes. “Let’s get dressed.”
They pulled on their clothes. Roy sprawled in the chair, watching Dick stare out the window.
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m wondering if he’s still out there,” said Dick, quietly.
Roy frowned. “Bruce hasn’t found him?”
Dick shrugged. “He said he’s making inquiries.”
“Hmm. If he is out there, what do you want to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Revenge?” Asked Roy.
“Maybe,” admitted Dick. “I don’t know.” He sighed. “Alfred’s back.”
“Hmm. We’d better clean the carpet.”
Dick nodded and left to find something to blot up his semen. Roy watched him leave. He seemed . . . calmer now. More focused.
Roy wondered how long that calm would last and would he be disappointed or eager when it ended? The thought made him uncomfortable and he pushed it aside.
One day at a time, he decided. They would take it one day at a time. What other choice did they have?
* * * * *
“You really put your foot in it this time, Yasuhiro.”
Squidface sighed and took another sip of his bourbon. “So you keep telling me, Shogo.”
“Don’t be so damn blase,” said Shogo. Even seated he was a head taller than Squidface. Shogo loomed without even trying. “Do you know who you’re fucking with, Yasuhiro?”
“I have some idea, yes,” said Squidface.
“I’m not talking about Gotham,” growled Shogo. He leaned closer, lowered his voice. “The Shark King is not pleased with you.”
“That’s nothing new, Shogo. You’ll have to come up with. . . .”
He was interrupted by Shogo’s hand, gripping his hard enough to hurt. Frowning, Yasuhiro glared at his companion. Shogo glared right back, his black eyes blazing in his sun-browned face.
“This is serious. The Old Woman came to see him and everyone says she mentioned you.”
A chill raced up and down Squidface’s spine. “The Old Woman?”
“She said trouble was coming to the people and you were the cause.” Shogo’s grip tightened, prompting a grunt from Yasuhiro.
“Is everything all right here?”
Shogo turned, met the plastic smile of the flight attendant. The woman was young, fit, her uniform a shade of yellow so bright it gave him a headache just looking at it.
“We’re fine,” said Shogo.
The stewardess obviously didn’t believe him. Her gaze moved to Yasuhiro. “Sir?”
Yasuhiro waved his empty glass. “Another bourbon, please.”
The stewardess nodded and moved away. Shogo turned, saw her looking over her shoulder at them. Sinking back into his seat, he ran his tongue over his lips.
“Control yourself,” said Squidface.
“Horny bitch,” murmured Shogo. “Can’t you smell her?”
“Yes.”
“Damn. If we weren’t on this plane, I would. . . .”
“Tell me about the Old Woman,” said Yasuhiro. “What happened?”
“I don’t know,” admitted Shogo. “All anyone knows is she came and spoke with the Shark King about you and that he’s been in a bad mood ever since.”
“How bad?” Asked Yasuhiro.
“He devoured three people before I left,” said Shogo.
Yasuhiro winced. “That bad.”
“Yes. Better to be far away from the court right now. Why else do you think I would subject myself to the indignity of retrieving you from America?”
“Sentiment?” Asked Yasuhiro.
“Fool.”
“Is he going to kill me, Shogo?”
“I don’t know,” admitted the big man. “If he did, it would probably save us all a lot of trouble down the road.”
Yasuhiro thought about that and decided Shogo was probably right.
* * * * *
“My name is Eiko,” said the woman. “I’m taking you the rest of the way.”
Yasuhiro studied Eiko. She was young, her short black hair streaked with white. Her face was heart-shaped with a rosebud mouth and flat, black eyes. Eiko wore a black leather dress and knee-high stilleto-heeled boots. She reeked of magic and Yasuhiro wondered what kind of creature she was.
“So, you’re Yasuhiro,” said Eiko. Her gaze swept up and down him, appraising him. The corners of her mouth turned down. “You don’t look like much.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” muttered Yasuhiro.
Shrugging, Eiko pivoted on one of her heels. “Follow me.”
Yasuhiro glanced back at Shogo. “Who is she?” He asked, quietly.
Shogo did not answer, just prodded Yasuhiro forward with a meaty finger.
Eiko led the way to a parking garage and a sleek black car. She unlocked the back door and the scent of the sea swept over the three of them. Shogo’s eyebrows rose and he gave the woman a curious look. Eiko’s expression was flat. She nodded at the open door.
“Go through.”
Yasuhiro hesitated. “It’s dark.”
“Don’t be a coward,” said Eiko. “You don’t want to keep the Shark King waiting, do you?”
“You go first, Shogo,” said Yasuhiro.
“No,” said the big man. His hands descended on Yasuhiro’s shoulders. He pushed his forward, toward the dark interior of the car. “Go through or I’ll stuff you through.”
“Asshole,” muttered Yasuhiro.
Snorting, Shogo pushed him toward the door.
The transition was uncomfortable. There was a moment of boiling darkness and a feeling of sudden, terrible claustrophobia, then Yasuhiro was stumbling on sand. The ocean stretched before him. He staggered forward then turned to look back and saw Shogo stepping out of the back door of a car that was the exact twin of the one in the airport garage. Eiko stepped through after the big man, then turned and shut the car door, locking it with a twist of her keys.
“You can find your own way from here,” said the witch-woman, leaning against the car. She crossed her arms and watched them, her white and black hair swaying in the breeze. “When you get to the court, tell the Old Woman my debt to her is paid.”
“You know the Old Woman?” Shogo asked, curious.
“We’ve had dealings,” said Eiko, flatly. Her gaze moved to Yasuhiro who was kicking off his shoes. “I still don’t see why they think you’re a threat, Yasuhiro.”
“I’m not a threat to anyone,” said Yasuhiro, wiggling his toes in the wet sand.
“The Old Woman says you are,” said Eiko. She said it in the same way a person would comment on water being wet or fire hot. There was no doubt.
“She’s wrong,” said Yasuhiro.
Eiko laughed. “I dare you to tell her that.”
“If you do,” said Shogo, ‘make sure I’m not in the room.”
“Smart man,” said Eiko. She walked around the car to the driver’s side door and unlocked it. With a wave of her white hand, she climbed inside. The car purred to life and slid away, sleek and deadly. Yasuhiro watched it leave, envious.
Shogo shivered. “I’m glad that’s over with.”
“What was she?” Asked Yasuhiro.
“A spider,” said Shogo. “Couldn’t you tell?”
“I’ve never met one of the spider folk before,” protested Yasuhiro.
“We’re lucky she didn’t kill us both,” said Shogo. He reached up and began to undo the buttons of his shirt. “Come on. If we hurry, we can be at the court before nightfall.”
Yasuhiro reluctantly began to undress.
* * * * * * * * * *
“Shapeshifters,” said Batman, fingers pressed together.
Tempest shook her head. “No. Spirit-people.”
They stood on the docks of Gotham City, the waters of the bay lapping gently at the wood structure. Batman was a shadow, lurking just beyond the warm glow of a nearby street lamp. Tempest stood more fully in the light, his red and black uniform mottled with drying salt.
“Is there a difference?” Asked the Dark Knight.
Garth arched a black eyebrow. “A significant difference. Spirit-people aren’t metahumans.”
“They’re magical?”
“Supernatural,” corrected Tempest.
“Semantics,” said Batman. “You’re sure Nightwing’s attacker was one of these spirit-people?”
“From what he told you, yes.”
“How do I find them?” Asked Batman.
Tempest hesitated. “I’m . . . not sure that’s a good idea.”
Batman frowned. “Why?”
“The spirit-people are unpredictable,” said Garth. His brow furrowed, the wavelike scar tissue above his left eye darkening. “Wild. Not even Atlantis has had a lot of contact with them, and when there has been contact is hasn’t gone well.”
“How do I find them?” Repeated Batman.
“Batman, I. . . .”
“One of these things flooded my city with a new drug,” growled the Dark Knight. “Created dozens of addicts, triggered a major gang war and seriously assaulted Nightwing.” He said the last in a voice like ice. “How do I find them, Tempest?”
The Atlantean sighed and scrubbed at his face. “I’ll have to talk to some people.” He hesitated for a moment. “How is Nightwing?”
“He’s recovering.”
Tempest nodded. “Does he know what you’re doing?”
“Yes.”
Something about the flat, clipped way Batman answered suggested to Garth that Nightwing may have known his mentor’s plans but didn’t approve of them.
“Batman, if you find this Squidface, what exactly are you planning to do with him?”
The Dark Knight’s lips pressed together into a tight, white line. “See that justice is served.”
* * * * * * * * * *
That had been weeks ago and Tempest now stood in the throne room of the Shark King, Ruler of the Western Ocean. On the surface, Tempest knew that the title sounded overinflated and self-important, but he also knew that there was more to it than met the eye. The Western Ocean didn’t just refer to the physical waters west of Japan, but the Western Ocean of the otherworld that the spirit-folk were connected to.
It had been surprisingly easy to get this far. Garth’s mentor, Atlan, had been of invaluable assistance, referring the young man to individuals who knew the workings of the Shark King’s court. Still, finding the spirit-folk was one thing, getting an audience with the Shark King had been quite another. The ruler was insulated by rings of functionaries and layers of bureaucrats that were practically byzantine. Atlan’s acquaintances had gotten Garth’s foot in the door, but the rest had been up to him. He’d had to rely on charm, bribes and a good deal of patience to reach this point.
The throne room was opulent, its pale walls curving overhead to form a delicate spiral pattern. Those walls were adorned with tapestries that drifted subtly in the currents, illuminated by spheres of luminescent fire. The way they made his skin tingle, Tempest was fairly certain the lights were magical in nature. At the far end of the room, stood the throne. It was an impressive sight, the equal of anything Tempest had seen in Atlantis. Strangely enough, the throne existed in jarring contrast to the delicate beauty of the room surrounding it; it was large, carved from rough gray stone. Studying it, Garth thought it looked less like a seat and more like a sacrificial altar. He shivered and folded his hands together, closed his eyes for a moment to center himself.
There was no one about. The throne room was empty, without even guards present. Tempest had been ushered in by one of the Shark King’s retainers, an elderly man with delicate blue-green scales and webbing between his fingers. He had bowed out, advising the Atlantean that the Shark King would be with him soon.
And so Tempest waited, drifting in the empty room. He went over the proper protocols in his mind, recounted all the information he had managed to gather about the Shark King over the last few weeks. To be honest, it wasn’t much. For such a powerful presence the man was a phantom. Even by spirit-folk standards, the Shark King was said to be unpredictable. What everyone agreed on was that the man was extremely dangerous. More than one member of the Shark King’s court had discreetly warned Garth not to anger their monarch or their would be hell to pay. Tempest had the distinct impression they were less worried about him, than they were about being caught in the fallout from the Shark King’s anger.
It was with this in mind that the paneled doors to the throne room slid open. Tempest spun and exhaled, his body descending gently until he was kneeling on the smooth floor, his forehead pressed against the cool stone.
He felt someone approaching, the waters of the room swirling as something bulled through them. The room suddenly smelt strongly of blood. Tempest took a shallow breath and waited. He could feel the Shark King standing in front of him, feel the monarch’s eyes resting on his back. The man reeked of blood and Tempest’s skin itched horribly, especially the wavelike scar above his eye. Magic poured off the Shark King in burning waves.
The man moved away and Tempest was grateful. Remaining on his knees like this meant he had to keep his lungs empty. He was holding his breath to do that and suddenly understood why the bureaucrats he had met called the throne room the Breathless Chamber.
Tempest remained kneeling, still, his pulse pounding in his ears. From nearby, he heard the rustle of rough cloth sliding against stone and knew the Shark King had seated himself. Time stretched. The kneeling emissary felt his chest tightening from lack of breath. He concentrated, willing his body to relax, to husband its resources.
“You may rise, foreigner.”
Immediately, Tempest took a deep breath and gently unfolded from the ground. He spun, careful to keep his head lowered, until he faced the throne.
“Look upon me, foreigner.”
The Shark King’s voice was deep and flat. Respectfully, Tempest raised his head and found himself staring into murderous black eyes.
The Shark King was a giant, his body dwarfing his stone throne. His skin was grayish, scarred at the shoulder and along his forearms. A scrawl of tattoos circled his neck, kanji-like characters flowing down his broad chest to vanish beneath the wide belt cinched tight around his waist. He appeared hairless, his skin having the odd visual texture of a shark. The Shark King’s eyes lacked pupil or white, they were black on black, impossible to read. His nose was small and flat, situated above a wide, expressive mouth. He wore a green flowing robe over a long, heavy kilt that reached below his knees. Sitting upon his throne, in his palace, it was easy for Garth to accept the reality that the Shark King was no mere mortal. The creature radiated a palpable aura of power and grace.
“You have come far, foreigner, to seek an audience with me,” said the Shark King. His voice was a rumble that Garth could feel in his bones. “Why?”
“Your majesty, I have come on a mission of justice,” began Garth.
The Shark King shifted, leaned forward. “For Atlantis?”
Garth lowered his head. “No, Your majesty. On behalf of a man.”
Black eyes narrowed. “Who is this man you serve? Another Atlantean?”
“No, your majesty. An airbreather from a city far away.”
The Shark King scowled. “An airbreather? You waste my time for one of those?” He studied Garth for a moment. “Has proud Atlantis fallen so far it must now serve the interests of airbreathers?”
“Atlantis remains as it always has, your majesty,” murmured Garth.
“A pity,” said the Shark King. “I had hoped their recent trials would have taught proud Atlantis humility.”
Garth ignored the barb. “Please, your majesty, I have not come on behalf of Atlantis or any nation.”
“No, you have come on behalf of an airbreather and a foreigner.”
“A good man, your majesty. A close friend.”
“And why do you seek justice for this friend in my court?” Asked the Shark King.
“He was assaulted, your majesty, by one of your subjects.”
“How do you know this, foreigner?”
“I did not know this for a fact, in the beginning, your majesty,” admitted Garth. “But I have confirmed it through my own investigations and the use of my arts.”
“Sorcery is undependable,” said the Shark King.
Garth blinked, forced the startled expression off of his face. It was too late, though, the Shark King had seen and now sat back and began to chuckle.
“Did you think you could walk among us, foreigner, and hide your nature?”
“I had thought I was being discreet, your majesty.”
“Hardly. You reek of magic. The youngest of our children can sense what you are.” He waved a hand. “But enough of that. You claim your sorcereries led you to the one you seek. Continue.”
“I have made inquiries, your majesty,” said Garth. “The man I seek calls himself Squidface upon the surface. Here, among your court, I have heard him called by another name.”
“Yasuhiro,” said the Shark King.
Tempest kept his face very still. He nodded. “You know him, your majesty?”
“He is an inconsequential troublemaker.” The Shark King’s lips curled into a grimace, revealing rough white teeth. “I have considered eating him, but suspect he would disagree with me.”
“There is another way to relieve yourself of his presence, your majesty,” Garth said, quickly. “Send him with me, to face justice.”
“To the surface.”
Garth nodded. “Yes, your majesty.”
“I am not inclined to have any of my people submit to the justice of airbreathers,” rumbled the Shark King. “Particularly when his accuser lacks the will to plead his case in person.”
“Your majesty, I . . . ”
“You will not make excuses for your friend,” growled the Shark King. “He thinks so little of this matter he sends another in his place, to speak for him.”
“Respectfully, your majesty, that is not the case.”
“Is he a coward?” Asked the Shark King, bluntly. “Is your friend afraid to come before us and plead his case?”
“The situation, your majesty, is more complex than that,” said Garth, cautiously. “I come on behalf of my friend, but he did not send me.”
“So this airbreather does not seek justice,” said the Shark King.
“The attack, your majesty, did not leave him in a condition to seek justice. I have come here at the request of his patron.”
“Another airbreather.”
“Yes, your majesty,” said Garth.
“I am disappointed that proud Atlantis would hold such people in high regard,” said the Shark King.
“These are not typical airbreathers, your majesty.”
“So you claim, foreigner, but I see no evidence to support that statement or your claim against Yasuhiro of the Squid Clan.”
Garth frowned. He could sense the tide turning against him. “Your majesty, I do have evidence linking Yasuhiro to the attack. He left behind certain essences that your own noble sorcerers should be able to confirm as belonging to him.”
“That proves nothing, foreigner,” growled the Shark King. “You have been here for days. How will I know that you did not get the essences from here?”
“I give you my word, your majesty, that I did not do any such thing.”
“And Yasuhiro will no doubt deny that he assaulted your air breathing friend,” growled the Shark King. He rose from his throne and with a single kick of his legs, was before Garth, dwarfing the Atlantean. “Whom should I believe? One of my people or a foreigner?”
Garth took a deep breath and lifted his face, to gaze into the Shark King’s black eyes. “Perhaps you should trust your instincts, your majesty.”
The Shark King’s reaction was surprising. He threw back his head and laughed. Turning away from Garth, the Shark King swam back toward his throne, but did not settle upon it. Instead, he spoke with his back to the Atlantean.
“My instincts, foreigner, are to rend and tear,” said the Shark King. “To spill blood and gorge myself on the flesh of my prey.” He glanced at Garth over a scarred, gray shoulder. “Do you know how I became king?”
“No, your majesty. The history of your people is not well known beyond your waters.”
The Shark King snorted and now turned again to face Garth. He sank upon his throne, his green robes drifting around him. “I am a king by appointment, Atlantean. Plucked from the life I cherished and charged by the Great Dragon Emperor of the West to serve him as a lesser monarch, to guard the path between the human world and the spirit world.”
The Shark King sank back. His black eyes fixed on Garth as he spoke. “I am older than you could possibly imagine, Atlantean. Older than Atlantis, older than Ancient Mu. In the dim days of the beginning, these oceans were strange and wondrous places, peopled by creatures that you could not conceive of in your most fevered dream. Now most of them are gone and I am alone, surrounded by a court that fears me, fulfilling a purpose I long to come to an end.”
His black eyes glittered, cold and deadly. “Do not speak to me of instinct, little mage, less you wish to rouse a great and terrible monster.”
“I. . . I am sorry, your majesty.” Garth sank to the stone floor, head lowered. “I meant no offense.”
The Shark King snorted. “Had you offended me, little mage, I would be devouring you.”
“Thank you for your forbearance, your majesty.”
“You amuse me, little mage. None in my court would display such effrontery as you have.”
“If I have offended you, your majesty, it is only through ignorance of your customs.”
“Oh?” The Shark King’s brow furrowed. “And yet, you possessed the knowledge to charm my advisors. They spoke in your favor, no doubt influenced by your generosity toward them.”
Garth did not know what to say to that, and so remained silent. Waiting.
“And yet, you come to me, to make a personal request, and you offer nothing.”
“My apologies, your majesty, but I did not want you to think I was attempting to bribe you.”
The Shark King laughed. “And do you think I could be bribed, little mage?”
“No, your majesty.”
“So what gift will you give me for listening to your request?”
“I am afraid that I have nothing that you would desire, your majesty,” said Garth, smoothly.
“You underestimate yourself, Atlantean.”
Something in the Shark King’s voice tore Garth’s eyes from the floor to the monarch’s face. The Shark King was examining him, a subtle smile curving the corner of his mouth.
“What can I offer you, your majesty?” Garth asked, quietly.
“Your company,” said the Shark King.
He lifted his hand, held it out, waiting. His expression was smooth, giving nothing away. Garth moved forward, slowly, and took the Shark King’s extended hand.
The monarch pulled him into a fierce embrace. Gasping, Garth was hauled onto the Shark King’s lap. He could feel the flesh swelling beneath the Shark King’s heavy kilt. A webbed hand brushed Garth’s face, gently, the gray-white skin surprisingly soft. Garth found himself staring into the Shark King’s black eyes.
“This is a most agreeable present you offer, little mage,” murmured the Shark King. His hand slid down Garth’s cheek, his neck, to his chest. Expertly, the Shark King undid the tiny clasps securing Garth’s body shirt. The fabric drifted open, exposing the dusky flesh beneath it. A gray-white fingertip brushed one of Garth’s nipples. The tiny nub hardened immediately and Garth bit his lip.
“Sensitive as a woman’s,” murmured the Shark King. He pressed his face into the juncture of Garth’s neck and shoulder and licked the flesh.
Garth gasped at the contact, the scar above his right eye, pulsing hotly. His hands moved, almost of their own volition, to slide across the Shark King’s broad chest. For the first time, he realized the monarch had no nipples, just smooth skin. It felt faintly rough to Garth’s fingers, except for the area adorned with the tattoos. The texture there was coarser and more sensitive. Garth stroked a figure and felt the Shark King quicken beneath him.
Brands, realized Garth. The kanji-like figures were not tattoos but brands. His fingers traced one of them and the Shark King grunted and pulled back.
“I’m sorry,” said Garth, “I. . . .”
The Shark King wound his fingers in Garth’s curls and pulled his head back, baring the Atlantean’s throat. He dived forward, his mouth opening, sharp teeth pressing against the vulnerable flesh. Garth froze, eyes wide, expecting pain and blood. Instead, the Shark King licked a long stripe from Garth’s clavicle to his chin. His fingers twisted Garth’s nipple, prompting a startled moan from the mage. Garth’s fingers dug into the Shark King’s scarred shoulders and he trembled as his shirt was removed.
Growling, the Shark King drew back. He reclined on his throne, one hand resting lightly on Garth’s shoulder. Gently, he pulled the Atlantean forward until Garth’s face was pressed against his own throat.
“Lick them,” said the monarch, his voice a coarse whisper.
Garth obeyed, his tongue finding the first kanji-brand, tracing it. The Shark King shuddered and let his hand drift down, along Garth’s flank, to his heaving belly and then, lower. His touch prompted Garth to open his mouth wide and suck at the gray-white flesh presented to him.
Groaning, the Shark King’s hands gripped the waist of Garth’s trousers. They were skin-tight, designed more to reduce water resistance than anything else, but they emphasized the Atlantean’s athletic physique.
Garth nibbled on raised, scarred flesh and the Shark King grunted, superhumanly strong fingers ripping Garth’s pants from him. The action startled Garth, excited him. His erection floated against the Shark King’s rippled abdomen. The tattered remnants of his trousers floated away from him.
Insistently, the Shark King’s hands pressed down on Garth’s shoulders. The Atlantean complied, moving down, slithering naked until he was kneeling between the Shark King’s spread thighs. He sucked at the gray-white belly, his hands roaming the larger man’s naked chest. Down Garth went, mouthing flesh, his hands descending now to the belt cinched tight around the Shark King’s waist.
The Shark King batted Garth’s hands away and undid the belt himself. His hand pushed through Garth’s black curls and the Atlantean settled back on his haunches, waiting and watching. He ran a hand over his own chest, tweaking his nipples.
Rising from his throne, the Shark King removed his belt and shrugged out of his robe. His hand moved to his kilt. Garth leaned forward to plant kisses along the knuckles as the Shark King fumbled with his garb.
“Oh!”
The gasp escaped Garth unbidden as the Shark King’s organ appeared. Like the rest of the man, it was larger than average. It extended out from his body, the head crowned in folds of gray-white flesh. The kanji-brands continued, smaller, circling the Shark King’s genitals, a ring of dark, seared flesh.
Grasping his member in one hand, the Shark King skinned the flesh back from the head. A stream of milky precum drifted away from the head. Garth swallowed, suddenly nervous.
He was no novice to the art of fellatio. As a homeless youth, Garth had survived for a time by selling his body. When he had been taken in by Arthur, when he had become Aqualad, Garth had no expected that to change. Arthur had been surprised the first time Garth offered but there had been no condemnation and certainly no refusal. After that first time, Arthur had enjoyed Garth’s young body at his leisure, at least until he had met Mera. Arthur had not been the last man Garth had serviced, but no men in Garth’s experience had compared to the Shark King.
Gently, he reached out and grasped the organ around the root. His fingers barely touched. The Shark King’s cock was thick and long, a battering ram of swollen flesh. His grip shifted, his fingers brushing the seared kanji and the Shark King moaned and grasped Garth’s head. He pumped his hips forward, his cock batting against Garth’s tan cheeks. The organ was leaking a copious amount of precum, the room’s currents causing it to drift in lazy bands around the kneeling Atlantean.
Tentatively, Garth leaned forward and touched the tip of his tongue to the Shark King’s penis. The monarch’s grip tightened in Garth’s hair and the Atlantean found himself being pulled forward with superhuman strength. He gasped and the Shark King’s immense cock was plunging into his mouth. It scraped across his teeth, but if the Shark King felt any discomfort from this, he gave no sign. Indeed, his hips surged forward, both hands now grasping Garth’s head. The head of the cock punched into Garth’s throat, prompting the young man to gag and claw futilely at the Shark King’s smooth thighs.
As quickly as he had surged forward, the Shark King withdrew. Garth had time to gasp before his head was pulled forward, and he found himself impaled again on the Shark King’s enormous member. It punched into his throat again, and hot tears came to Garth’s eyes. He moaned around the thick flesh, his jaw stretched wide, lips splayed thin around the cock’s girth. His eyes rolled up and he met the Shark King’s black gaze. There was no mercy for him there. Garth shut his eyes and submitted, relaxing, letting the Shark King fuck his throat with short, brutal stabs.
Garth choked on the flesh, gagged and grunted. His discomfort only seemed to heighten the Shark King’s arousal. The Atlantean could actually feel the monarch’s cock getting longer, harder. He whimpered, helplessly and lost track of time.
The Shark King suddenly withdrew, panting, and bent to pull Garth from the floor. Spinning, he slammed Garth into the stone throne. Garth landed on his knees, the coarse stone breaking the skin, releasing a trickle of pinkish blood into the water. The Shark King growled and his hands grasped the globes of Garth’s ass, pulled them apart. Shuddering, Garth moaned, a wanton lonely sound that echoed throughout the room, as the Shark King lowered his head and began to lick.
The throne was large and rough and Garth rocked back and forth, the Shark King’s hands on his hips, his tongue forced deep inside the Atlantean’s ass. Gasping and shivering, Garth came hard as one webbed hand slid between his splayed thighs and rubbed the sensitive flesh just behind his balls. His spunk curled and drifted away from his body and Garth found himself growing impossibly hard again.
The Shark King flicked his tongue one last time across Garth’s asshole before straightening. Grasping his erect tool in one hand, he pressed the head against the Atlantean’s nether opening. More gently than he had taken Garth’s mouth, the Shark King pressed his cock forward.
Groaning, Garth lowered his head and whimpered as he was taken by the Shark King. It had been years since any man had taken him and he was tight. The Shark King’s oral ministrations had loosened him some, but not enough. He felt like he was being burst open as the Shark King pushed into him, a webbed hand resting lightly on Garth’s back, the room filled with the monarch’s labored breathing.
He’s trying to go slowly, realized Garth. Trying not to . . .
The thought went unfinished, dissolving in a haze of red as the Shark King pushed forward. Garth screamed, unashamed, and trembled as he felt the Shark King’s hairless testicles press against his skin.
“Tight,” growled the Shark King.
He bent forward, his back pressed to Garth’s chest, his hands moving to shove Garth’s splayed thighs close together.
“I want you tighter,” the Shark King hissed into Garth’s ear.
Garth whimpered, hard as stone, and squeezed his ass. The Shark King hissed his approval and began to move, slowly at first, to give Garth a chance to adjust and then, too quickly, he increased his pace.
Crying out, Garth fell forward, pressed his forehead into the rough stone. His scar burned and his hands blazed, his magics slipping from him, uncontrolled. The light-spheres illuminating the room flickered and flashed then bled red light across the throne room.
The Shark King did not notice or did not care. His thrusts were harsh and steady, his hands sliding down Garth’s naked back, luxuriating in the feel of smooth flesh. He leaned forward on one particularly brutal thrust and wrapped his arms around the Atlantean’s torso. Easily, he pulled Garth up and back, impaling him. Garth arched his back and screamed, shuddering, caught on the edge of bliss.
Turning, the Shark King settled on his throne and only then continued his thrusts. Garth fell back, boneless, felt sharp teeth press gently against his shoulder. He tossed his head and felt cunning fingers stroke his chest, his belly. A webbed hand wrapped around his cock, pumped once, twice.
He didn’t know if he wanted the Shark King to stop or if he wanted this to never end.
The Shark King made the decision for him, tugging on Garth’s prick one last time, sending the Atlantean over the edge, into a monstrous orgasm. Garth tensed, his mouth open, his shout degenerating into a strange, desperate whimper as he came. Roaring in triumph and approval, the Shark King followed Garth over that edge.
Garth stood on shaky legs and gratefully accepted the Shark King’s robe. The remnants of his own clothing floated in the far corners of the throne room.
“Now that etiquette has been satisfied, your majesty,” the Atlantean said, wryly. “What about Yasuhiro?”
The Shark King sprawled on his throne, naked, his heavy cock floating between his splayed thighs. Black eyes regarded Garth with mild interest.
“I will not send any of my subjects to face the justice of airbreathers,” said the Shark King.
Garth frowned and was about to protest, but the Shark King silenced him with a raised hand.
“But neither will I offer Yasuhiro my protection. If you can, little mage, compel him to return to the surface with you. I will not stand in your way.”
* * * * * * * * * *
Yasuhiro dreamed. He dreamed of olive skin trembling at his touch, of a sensual mouth gasping his name.
“Yasuhiro.”
The dream trembled and Yasuhiro recoiled, unwilling to let it end so soon.
“Yasuhiro!”
More insistent this time, the voice punched through the shroud of sleep. Blearily, Yasuhiro stirred. He found himself facing his brother.
“Shogo . . . ”
Crouching, Shogo’s tentacles were curling in agitation. His large, dark eyes were full of concern. “You must go, Yasuhiro.”
The words pulled Yasuhiro to full wakefulness. He eyed the cavern chamber and saw that they were alone. The other members of the clan must have left already, to forage or hunt. A glow-sphere flickered, casting wan light across the cavern.
“Why? What’s happened, Shogo?”
Shogo reached for him with hands and tentacles, pulling Yasuhiro to his feet. “Come with me. I’ll explain as we go.” He half-pulled Yasuhiro toward the chamber entrance.
* * * * * * * * * *
“So the Shark King sold me out for a piece of Atlantean tail,” said Yasuhiro.
Shogo glanced at his brother. Yasuhiro did not sound upset, or even surprised. He might have been commenting on the weather.
“His majesty would not do that,” said Shogo. “He has simply withdrawn his protection.”
“Same thing. How did you find out, Shogo?”
Shogo pushed through the water. “I know one of the palace guards. He sent word when he overheard the Shark King making his decision.”
Yasuhiro chuckled. “I suppose it’s good to have friends.”
“What will you do now?”
“Head back to the States. Vanish into the crowd.”
Shogo touched his arm. “Why America? You could stay in Japan.”
“America is my home, Shogo. I’ve missed it.”
He moved on, swimming through the midnight waters, and only belatedly realized he was alone. Turning, Yasuhiro saw his brother, floating, still, watching him with luminous dark eyes.
“What?”
“Did you think of us at all, Yasuhiro?” Asked Shogo.
“I don’t. . . .”
“The family, the clan.” Shogo’s tentacles undulated. “Me?”
Yasuhiro swam back and reached for his brother. His hands settled on Shogo’s forearms, his tentacles brushing his brother’s.
“Of course I thought about you, Shogo. How could I not? You were always my favorite brother.”
“I don’t know if I believe you.”
“Shogo, we don’t have time for this.”
“You’ve been here for weeks,” said Shogo. “But you’ve spent all your time alone, sulking. Avoiding everyone.”
Yasuhiro didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t deny the truth of Shogo’s words, he had been sulking, missing his old life. Sighing, he turned away.
“We don’t have time for this.”
Shogo’s eyes blazed and his tentacles, naturally larger and thicker than Yasuhiro’s, tightened around his brother’s. “If not now, Yasuhiro, then when?”
Before Yasuhiro could say anything, his brother pulled him close. His tentacles slid along Yasuhiro’s, down to his shoulders and arms.
“Brother . . . ”
“I have a spell,” said Shogo, his hands sliding around Yasuhiro’s hips. “One of the palace sorcerer’s prepared it for me.”
“What sort of spell?” Yasuhiro asked. He gasped as Shogo’s tentacles brushed his nipples.
“It will hide you from the Atlantean’s magic,” murmured Shogo. His fingers slid beneath the band of Yasuhiro’s breechcloth, traced a sharp hipbone. “For a little while.”
“Why?” Gasped Yasuhiro. His body was stirring, his blood quickening.
“Because we are family,” said Shogo, ‘and I love you.”
His fingers pulled Yasuhiro’s breechcloth down.
“All the spell needs is one final component to begin,” said Shogo. He wrapped thick fingers around his brother’s cock. “Your essence, Yasuhiro.”
“Oh!” Yasuhiro shivered as Shogo’s fingers tightened. His tentacles flowed now, acting automatically, coiling around his brothers, drawing their heads close together.
“Shogo, brother, I . . .”
“I have missed you, Yasuhiro,” gasped Shogo. “Missed being with you, like this.”
He pulled his brother close to him, and Yasuhiro realized belatedly that his brother was naked. Their cocks brushed against one another. Shogo’s hand left Yasuhiro’s cock, slid around his waist to join his other hand, grasping Yasuhiro’s buttocks.
“You should have said something earlier,” muttered Yasuhiro.
Growling, Shogo thrust against him. His tentacles slid down, over Yasuhiro’s torso, elongating, stroking Yasuhiro’s trembling frame.
A strangled cry erupted from Yasuhiro. Shogo had pried Yasuhiro’s buttocks apart. The tip of one of Shogo’s tentacles tickled Yasuhiro’s ass. Shuddering, Yasuhiro ground against his brother, his fingers digging into Shogo’s muscular shoulders.
“You were such a wanton, brother,” gasped Shogo. “Do you remember? Those days in the kelp field?”
“How could I forget?” Yasuhiro gasped, lurching against his brother. His brother’s tentacles were tormenting him deliciously, teasing the opening to his ass, his sensitive nipples.
“I haven’t either,” said Shogo. “I haven’t forgotten what you liked, little brother.”
Yasuhiro shouted as Shogo thrust a tentacle inside him. It was brutal and harsh and Yasuhiro clawed at Shogo’s arms even as he thrust his ass back, offering himself.
“Fuck me, Shogo!” Begged Yasuhiro. “Please, brother . . . ”
“No,” said Shogo. “This is for the spell and to remind you, Yasuhiro, of what you are losing.”
Yasuhiro could not speak, Sobbing, he shuddered as his brother’s tentacle thrust deep inside him, stretching him, sending hot waves of pleasure and pain through his body. He wrapped his arms and legs around Shogo, his tentacles coiling possessively around his brother’s. Their erections bashed against each other.
One of Shogo’s hands moved between them, wrapped around Yasuhiro’s cock. He jerked him, moving in counterpoint to his thrusts. A second tentacle joined the one thrusting into Yasuhiro’s body. It circled the taught ring, spread wide by Shogo’s invading appendage.
Yasuhiro came with a scream, his body convulsing in his brother’s embrace, wracked by pleasures he had nearly forgotten. Calmly, Shogo cupped his brother’s semen within the palm of his hand, brought it to his mouth and ate it. He felt the sorcerer’s spell start, the scent of magic rising from his pours, a cloud of bittersweet fumes.
“Shogo . . . ”
Yasuhiro reached for his brother’s cock, but his hand was batted away.
“No,” said Shogo. He pulled away from Yasuhiro, who hung limply in the water, tired and aching. His tentacles floated around him.
“The spell will not last forever,” said Shogo. “Go, Yasuhiro. I will lead the Atlantean away from you.”
Yasuhiro stared at his brother. “I’m sorry, Shogo.”
“I don’t think we will see each other again, little brother,” said Shogo, quietly. “Tell me you’ll remember me fondly.”
“I...yes, of course I will, Shogo.”
“Good,” said Shogo. He turned and began to swim back toward the city. “Goodbye, little brother.”
Yasuhiro watched his brother swim away from him, vanishing into the gloomy waters. He raised a hand in farewell, his stomach suddenly in knots.
“Goodbye, brother,” whispered Yasuhiro.
Turning, he swam away from his past, toward an uncertain future.
* * * * * * * * * *
The Old Woman was more spirit than flesh. In the perpetual gloom of the depths, her body glowed, lit from within. No one was certain how old the Old Woman was. She had been bound to the sea bed in ages past, before the Great Dragon Emperor of the West opened the way from the spirit-world to the flesh-world. The gods who had bound her were long gone, their names forgotten, but their spite continued to hold the Old Woman. A chain of golden fire licked her stick-thin wrist, vanishing behind her, tethering her to the ocean floor.
She lifted her hand now and squinted at the fire-chain. Her eyes were white, set in a wrinkled, froggy face. Thick white hair drifted around the Old Woman’s head. Pursing her lips, she shook the fire-chain.
“Another ten thousand years and I’ll be free of it,” murmured the Old Woman. She looked up, white eyes gleaming. “On that day, Shark King, I will show you a wonder.”
“If we live that long, Old Woman,” said the Shark King.
“Calm yourself,” said the Old Woman. “It is done. Yasuhiro is gone and the mage is led astray by Shogo’s trickery. The way to the spirit-world is safe.”
“Good.”
“I watched you and the mage,” said the Old Woman. She leered. “You were gentle with him.”
“Not all of my appetites are savage.”
The Old Woman laughed. “I remember differently. You were bold in your youth.” Her hand stroked her shoulder. “I can still remember your bite.”
“And I can still remember your taste,” said the Shark King. He leaned forward and peered at the spirit-woman. “Why did you warn me about Yasuhiro?”
“Sentiment?” Suggested the Old Woman.
The Shark King’s look was hard.
The Old Woman cackled. “Self interest. I’m old and tired, Shark King, and killing heroes is for the young and stupid.” She toyed with her chain. “And, for the moment, I enjoy my peaceful life.”
Grunting, the Shark King lay back against his throne. “And Yasuhiro? Will he return?”
“No,” said the Old Woman. “He is gone, heading toward his destiny. We will not see him again.”
The Shark King nodded, but did not ask what Yasuhiro’s destiny entailed. Some things, he knew, were better left unknown.

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