The Mist and the Lightning. Part 18
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“And what does it mean?” Kors asked with a grin. “That you didn’t have enough money for real jewelry, and that’s why you drew them for yourself?” He looked at Zaf. “Nik is just not used to obeying. I was not with him, and no one raised him. But I’ll catch up. He will stop behaving like a thoughtless boy and become a worthy warrior, become a truly great, powerful Demon, the way he really is! I will grind this rough diamond into brilliant! I will put the best in him!”
Zaf shook his head, and Nik sat down and was sad and silent.
“Vi-i-tor,” Zaf suddenly said tenderly, as he did in the Limit and in the Ore Town, slightly stretching the vowel, and after “v” he did not insert this rough sound “kh” into his name, as did Nik. Zafa managed to pronounce the name of Kors softer, almost correctly. And Kors froze.
“You are beautiful,” said Zaf, and he didn’t need to say that already. Kors understood everything perfectly, he was shaking, unconsciously and even in some kind of panic. Kors mentally darted to Nik: “What should I do?”
“Whatever you want,” Nik responded immediately, “you are free in your manifestations”.
And Zaf was already unbuttoning his fly. Well, what else had Kors hoped for and counted on, if he himself allowed him in the Limit to do with him everything that Zaf wanted? And now it was not surprising that Zaf continued to consider him his. Kors wanted to refuse him, but how? After Kors crawled at his feet like an obedient slave, and after everything that took place in between? Of course, Zaf considered Kors his own, he was sure that Kors liked him, and there was mutual sympathy between them. Now he could take the refusal as an insult. And Kors didn’t want to aggravate relations with Zaf at all, so he went up to the unclean one and knelt in front of him, trying not to think about anything.
“I missed you,” said Zaf, taking out his decorated scion, “my beautiful greyhound, polish my diamond too…”
And Kors took his cock in his mouth and sucked Zaf, and he didn’t even imagine what it cost him. Zaf contentedly snuffled his disfigured nose and gently stroked Kors along the white strand, as before, being touched by its unusualness among the dark hair. Kors now hated that white strand of his because it attracted unclean ones so much. But when Zaf was already ready to come, he pushed Kors’ face aside and sprinkled cum on the carpet next to him, without staining Kors and not pouring into his mouth.
“Handsome black,” he said, carelessly patting Kors on the cheek, “why do I like you so much?”
And Kors thought that, not aggravating their relationship, he did the right thing.
“I’ll give you expensive jewelry,” Zaf continued, he looked very pleased.
“Zaf, I’m not a whore to pay me,” Kors replied, perhaps even too arrogantly and pretentiously, but he still hadn’t quite come to his senses, “I am free in my manifestations and do only what I myself want.”
“I know,” Zaf answered and laughed, and for some reason Kors didn’t like his laugh.
Chapter 8
“When would you want to go to the doctor, today or tomorrow?” Kors asked.
“Tomorrow,” Nik replied immediately.
Kors thought for a moment.
“No. You know, I thought we were going to the doctor today. This will be better.”
Nik froze in some confusion, and Kors added:
“I have made this decision.”
“Why are you asking me then?”
“Silence! I know what is best.”
And Nik said nothing.
Kors tormented Nik for a long time. He took him to the bathroom and washed him, because no matter how much he did it, Nik still seemed dirty to him, and, as Kors believed, he smelled like unclean ones. He poured water on him endlessly. He didn’t like the way the scar looked – it seemed that the crack on his Nik’s cheek was clogged with dirt, and Kors kept rubbing and rubbing his face with a washcloth, lathered with soap, until his cheek noticeably reddened. He washed and dried his hair again, and Nick probably hadn’t washed his hair as many times in his entire life as Kors had washed it for him lately. Carefully combing the tangled strands, Kors made Nik a tail “like black ones wear” and pinned the regrown bangs up from his forehead with thin hairpins. He once again refreshed the tonal dye on Nik’s forehead and cheekbones, hiding the tattoos, and, on the contrary, lined his initials, making them stand out more. Kors smeared the healing ointment on Nik’s still slightly swollen lip without the usual rings. Kors squeezed him, fiddled with him, and tried his own clothes on him for a long time. Finally, he put a bunch of his own clothing on Nik: underwear, an expensive cambric shirt, pants, jacket and boots. Kors threw away his rough boots of the unclean ones and gave him a pair of his own. He also ordered him to throw away Prince Arel’s jacket and gave him his own one. It was a bit large for Nik, but Kors tightened the lacing on the shoulders, sleeves and sides, and buttoned the high collar all the way to the top, so that Nik’s tattooed neck was as closed as possible. The fact that the jacket was a bit too long for Nik even seemed beautiful to Kors. He put his expensive fine leather gloves on his hands. Nik was a warrior, and therefore in most cases, even in a peaceful environment, he wore ammunition, often armor, and always weapons. Therefore, over his jacket, Kors put on his chest and back a protection of hard thick leather, decorated with rows of precious metal plates. There was no need for it now, but Kors just knew that then Nik would inevitably keep his back straight and not slouch as usual. He strapped on his engraved steel shoulder pads, forearm shields, and tied it up with his a pile of belts. Everything to the smallest detail – both clothes and ammunition – belonged to Kors, and he didn’t leave Nik any of his personal belongings, except for the mask. Finally, he was more or less satisfied with the way his son looked. At the same time, while Kors was washing, combing and dressing his Nik, he hugged him every minute, kissed and cuddled him, then rudely calling him “stupid featherhead”, then tenderly calling him “his most beloved, his precious”. It seemed to Kors that at such moments Nik seemed to fall out of reality, and he was not with him at all and was not even in this world. There was no human, no Demon, no one. Still, Nik didn’t resist at all. He was silent and obeyed his father unquestioningly, got up, sat down and turned around as he was told, and for Kors it was decisive. He dressed him up, and finally he put a mask on his face anyway. It was Nik’s mask, which, upon returning to Fort, Kors immediately returned to him. From the very beginning, black glasses were inserted into the slits for the eyes, so that one didn’t have to put on black glasses on his face first, and only then the mask. Kors looked skeptically at his son, who had become faceless, and, after thinking a little, nevertheless took off his mask. He adjusted the hairpins that held his bangs once more.
“You don’t understand, Nik, how much I love you!” He said with inspiration in his voice. “After all, love is not only sex. Love is also tenderness and care, compassion for the feelings of a loved one and a desire to support him in everything.”
“Vitor, will I go without a mask?” Nik asked, seeing that Kors put it aside.
“Yes.”
“Then I need black glasses, it’s too light outside.”
“No.”
“Vi…”
“I said, no! That’s the limit! It’s ugly, shameful and doesn’t suit you!” Snapped Kors.
“But it’s hard for me without them,” Nik tried to argue, “from the bright sun my eyes hurt later. I have altered eyes…”
“Shut up, I don’t even want to listen to it!”
“To me sunlight is as if hot sand is thrown into my eyes. Then it hurts for a long time, and I can’t see well…”
“It’s not sunny at all,” Kors looked sideways at the window, seeing that behind the loosely covered shutters the bright sun was shining, “we won’t walk for long, bear with it.”
Nik fell silent in frustration, and Kors scrutinized him for the hundredth time.
“If not for this damn scar, now everything would be fine!”
“I…” Nik hesitated, crouched, lowering his eyes, the corners of his lips involuntarily crawled down, and a slightly swollen lower lip protruded forward amusingly, and Kors was invariably touched by this display of frustration: how cute, according to Kors, Nik pouted. Therefore, unable to restrain himself, Kors involuntarily laughed, this laugh forcing Nik to make a sad grimace even more.
Continuing to watch his son so sincerely upset, Kors swallowed as if he had swallowed something pleasant to him, tasty:
“Gods, how funny it is,” continuing to smile, Kors came close to him, and taking him by the forearm, lifted him from the chair, lifting him. Nik stood up immediately.
Hanging over him, Kors grabbed him by the face with his free hand, squeezing him tightly, digging his nails into his cheeks so that Nik’s lips protruded ugly forward.
Kors let go a little:
“Open your mouth,” he ordered, and Nik parted his lips immediately.
“Wider!”
Nik opened his mouth wider, and Kors could now see the ball gleaming in his tongue. Kors admired this and thrust his fingers into Nik’s mouth, pulled the ball up with his nails, so that the bar on which it was wound became visible. Kors pulled the jewelry towards him, and Nik shook his head a little, emitting a low, indistinct hum. Not paying any attention to this, Kors continued to pull, and Nik, due to the metal rod threaded through his tongue, inevitably had to reach for Kors’ fingers and almost stick his tongue out of his mouth.