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The Pretty Things are Going to Hell

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Michael could feel Cordelia’s presence as soon as she set foot inside of the outpost. The thick walls way have protected its occupants from nuclear bombs and the ensuing radiation but the antichrist’s powers knew no such boundaries. He could reach out and touch a mind if he were bound and gagged and encased in concrete, especially a mind he’d spent so much time focusing on. A mind he hoped was long dead and gone, and two others along with her.

And then three minds became six. The girl who’d set the room alight during her questioning (damn his curiosity and commitment to the Sanctuary lie he’d woven for these people, he should’ve gotten rid of her on the spot), the woman he’d found rather vapid and uninteresting, and...the voodoo queen. They were foolish enough to resurrect her, at least. No doubt she’d side with him.

Witches were like cockroaches, Michael thought. No matter how hard he’d tried to get rid of them, they found some nook or cranny to hide in and resurface. He knew he didn’t get them all back when he stormed the Academy, but he was certain, at least, that he’d broken their spirits enough that they’d be no match for him. What was worse than knowing that so many of the people who trusted you to care for them were now much worse than dead?

They deserved it, of course. Cordelia deserved it for daring to lock Ms. Mead away in a place even he couldn’t find her. She expected - what? That he’d be so desperate for care and guidance that he’d immediately forsake his mentor and run crying into the next set of arms willing to embrace him?

A younger Michael might have. That foolish boy so desperate to grow up but afraid of what growing up might mean. If Cordelia had been there when his grandmother had rejected him, he didn’t want to admit it but dammit he may have accepted her. What a disgusting thought that was!

He didn’t imagine any good would have come of it, anyways. She would never have been able to change the fundamental reality of what he was, and would have cast him out or had him killed once she realized that fact. He would always be compelled to kill and torment and destroy and anyone who couldn’t accept that couldn’t accept him .

Ms. Mead accepted him, more than anyone else did. The rest of his father’s followers accepted him out of devotion to their unholy lord, but most of the time it felt like treating him with reverence and respect was merely a path towards currying favor with Satan than an end in and of itself.

He was like the private school kid whose claim to fame was that his dad had a ton of money, except worse off for the fact that his father seemed unwilling to pull any strings to help him out. In his constant agonizing about being left on his own the only conclusion he’d come to was that it was deliberate. If he couldn’t conquer the world on his own, then he wasn’t wanted. To the people of the world he was the antichrist, the doombringer, the dark figure from the prophecies - but his father could have another child if he failed. It might take a bit of effort, but it could be done.

God had a plan for everything, the devil took his chances.

If Michael wanted to succeed he’d need to grow his own power instead of appealing to his lineage. Ms. Mead sought him out because of his father, but she’d come to love and worship him for who he was, too, and so his power began to grow. The other warlocks called him Alpha, called him Supreme , and his power grew further still.

With the witches at his door, he needed that power back to get rid of them once and for all. His replica of Ms. Mead (lovingly crafted as she was) would be indispensable as a companion and his adviser, but he needed a soul, needed flesh and blood. Given the severely diminished population of Earth, one should be enough to do it, but who?

He considered the warlocks; the ones who had been loyal to him, at least. Cordelia had burned the most powerful among them at the stake, which may make them difficult to retrieve and would have instilled them with an unfortunate fear of their mutual enemy. All of the warlocks seemed to have a certain amount of fear or reverence for the witches, even if they didn’t like them. That wouldn’t do. He needed all of the devotion and none of the fear.

The cultists? Some were still alive, and even if he picked from among the dead they’d be there for Satan more than Michael Langdon, and he’d be in the same place he was right now.

Against his better judgement, Michael’s thoughts drifted back to the hairdresser. The corners of his mouth turned down. That man had not an ounce of magical aptitude and, on his own, would hardly be a useful asset against such a powerful witch. Then again, he had Dinah for extra power if the need arose. She wouldn’t fulfill his need for worship - she was an opportunist in it for her own benefit rather than a tried-and-true believer - but with her backup perhaps going back for the clingy one wasn’t such a bad idea.

Yes, he wasn’t an ideal choice. Gallant’s strongest act of rebellion before the world ended was to dress inappropriately and act petulant at his grandmother’s dinner. Hardly the sort one would picture at the right hand of the antichrist. Still, despite Michael’s harsh initial judgment he had shown some potential. He volunteered to be questioned first (even though Michael was certain that this was a case of lust overcoming fear more than bravery) and when pushed to kill, he’d killed.

“But I killed my grandma,” Gallant said.

“Nonsense,” Michael replied, “She died peacefully in her sleep.”

Ah, that was right. Michael had worked his magic and dealt away with that pesky little memory so Gallant would be a good boy and bob for apples with the rest of the group instead of going into nervous-wreck mode and retreating to his room.

In that version of his plan, everyone else in this waste of an outpost could die and he would take Ms. Mead and start the new world. If that plan had worked out, Michael would have lived the rest of his unholy life without thinking about him ever again. Now, he’d have to undo that little but of memory magic. No matter, he was sure he’d find a good time for that.

For now, it was off to the underworld.

 


 

Michael didn’t have to be taught to descend into hell any more than he needed to be taught how to end a life, or to take on a new visage when a child’s body became too inconvenient for his goals. It was a part of him, inborn.

He was not so different from the witches, in that regard. They all had their own special little talents that they could pull of by instinct or in less fortunate cases, by accident, but he’d never heard of a witch whose talent was Descensum . That particular spell was always dangerous, even for a Supreme. Other sorts of magic were relatively safe for an experienced user, dangerous only to the young and reckless. Descensum welcomed another party into the equation. The devil and his servants were always seeking more souls and would try to keep you down every time you went. Perhaps you beat your personal hell once only to find that something even worse had been concocted in the meantime.

That was never the case for Michael. The first time he descended he was no more than a boy having a fit about being told what he could and count not do, as little boys often do. He wanted to run away and he got his wish, finding himself in the eternal prison of some poor sap who had been there for hundreds of years and wasn’t even aware of it.

Michael stayed there, he stayed there much longer than anyone else ever had without being trapped there, and when he got bored of it he simply left of his own accord. He’d gone plenty of times after that, each time finding himself in a different person’s hell with no real rhyme or reason until he decided he wanted to find someone specific, and that was just as easy.

The difference between him and the witches and warlocks was that he never found himself in his own hell, and the conclusion he reached was that he simply didn’t have one any more than the warden of a prison had his own cell. This was his domain and he could come and go and take what he pleased without fear. The only reason he feared death at all was the nagging worry at the back of his mind that his free pass could be taken away if he disappointed his father.

Pushing those worries from his mind, he found himself in a well-decorated room surrounded by other people, all waiting to meet Gallant. The line of guests stretched all the way outside of the room where Gallant stood, shaking hands with them as they introduced themselves. Peering outside the window, Michael could see the line continue out the front door, around the lavish mansion and down the street, off into infinity. Each one was duller than the last. One worked middle management, and had no hobbies outside of going to work and doing the household chores. The next one was painfully proper and hoping to adopt soon. Plain, prim, and so painfully acceptable . Exactly the sort of suitor Gallant’s grandmother would adore but that he would loathe entirely; the young antichrist knew well enough that Gallant thirsted for a man who couldn’t be tamed.

Michael could easily pick out his strained expression, his forced smile as he said hello and nodded politely, pretending to be interested. Once in a while, he’d check his watch. The hands never moved, not even one single second. He was waiting for the end of a gathering that would last forever, always thinking of what he’d do at the next one, how he’d show his rebellious side next time, how he just has to endure this one boring party and then he’d do whatever he damn well wanted.

It wasn’t the worst hell Michael had ever seen, but he was certain Gallant would want out of this endless parade of boredom and convention even if he hadn’t yet realized where he was. Michael shoved his way to the front of the line after the most recent guest had finished his introduction, and couldn’t help but smile as Gallant stopped slouching and shook his hand, smiling his first genuine smile since his arrival in hell.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Gallant said, his handshake firm and just a little overeager.

“I’m not supposed to be here,” said Michael, running his thumb over the back of Gallant’s hand just to see him squirm, “But when have I ever let anyone else tell me what to do?”

For a moment Michael could’ve sworn that Gallant was about to come right then and there but instead he looked around at the guests and the line and his watch, Michael’s presence making him aware all of the sudden that something was off about this place.

“I know my grandmother likes to show off her vast social network, but she’s never invited this many guests before,” he said, his grip going limp in the handshake until Michael broke it off.

Michael didn’t say anything, curious to see what conclusion Gallant would come to on his own time.

“And I swear I’ve been here for a few hours but it’s still seven p.m. on the dot, and -” he paused for a moment as if his words were caught in his throat, “- and this is all gone, isn’t it? Everything’s gone.”

Michael simply nodded. He had not an ounce of sympathy on his face, nor did he reach out to comfort the distressed man. If Gallant wanted a soothing presence he’d most certainly chosen the wrong man to be enamored with.

“We were bobbing for apples and then everything just hurt and - fuck,” he said.

The illusion was shattered. Most people never came to realize they were in hell, but it was always much worse for the ones who did. To suffer in the moment was nothing compared to the awareness of the long eternity in front of them.

“I always figured there’d be...y’know, whips and chains and all that,” he said.

“Mmm,” Michael hummed softly, “It’s not much of a hell if you enjoy it, is it?”

Gallant looked blindsided for a moment, but only shrugged and nodded. He wasn’t the sort of person to be sheepish about his desires, even around someone like Michael.

“Why’re you here, then?” he said, because a big part of him still enjoyed Michael’s presence, craved it, even if he was frightened. Perhaps even because he was frightened. Fright existed in opposition to boredom as much as pain and excitement and sexual stimulation did, and boredom was Gallant’s least-favorite mood.

“I’m here because I want to get you out. Give you another chance. You were led into this situation by forces beyond your understanding, and I don’t think that’s very fair, do you?” Michael said, pacing around Gallant, one hand brushing against his back.

“What do you mean?” Gallant asked, unable to stop himself from shivering at Michael’s touch.

“Your dear friend Coco and her little assistant Mallory were hiding a secret from both of us. Someone else was pulling the strings to get them here and the fact that you survived as well was a mere coincidence based on your proximity,” he said, “It could’ve been anyone else on that plane.”

“I’m not trying to say I doubt you, but Coco’s not exactly the sort of person I’d trust with an important secret,” Gallant said.

He’d spent hours and hours with her in the chair while he did her hair, and she’d tell him absolutely everything. There wasn’t one single thing he imagined her being able to keep quiet about long-term, especially when they’ve been under so much stress.

Michael laughed at that, “No, she isn’t. That’s why it was hidden from her , too.”

His attempt to explain further was interrupted by some idle chatter from the people still queued up behind him. Scoffing, he raised a hand and with the mere flick of his finger they all shut up at once, standing perfectly straight and impossibly still. Gallant swallowed hard, the sight of it all still unsettling despite everything else he’d seen.

“Would a change of scenery work better for you?” Michael said, head tilted to one side. It wasn’t time to leave hell just yet; given the current situation with the witches he benefitted to having a place where time moved as quickly or slowly as he pleased.

“Yeah,” Gallant said, “Yeah, I could go for that.”

Michael waved his hand once more (so subtle that Gallant barely noticed it) and everything melted away into darkness, save for a single point of light illuminating the both of them.

“Now that we have some peace and quiet, as I was saying,” Michael said, “Coco, for all intents and purposes, knew nothing. Surely you’ve heard of the witched by now, yes?”

“Of course, they were all over the news for a while,” Gallant said.

“Well, Coco’s a witch. A fairly weak one, from what I can tell. It’s Mallory who’s the real threat here,” Michael said.

“Mallory? She’s...plain,” Gallant said, because that was about the only opinion he’d formed of Mallory, even after all the time they spent together in the outpost.

“So you’d think, but her power is anything but plain. I’ve seen it for myself, once, but I didn’t put it all together until now,” Michael said, “A memory alteration spell is fairly simple. To hide such an alteration from me is much less so, but it seems they’ve managed anyways.”

“Alright,” Gallant said, trying to act like he followed everything Michael was saying when he was really only fifty percent of the way there.

Michael didn’t care. He was here to spur an emotion reaction strong enough to get Gallant’s commitment and devotion, not to teach a college course on witches and their powers. “What I’m saying is: they’re witches, brought here on purpose, you and your grandmother were coincidental carry-on luggage. You two could have been anyone, really, and you’d have died out there in the fallout.”

Died and potentially avoided hell. Gallant was arrogant and clingy and not what Michael would consider a shining beacon of human virtue, but he certainly wasn’t worthy of hell until Michael pushed him down that path. That little detail would remain Michael’s secret.

“They ate the apples, too, didn’t they? They’re as dead as I am,” Gallant said.

“Oh no,” Michael said, pausing, his brow furrowed in an attempt to at least seem empathetic, “A few of the other witches survived and they’ve revived their own kind. You and the others weren’t so lucky. It seems your friend Coco wasn’t much of a friend after all. I doubt she even tried to vouch for your soul.”

He couldn’t say for sure that that was the truth, but it was plausible. Only the witches had been revived. Whatever their ultimate plan was, it didn’t include Gallant or any of the other outpost residents who weren’t inclined towards magic. It stung; the pain was obvious enough in Gallant’s expression that Michael didn’t even need to read his thoughts. Coco may not have been his closest friend, nor the person he would’ve chosen to spend months in an isolated building with, but it would burn anyone to be one of the last people on Earth and still slip everyone’s minds.

“They’ve forgotten you,” Michael said, “But I haven’t. I find you very valuable indeed, and I want you to come back with me.”

“Yes,” Gallant said, without the slightest bit of hesitation, “I’ll go back with you.”

In all his ruminating beforehand, Michael expected that Gallant would fall to his knees and beg him to be taken out of hell. It would be, he thought, a rather unappealing sight that might put him off of this whole venture completely. He took no pleasure in having power over someone too easy to conquer. That the other man simply said ‘yes’, as eager as it was, was a pleasant surprise.

Perhaps he had some potential after all. Gallant grew up wealthy with a smothering grandmother who would hardly let him get into trouble. A little bit of guidance mixed with some hardship and he was already improving. Not by most people’s standards, but by Michael’s. He’d never be held in high regard like Ms. Mead was, it was too late to impress upon Michael in that fashion but he could be...useful. And entertaining.

This was his apocalypse and he was supposed to enjoy it, damn any witches that tried to stop him.

“Then let’s go,” Michael said, his hand extended towards Gallant who took it and held on tightly as if Michael might vanish into the ether and leave him all alone.

He didn’t have time to worry much longer as he was jerked very suddenly back into the land of the living - not that there was much life there anymore.

 


 

“What are you?” Gallant asked, after that bit of awkward silence that always followed when one of the deceased found themselves alive and well again.

Especially one of the deceased whose prior experiences with magic were limited to TV specials and cheap stage magicians. ‘Hell is real, you’re in it, and now you’re not’ is a lot to take in in the span of a couple hours for someone who’d hardly prepared themselves for such a possibility.

“Funny,” Michael said, “That question seemed to be the last thing on your mind when you still needed me to rescue you.”

Who’d question a free ride out of hell, even if their savior came in a form they might find unpalatable? Better to just deny that chill down their spine - that overwhelming, almost crushing feeling of darkness - so they could take their second chance and have room to play ignorant if the true nature of their freedom came to light.

“You said the witches brought the others back to life,” he said.

“They did, but not like I brought you ,” Michael said.

Gallant opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out but air, wheezing like some broken squeak toy. Something was on the tip of his tongue, something he couldn’t bear to say for fear of offending Michael if he was wrong as much as fear of what happened next if he was right.

Michael touched one finger to Gallant’s chin, “I think you know what I am.”

“Yeah,” Gallant said, swallowing a gulp of air, “Yeah, I do.”

“And you’re going to follow me to the ends of this damned Earth despite it,” Michael said, peering deeply into Gallant’s eyes before letting out a short laugh, “No, because of it. It frightens you, but you love it.”

“I mean, it’s not like I’ve ever been the god-fearing sort,” he said.

“And neither have I,” said Michael, smiling as if he was daring any god to come and strike him down.

If the good Lord could have saved humanity, he surely would have done so before they made the planet into a nearly uninhabitable wasteland. All power waned eventually, the age of God went out with a bang and ushered in the age of Satan. As soon as he crushed those witches he could take his rightful place as Earth’s unopposed ruler.

“I’m, uh, not exactly familiar with devil-worship either, I have to say,” Gallant said.

“Not an issue,” Michael said, “I didn’t bring you here to worship my father. Save for our little unwanted guests, every healthy human left alive worships him. You? You’re going to worship me.”

And Gallant knew that he would. He was in too deep and didn’t want to be pulled out of this fucked-up little hole he’d dug himself even if somebody offered. The world that he knew was gone. A hedon such as himself could never find happiness in rationed food and endlessly repeating music and Ms Venable’s strange, sexless dystopia. Until Michael showed up he was only alive because he feared death, and that was hardly a life at all.

“What do you want me to do?” Gallant said, both his thoughts and the stirring in his crotch betraying what he hoped he was going to do.

“Anything I want you to do,” Michael said with a sly smile, “Live for me. Die for me.”

It wasn’t as drastic of a request from someone who could bring people back from the dead as it might be otherwise, at least.

Kill for me,” Michael said after a pause, stepping uncomfortably close to Gallant, “After all, it’s not like there are any laws holding you back.”

“I don’t know if -” Gallant started before Michael, prepared for such a response, cut him off.

“You already have,” Michael said, freeing that particular memory from his grasp so that Gallant could recall what really happened.

“...Grandma?” Gallant said, voice high-pitched and shaky.

“Oh, she’d lived long enough, don’t you think?” Michael said, grabbing both of Gallant’s hands by the wrists as he forced the other man to look at them.

It was an illusion, and a simple one at that. Any witch or warlock could’ve seen through it, but to Gallant it appeared as if his hands were covered in fresh blood once more. Oh, how fun it was to tease. Even if Michael didn’t have a grudge against the witches he may well have gotten rid of them anyways, just so he could be the only one left with magic.

Gallant tried to jump back in shock but Michael’s grip on his wrists was too tight. He was stronger than he looked, much stronger.

“Do you remember why you killed her?” Michael asked.

Gallant hesitated, because he did remember, and he didn’t think that Michael would like the answer.

“Go on,” Michael said.

As much as he didn’t want to answer, Gallant’s position was pretty helpless at the moment, “Because I thought it was you.”

“And why did you want to kill me?” Michael said.

“Because you insulted me,” Gallant said, “And I wanted to prove you wrong.”

For a moment Gallant entertained the thought that Michael had brought him back from hell just to kill him again for his previous defiance, but then why would he have wasted so much time explaining the situation to him? Gallant would’ve taken a Get Out Of Hell Free card with no explanation at all. To lull him into a false sense of safety, perhaps?

The next sensation he felt was Michael’s tongue along the side of his right index finger, licking off a streak of blood as he went. A shame the blood wasn’t really there, Michael thought. He did enjoy the taste.

Michael released Gallant from his grasp, letting the illusion of blood fade away. “Please,” Michael said, reading his new minion’s thoughts like an open book, “I’m not so petty that I’d bring you back to get revenge for a minor slight.”

Not that he wasn’t petty. His pettiness just manifested itself on grander scales than your average person. Once you’ve caused the apocalypse a single murder is rather dull in comparison.

“It is the reason I chose you, though. Perhaps God desires a choir of simpering yes-men, but personally I prefer the rebels, the ones who take instead of waiting to receive. I pushed you take and you took, and you didn’t even need that much convincing,” Michael said with an odd mix of both shaming Gallant for his loose morals and praising him for it. Such was the way of the devil’s kin.

Spurred on by his words once again, Gallant grabbed Michael by the fringes of his deep red jacket (a jacket that Gallant may have dismissed as tacky on anyone who couldn’t pull it off, but damn did Michael ever pull off every little thing he wore) and pulled him into a kiss, thirsty and eager.

Michael smiled, a low chuckle escaping between parted lips. “I’m a taker, too,” Michael said, pulling away, one hand gripping Gallant’s jaw, “And after I take you I’m going to rain hell on everyone who took from me.”

Gallant couldn’t put into words how desperately he wanted Michael to take him now, how much he’d always wanted Michael to take him despite his little act of defiance. If he had time to feel anything but arousal he might feel somewhat ashamed of how easily Michael was able to pull him in whatever direction he wanted him to go, but that was part of his existence, wasn’t it? Gallant wasn’t overly familiar with any religious texts but he was pretty sure being the antichrist came with some sort of supernatural charisma.

And he was damned good looking.

Michael threw off his coat with such grace and fluidity that he may as well have rehearsed it; he stepped out of his boots and teased his way out of his pants and underwear in a manner Gallant had only seen before in scripted pornography designed to titillate. Everything about Michael was so much more than any other man Gallant had been with: warm and sensual yet with this sort of cold calculation behind it. A demon pretending to be a man and unwittingly revealing what he was by being so much better at it than any man actually was.

A demon that would draw you in and then tear you apart if it was its will. Luckily for Gallant Michael had no such will today, although as soon as his own clothes were discarded Michael began tearing at Gallant’s with such a fury that some of them were ruined (and fuck, that outfit was at least a two thousand dollar ensemble, too).

“Money’s meaningless in this world, dear,” Michael whispered into Gallant’s ear, “I’ll get you some new ones later.”

Gallant’s cock was rock hard and with all the fury Michael went at his clothes with he expected him to be in a similar state, but that wasn’t the case. Michael would admit he was turned on, no doubt, but he was able to keep himself from revealing it in such an...obvious physical way. Besides, what was the fun in getting himself all wound up when he could make Gallant do it for him, instead?

“On your knees,” Michael said, and Gallant fell immediately as if Michael’s words were an invisible hand pushing him from behind.

Michael placed his hand on the back of Gallant’s head, gently nudging him forward. He couldn’t help but moan as Gallant ‘s lips closed around his cock - this wasn’t quite Michael’s first time but it was close to it, and no matter how high and mighty he liked to think of himself as he still had certain human vulnerabilities.

His grip on Gallant’s hair tensed, head jerking back. Gallant would have smiled if it weren’t for the cock in his mouth. He knew well enough that he wasn’t the one with the power here, but was quite pleased with himself that he managed to elicit such a genuine reaction from Michael anyways. There was something else behind that elegant facade and Gallant was eager to see it.

The air in the room got noticeably warmer as Gallant continued to work Michael's cock, another involuntary expression of his arousal. Michael didn't mind that one though, and made no effort to control such manifestations. During times like this it felt good to let his powers express themselves, to just be the wild and untamed creature that he so rarely got the opportunity to be.

"That's enough," Michael said, managing to get his words out with only the slightest waver in his voice, "Turn around."

Gallant happily obliged, drawing back from Michael's cock and turning around, bracing himself for what it might feel like to have Michael inside of him. He'd been with enough men that he didn't expect to be truly surprised by sex ever again, but to be taken by the devil's son? That was something new. A shame he didn't have anyone to brag about it to. He gasped as Michael entered him - his attempt at anticipation had failed to prepare him for the reality of the situation.

Michael was warm, almost hot, and yet there was a certain coldness to him, too, like the feeling of a chill going down your spine. It was frightening and dark and dangerous, and it somehow managed to make him feel damned in a way that he hadn't even when he found out he was actually in hell. Was it possible to be damned in a pleasurable manner? That was the only way he could describe what was happening.

Michael bucked his hips slowly and methodically, Gallant growing almost unbearably aroused as his new dark lord caressed him all over. He could feel silky soft strands of hair (god, that hair, Gallant would pay to work on hair like that although he got the feeling Michael's hair didn't need a stylist) tickling his shoulder blades in a rhythmic motion. At last, it was too much to bear, he reached to grab his own cock and finish himself off only to find Michael's hand wrapped around his cock with superhuman speed.

The cold was back now, cold as ice, and Gallant felt as if he were frozen to the spot. Michael had stopped all his movement as well (despite Gallant's whines of protest) and the only sensation was the warmth of Michael's breath on Gallant's neck. Gallant wanted to come, tried to come, but he couldn't. Somehow, some way, Michael wouldn't let him.

“Worship me,” Michael demanded.

"Wha-?" Gallant said, dazed enough by pleasure that he'd forgotten that the pleasure had a purpose.

"Worship me," Michael said, his voice deeper than normal, echoing throughout the room.

Gallant paused, words stuck in his throat. He'd never actually genuinely worshiped something before. What did Michael want? What sort of praise did the antichrist seek? The terms weren't very well-defined, and Michael didn't seem too eager to define them (partly because he wasn't even sure, worship had always been someone else's job). Feeling the room grow even hotter as Michael's patience grew thin, he decided to wing it and go with what he knew best.

"Your hair's fucking perfect," Gallant said, "Seriously. Best I've ever seen. I've known people who've spent tens of thousands of dollars trying to get hair like yours and they're not even halfway there."

Michael raised an eyebrow. That...wasn't what he expected, but it was something. "Go on," he said, his grip on Gallant's cock tensing.

"And you're, uh, you're fit in just the right sort of way and your cock's fucking perfect and when you walk into the room it's like no one else is even there and you're powerful and you're going to kill everyone you wanna kill and fuck please just let me finish or I'm going to have a fucking heart attack."

Michael chuckled. It was...novice worship, but it was worship. The words were less important than the sincerity of the feelings behind them. He did feel stronger, in a way. Whether it was real power or merely a placebo remained to be seen, but he didn't have time to worry about that right now.

"There's just one more thing I need," Michael said, nuzzling against Gallant's neck before he bit down on his shoulder, just enough to draw a couple drops of blood.

Gallant winced but he moaned, too. Just a taste of Michael's ruthlessness, and he wanted more of it. Much more. Michael came as he licked the blood droplets, his seed hot like a fire but without too much pain. Just right, Gallant thought. Just goddamned right. At last, Michael released his grip and Gallant came like he'd never come before. That was an act of worship in itself, Michael thought as he felt the other man go limp beneath him.

Unfortunately there was no time to bask in the afterglow. "I'll be back," Michael whispered to Gallant as he began to redress himself, "You just stay right here."

He wasn't sure if Gallant could get up and walk away right now, too overtaken with pleasure. Part of Michael wanted to focus on pleasure, too, but there would be plenty of time for that in the future. For now, he had business to attend to, and nuisances to get rid of.