Paradox hadn’t been as interested in being in a relationship like Caravel who jumped in the moment they became middle schoolers. Caravel’s first date was with a rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed girl named Naomi Fields. He and Naomi met during the first week of sixth grade and then went out during the second week. Caravel’s parents were horrified about how fast their son was moving and had cautioned him to “take things slow”. Caravel had laughed, saying he wasn’t going to do anything; they were eleven.

That relationship had lasted two weeks before Caravel moved on to a boy named Tiger Stark —that relationship was a bit longer, around a month, but they broke up because Tiger’s parents found out about the relationship.

By the time they hit high school, Caravel had already dated fifteen different people, which scared and also weirded out Paradox. It was uncomfortable knowing Caravel had been with so many people, even if the furthest it had gone down was making out at the back of the bus or in a bathroom stall or something. There were fleeting touches, but nothing intense.

That shifted when Caravel turned fifteen. Caravel’s once borderline sexual relationship had turned full-on sexual—he would have a new person to fuck with every month, if not every week. It didn’t matter whether they were male or female or nonbinary or somewhere between. Caravel was either fucking or being fucked by people. Hell, Caravel even dabbled in polyamorous relationships just to get something out of it.

Paradox knew. He had walked in on Caravel too many times, especially during times when it was supposed to be a hang-out between them, but someone came to Caravel’s house. He hadn’t known what Caravel had gone through—didn’t know that he was Marked by a Hybrid and desperately needed something to distract his mind.

During his multiple relationships, Caravel had found kinks and/or turn-ons, which he would explain precisely to Paradox, freaking him out. It wasn’t like he didn’t know about those types of kinks/turn-ons per se; rather, he didn’t want to hear his best friend explaining it in detail, knowing that Caravel was doing this stuff himself.

Caravel used to joke that Paradox was ace—any sexual topic would cause Paradox to cringe or feel awkward. Paradox wasn’t ace; in fact, he knew he wanted to engage in sexual activities. However, he considered it more private and intimate, so sharing it out loud felt wrong and taboo.

“Would you ever consider it?” Caravel had asked Paradox one late afternoon when they were hanging out.

“I’m not—I’m not into those types of stuff…” Paradox had replied.

“You don’t know unless you try, right?” Caravel had pointed out.

“True,” Paradox had said, “but I don’t think being in pain is fun? Or, like, seeing blood? Being bound? Like…all of that feels restricting rather than relieving?”

Caravel had a wide grin when he said, “Surprisingly, you get used to it.” He outstretched his arms, and Paradox had noted he had rope burns on them and cuts. He had given him a shocked look to which Caravel had simply laughed. “It doesn’t hurt…after a while. You get used to it, really. Now, I’m not suggesting you should go and do it if or when you’re in a relationship. It could be vanilla.”

Paradox couldn’t help but worry about his best friend which was why he had stated, “Has it ever been manipulative?”

Caravel’s blue eyes went blank and dark. He had a ghost of a smile on his lips as he said, “It’s SM, Para. Of course it is.” His faint smile was now glowing—if anyone saw it at a quick glance, one would assume he was happy. Paradox knew something was hurting Caravel, but he refused to tell him.

That’s why it didn’t make any sense for Paradox to be bound by ropes on Cyrus’s bed, bare of clothing, body hot and spasming from Cyrus’s electrifying touches, and to be absolutely turned on by everything.

Cyrus’s teeth teased Paradox’s inner thighs, nipping and licking the burning flesh. Paradox struggled to silence his gasping, high-pitched moans; he tried biting down on his tongue, but Cyrus would drag a fingernail down his stomach, and Paradox would choke out a cry. His vision was blurry from tears and euphoria, head dizzy from the heavy smell of Cyrus’s pheromones. He wanted to move around and grab onto Cyrus but the ropes were preventing him—literally preventing him from moving.

The ropes dug into Paradox’s wrists as he gave another strangled cry when Cyrus slipped a finger in him, slowly working him open. He threw his head back, gasping, voice breaking as he sputtered, “W-wait, p-please. I can’t—fuck.” His body racked violently from adrenaline coursing through his veins. “Sh-shit, Cy-Cyrus, w-wait—”

The Lycan wasn’t listening, to focus on the moment, eyes fiery. His fingers were tormenting Paradox. Paradox’s back was long gone from arching off the bed when Cyrus would touch him, and his throat was hurting from crying out.

“Breathe, kid, breathe,” Cyrus murmured, his teeth skimming Paradox’s throat. He bit at the pulsating beat in Paradox’s throat, and Paradox gave off a ragged gasp, violently pulling at the ropes, voice sharp when he cried out, “WAIT—”

Cyrus didn’t listen; in fact, things were intensifying. Cyrus shoved his finger deep inside of Paradox, and panic burst inside of him, causing him to screech, “Stop, stop, stop—”

Cyrus leaned close to Paradox, nearly nose to nose, and said in a low voice, “Until you say your safe word, I’ll keep going. We agreed upon this. You said even if you said ‘stop’ or ‘wait’, I shouldn’t until the safe word is said. Go on. Say it. Say it.”

Paradox, blinking back tears, glared at Cyrus. In his own stubbornness, he refused to comply with the Lycan’s order. It felt more submissive; it was a lack of control, letting the Lycan do whatever he wanted. For Paradox to say the word meant it was too much; it meant he gave up. He wasn’t ready to give up, or, more so, he didn’t want to give in to Cyrus.

“If you want, we could take a break,” Cyrus said, now moving away from Paradox entirely. He got off the bed, hovering near Paradox. “I’m fine with breaks.”

“We don’t—we don’t have to break. Just…stop…torturing me. J-just f-fuck me already.” Paradox said haltingly, ignoring the blaze in his cheeks.

Cyrus canted his head to the side, a lopsided smile on his lips. “You’re a strange one, Paradox Feign. But I suggest a break. You’re a crying mess right now.” He undid the ropes around Paradox’s wrists and ankles. Once free, Paradox sat up, wincing, rubbing his sore wrists.

It was now awkward, Paradox, naked, sitting at the edge of Cyrus’s bed while Cyrus, pretty much clothed except with no shirt on, was putting the ropes away in a drawer. Paradox watched Cyrus grab Paradox’s clothes and place them on the seat of a chair. Cyrus paused and spared a glance at Paradox, causing Paradox to look away.

“You want something to drink, kid? Or something to eat?” Cyrus asked.

Paradox stared at the Lycan, wondering if he was joking. There was no way he meant it so casually. This was a very intense moment, and he was treating it like nothing? Paradox suppressed a sigh and muttered, “Water, I guess.”

Cyrus gave a curt nod and was out of the room, leaving Paradox alone. When Paradox no longer heard Cyrus’s footsteps, he stood up and began wandering around the room. He knew he shouldn’t search one’s room, be it a stranger, partner, or whomever, but he was curious what sort of things Cyrus would have in his room.

The closet was massive—more than a walk-in. It was practically another room with aisles of clothes. The variety of colors was astounding, and the different fabrics the clothes were made of were also surprising. Each one was unique and clearly custom-made. Paradox ran his hand over a dark aqua-blue blazer jacket, admiring the feel between his fingers.

He walked farther down the closet and found a section of hats—fedoras, sunhats, beanies, caps, boaters, and even a deerstalker. He didn’t understand why Cyrus would need so many hats, but then again, he knew nothing of his personal life.

“Do you normally sneak around someone else’s house?” an amused voice said behind him.

Paradox went rigid. He didn’t turn around, not wanting to face Cyrus.

He heard Cyrus walk behind him and felt his hand curling over his right hip. He held his breath, unsure what to do or say.

“Now I see why you wanted to be restrained,” mused Cyrus.

“T-that isn’t it!” Paradox protested, unable to contain himself, whipping around to glare at Cyrus. “I just—”

“Not even an apology for sneaking into my closet, hm?” Cyrus said, a sideways grin on his face.

Paradox immediately stopped stammering. He averted his gaze, setting his jaw.

“Why don’t you come out and have your drink? Then perhaps…we’ll continue.” Cyrus led Paradox out of the closet. He went to the nightstand and grabbed the cup he had set there. It wasn’t water, as it was too shiny, and there were pale orange petals floating in it.

“What is this?” Paradox asked when he accepted the cup from Cyrus.

“Daylilies. Passionflower.” Cyrus said.

“Is it safe?” Paradox asked, eyeing the not-water.

Cyrus shrugged. “So far, I didn’t die from drinking it. Nor anyone I gave it to. Think of it as tea. Plus, it’ll help you relax.”

Paradox wasn’t sure if he should believe Cyrus but nevertheless drank the “tea.” It was warm, and a bittersweet taste lingering in the back of his throat. His head felt clearer, but his body felt heavy. He set the cup down and sat on the bed, trying to process how he felt. Part of him wanted to continue the activity from earlier, yet another part of him wanted to sleep.

“What do you want?” Cyrus murmured, leaning toward Paradox.

“Just fuck me,” Paradox said. He lay down on the bed, staring at the ceiling. He felt the weight of the bed shift, indicating that Cyrus had now climbed on, and he felt Cyrus’s hands moving his legs apart.

“Remember to breathe, kid,” Cyrus said.

Just like the first night, Paradox was lost in a hazy of pheromones, hormones, and blissful pain. He let Cyrus take control and take the lead, letting him consume him whole. He struggled to catch his breath as Cyrus controlled him, entering him slowly over and over again.

The tea was making Paradox feel lethargic, but his mind was racing. He gripped onto Cyrus, gasping from a particular blow, and he said, “Wait—”

There was no waiting; there was no pause. Without Paradox saying his word, there was no stop. He was crying and gasping and begging for him to slow down but to go faster, his mind jumbled and confused and lost—

“You’re okay, you’re okay,” Cyrus murmured low in Paradox’s ear, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Breathe, kid, breathe.”

It wasn’t long before Paradox’s body gave out to release, and he let go of Cyrus, panting. Cyrus brushed Paradox’s hair out of his eyes and said, “Why don’t you rest? I’ll be back.” He kissed Paradox’s throat, just above the stuttering pulse, and he was gone.