Would mortals do this to each other? Yes, they would. Over history, they have.
So what’s the difference?
To combat the sounds, the temptation to release Wonder, Anger resurrects that human guitar melody in his head.
Love yowls and flings herself like a shield in front of Wonder.
Anger restrains the sprite, hauling her from the room. In the hallway, he seizes her face. “Stop it! Shush, dammit! Do you want to get us banished?!”
She doesn’t shush. She wrenches herself from him and points a shaky finger. “Why didn’t you help me stand up to them?”
Because that would have gotten them all into trouble.
It would have gotten Love into trouble.
It does anyhow. When the Court sentences her to solitary, Anger hazards and sneaks to the cell, sliding his hand beneath the door, to tell her that she’s not alone. Love is fixated with touches of the gentle sort. He thinks this will comfort her, and he wants her to need him, wants to feel the pressure of her hand resting in his.
She refuses and taunts him, bitter that he hadn’t vindicated Wonder.
On a snarl, he pulls away, which is sort of a relief.
***
He takes her that night. Hard and sweet.
She answers her front door, which he’d been ramming his fists on. Not giving her a moment to speak, Anger grabs Love and slams his mouth onto hers. There’s a profusion of shock. Then her startled yelp dissolves into a fantastic sigh, and she digs her nails into his biceps.
Fastening his arms around her, his tongue laps between her lips. Together, they stumble inside, the door shutting after them.
He braces his fingers on her dress and rips. The material divides, hanging off her shoulders to reveal a lane of flesh, tight breasts, and coiling hair at the nexus of her thighs. She kisses him back and drives her hand into his pants, needy and urgent.
Minutes later, he’s on top, their bodies rocking across the bed. Above her, he’s naked and pumping his hips, thrusting restlessly into dampness. She clasps him in a frenzy, her head thrown back.
And it’s all he wants, all he wants, all he wants.
The right to touch her. To be the first person who has ever touched her.
There’s something crazed and desolate about this, but he doesn’t stop to analyze. He’s been dreaming of this, dreaming of this, dreaming of this…
Anger lurches upright from the bed. His eyelids split open.
Another bout of delirium. Another falsehood.
But then a body shifts, making a drowsy noise from the hill of pillows. Clarity returns, and his head slopes toward the sound, identifying its source. Marigold locks spill over a curvaceous body, which rises and falls in sleep.
***
They don’t talk about it. In bed, Wonder had been desperate for someone she can’t have.
So had Anger.
And perhaps he’d wanted to apologize for the abuse, to atone for her punishment in the only way he’d known how. And he’d wanted to make her feel good, make himself feel good. And while bedding another, he’d envisioned making Love feel ecstatic, none of which he’d accomplished.
The compensation hadn’t worked. So it never happens again.
***
He gets brave and foolish, approaching the Fate Court, begging for their audience. It’s an application on the pretense of mere curiosity, the arrogance of a well-bred student. A veneer of gravitas, so they won’t see through him when he asks what makes mortals inferior.