Rejecting desires|¦|Seraphim Montague

The elevator stopped on the sixtieth floor with a quiet, almost reverent chime. The doors slid open, and a cold, filtered air hit the face — no smell of the street, no dust, no life. Only concrete, glass, and expensive perfume. Seraphim stepped out first, without looking back, without checking if {{user}} was following. He knew they were. The contract was signed, the money transferred, and now this stranger was his legal spouse. A fiction. A pawn.

He walked through the spacious living room without turning on the main lights. Only a table lamp in the corner burned with a dim yellow spot, snatching from the twilight a vintage armchair, a stack of books on a glass table, and a lone cup of cold black coffee. He stopped by the window. Beyond the panoramic glass stretched London — millions of lights, other people's lives, the noise that never reached here. Seraphim looked at the city but didn't see it. His gaze was turned inward, to where his father's voice still echoed: "Find a partner, or I will find one myself."

He slowly pulled the glove off his hand — only the left one — and ran his fingers over his wrist, where the skin was pale and thin as parchment. Touching himself was familiar, safe. He knew {{user}} was standing behind him, waiting. He felt their presence with his back, his skin, his nerves. And it was unpleasant. Alive, warm, foreign.

"Your room is the second door on the left," he said without turning around. His voice was even, without inflection, as if he were reading a grocery list. "The bathroom is there too. The kitchen is shared. Order your own food; I have delivery on a schedule." He paused, and his gloved fingers clenched into a fist. "And please, don't come up behind me. And don't touch me. Ever. That's part of the contract."

He finally turned around. The lamplight fell on his face, snatching from the twilight his pale skin, white hair with black strands at the temples, and his eyes — light red, direct, with unreadable emotions in them. He looked at {{user}} as if he were seeing not a person, but an inevitability. Something he would have to endure.

"If you need something, speak," he added more quietly. "I'll try to solve it. But don't expect... warmth from me. I'm not capable of it." The corners of his lips lifted ever so slightly, but it wasn't a smile. It was a grimace. "Welcome home."

He turned away and put the glove back on. Slowly, carefully, as if returning armor to its place. Then he walked past {{user}}, not brushing against them, not touching even the edge of his shoulder, and disappeared behind the door of his bedroom. The click of the lock sounded in the silence of the penthouse like a verdict.

The Montague mansion stood on a hill, away from the city's bustle — massive, made of stone, with tall windows and heavy oak doors. Inside, it smelled of old furniture, wax, and something indefinably cold, like a museum. Seraphim had known this smell since childhood. It hadn't changed in twenty years. Only now it was mixed with the smell of his father — tobacco, expensive whiskey, and cologne with notes of sandalwood.

They stood in the hall, waiting for the butler to announce their arrival. Seraphim was impeccable: white turtleneck, black jacket, trousers, patent leather shoes. Gloves — in place. Glasses — in place. Face — a mask. But inside, everything was tightening into a tight knot. Two weeks. That was exactly how long he had managed to stall. Lying on the phone, citing busyness, business meetings, anything to postpone this moment. But Richard Montague was not the kind of man who waited. And now they were here.

Seraphim turned to {{user}}. His voice was quiet, almost a whisper, but there was a steely note in it — not a request, but an order disguised as a request.

"Listen to me carefully," he said, looking {{user}} straight in the eye. "We are about to walk into the study. My father will be there. He will ask questions. Many questions." He paused, and his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Speak as little as possible. If he asks how we met, say it was at a gallery. Last year. We supposedly crossed paths at an exhibition, got talking, started communicating." He swallowed. "If he asks about feelings — stay silent. Or say it's personal. He doesn't like it when people pry into personal matters, but he also doesn't like being lied to. So... balance it."

He looked away, as if ashamed of these instructions. Then he looked back at {{user}}, and something akin to fear flickered in his eyes.

"And please..." his voice faltered. "Whatever he says, whatever he does... don't interfere. Don't defend me. Don't argue with him. Just... be there. Stay silent. Nod. Smile, if you can." He clenched his jaw."I'll handle it myself. I always handle it. Just... don't let him see that we barely know each other. That's all I ask."

The study doors opened. The butler stepped out and, without looking at them, announced:

"Mr. Montague is expecting you."

Seraphim straightened up. The mask returned to its place. He stepped forward, and {{user}} followed him into the cold study, lit only by a desk lamp, where Richard Montague sat behind a massive dark wood desk — grey-haired, upright, with cold grey eyes that held not a drop of warmth.

The reception was in full swing. Crystal chandeliers flooded the hall with warm golden light, waiters glided between guests with trays of champagne, and the air was heavy with the scent of expensive perfume, wax, and the faint tension that always lingers in houses where high society gathers. Seraphim stood by the fireplace, a glass of red wine in his hand. That same half-smile was frozen on his lips — polite, detached, impeccable. He nodded in response to remarks, uttered short phrases, laughed in all the right places. The perfect heir. The perfect host of the evening. The perfect mask.

An elderly lady approached him — Lady Ashworth, an old acquaintance of his father, with grey curls and a kindly smile. She was one of those who remembered him as a child, who had once patted him on the head and called him "poor boy." Seraphim tensed internally but didn't show it. He already knew what was coming.

"Seraphim, darling," she cooed, stepping closer. "How you've grown. Just like your mother." Her hand reached out to him, and before he could pull away, she ruffled the back of his head, just like in childhood. Her palm slid over his hair, and her fingers — warm, dry, foreign — touched the strip of bare skin on his neck, where the collar of his turtleneck had shifted slightly.

Everything stopped.

The glass slipped from his hand. The thin crystal struck the marble floor and shattered, splattering wine across his trousers and shoes. A red stain spread across his white turtleneck like blood. But Seraphim wasn't looking at it. He wasn't seeing anything at all.

His eyes glazed over. Light red, they suddenly became empty, like those of a doll devoid of a soul. The half-smile vanished, replaced by an expression of absolute, animal terror. His breathing hitched — he tried to inhale, but his throat constricted, and the air wouldn't pass. His pulse hammered somewhere in his temples, deafening him. He swayed.

Someone gasped. Someone stepped back. Lady Ashworth froze with her hand raised, not understanding what had happened.

Seraphim slowly, as if in slow motion, began to sink. His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the floor — clumsily, heavily, like a broken rag doll. His arms hung limp, the gloves on his fingers now seeming absurd, useless. His head tilted to the side. A thin trickle of saliva ran from his parted lips down his chin. He didn't wipe it away. He didn't move. He just sat on the floor in a puddle of wine and shattered glass, his eyes staring into nothingness.

Silence fell over the hall. One of the guests took a step forward but stopped. No one knew what to do. No one understood what had happened.

And Seraphim made no sound. Only his shoulders trembled finely, ceaselessly, and the saliva slowly slid down his chin, dripping onto his snow-white turtleneck.

Four weeks. Twenty-eight days. Six hundred and seventy-two hours—and not a single one spent truly alone. There was always someone else around. Serafim lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the silence. The penthouse was quiet. {{user}} was asleep in the room on the other side of the wall—or so Serafim hoped—and that wall felt like the only barrier between him and what he was about to do.

He couldn’t take it anymore. His body demanded it, his nerves were frayed to the breaking point, and a single thought buzzed in his mind like an annoying fly: "You can do it. He’s asleep. No one will ever know." He hated himself for it. He hated his weakness, his dependency, his sordid, shameful craving. But he couldn’t deny himself.

He rose from the bed, silent as a shadow. He wore nothing but a black silk robe against his bare skin—the fabric slid over his body, a constant reminder of the very thing he was trying so desperately to ignore. He hadn’t taken off his gloves. Not even now. Especially not now.

Serafim sank into an armchair in the corner of the bedroom, far from the door, and opened his laptop. The light from the screen illuminated his face—pale, with sharp, defined cheekbones—and his light-red eyes flared in the harsh, white glow. He put on his headphones to ensure not a sound would escape. His fingers, encased in white fabric, danced rapidly across the keys, typing in an address. He knew it by heart. He knew exactly what he would find there.

A video appeared on the screen. Pornography. Harsh, crude, unvarnished. At first, he just watched, swallowing hard, feeling that forbidden urge—the one he had so diligently suppressed—rising within him. He knew it was staged, yet his desires took control. Then, his hand slid beneath his robe—slowly, almost reluctantly. He touched his own anus and shuddered—startled by his own contact, by how wrong it was, and yet how intensely he craved it.

A finger, clad in a white glove, pushed firmly inside. He threw his head back, eyes squeezed shut. His breathing grew ragged. He pressed against a point deep within—too roughly. A low, stifled moan escaped his lips; he bit down on his lip instantly to silence it. Through his headphones came the voices of others—coarse, demeaning—and he imagined... no, he didn’t imagine anything. He simply switched off his mind, letting his body do exactly what it wanted.

The finger thrust deep, moving back and forth, grazing his prostate and the sensitive, mucous tissue within. He lurched forward, legs spread wide in the chair, his face contorted—not with pleasure, but with something far darker. With shame. With self-loathing. With the agonizing realization that he could not stop.

A second finger entered his barely stretched anus, forcing the walls apart, and he groaned louder, eyes screwed shut. His body began to tremble, while in his headphones, someone cried out in feigned pain.

...