[ He doesn't want to hurt him. Not in any ways Mystery won't enjoy, but his hands are shaking and he keeps thinking about it, thinking about how he felt when he got the message, their conversation, the following confessions and labels they decided on. He thinks about Mystery looking at him and saying what he's longed to hear for centuries, I'm yours, promise. He whines, pausing in his quest to bury himself inside of Mystery, kissing a line from his lips to his ear as he lets go of his own cock to stroke Mystery's instead. ]

How would you have felt if this were reversed?

[ It's murmured in Mystery's ear, lips warm, brushing over his skin, hand stroking him slow and easy, almost lazy. ]

If I'd sent pictures to Abby. Like the ones I sent you when you were out, that one time.

[ All artful like a damn renaissance painting, draped over the bed, stretched out like a cat. ]