tepidoil

[tepidoil]

word count: 1.5k+ warnings: unreality themes, general horror, death mentions notes: i’m using drawkill’s awesome prompt list; thanks for the inspo! PS: character interpretations and world state fleshed out with lethanavir

Horrortober 2k19, Day 2: Sensory Loss

The Orchard is a grand place. When she was little, her parents told her of the great trees within the Orchard. The temples were always present in the trees of the Orchard, acting both as a creature snug in its home, and the protector. The trees were grand, yes, but as a child the temples had awed her more. Their splendor, with the balance between architecture and nature, had consumed her focus. The great doors of the temple had closed before she realized she had been left there by her parents. The grand temple was to be her home.

She remembers years of ease; of brushing about the priests and playing in the forest. Her dreams were silly and sweet; her ambitions most focused on getting the juiciest morsel of the fruit left out for the children to eat. She did not lie, she did not steal, but sometimes children still err. She snatches from another child and hides away from the priests. The fruit was hers! So lost in the victory of sweetness she does not realize that the temple was far behind her. The foliage had grown thicker and the air heavier. Her feet grew heavy, as did her eyes, and she rested with her prize tucked against her. She pressed her back to the base of a pure white tree and dreamed.

Childhood dreams of laughter and playfulness are easily torn, like candy floss caught between ones sticky fingers. She tears at her dream on accident, too boisterous and bold from her victory. She rips it open, spilling herself out into a place she had never seen before, and at the feet of a priest she had never met. The tales come to her in a rush of panic; she searches for six eyes and a cloying grin. She does not find either in the priest though. The priest peers at her with cloudy eyes and a soft smile. She lets the priest scoop her up, from the shreds of dreams she would never see again, and walk away with her. This dream was vast, open with hundreds of paths spiraling around it, and flecked with stars and emotions. She watches, eyes open as far as they can go, trying to see it all; it was impossible.

She wakes at the base of the tree, curled in the arms of the priest from the dream, and feels at home.

The priest who found her was the Orchard Keeper. They were always soft spoken, but their voice was so sweet. Flowers bloomed in the Keeper's hair and mushrooms sat on their shoulders like tiny birds. She would run from the temple, after she had completed all her daily studies and chores, to sit with the Keeper. The Keeper was rarely idle, either tending to the trees within the Orchard, or the gardens that lay dispersed through the woods. They spoke of the plants, spoke to the plants, and sometimes even to her.

"Tell me your name."

"Suin'vun!" She's too eager, too bright, for such a name: 'Quiet Life'. The Keeper smiles down at her, moss covered hand pressing against her brow for a moment, before listing away. They reach above them and pull a fruit from a branch; she hadn't seen a fruit on that tree before!

"A beautiful name."

"What is yours?" The Keeper holds the fruit out to her, so she takes it. This fruit is sweeter, with rosy flesh flecked in pale spots, and the seeds white and soft. She eats it all, ignoring the way it seems to pulse (echoing in her ears like a heartbeat) in her hands, chasing after the last drops of the fruit's juice on her fingertips. The Keeper's smile captivates her. She sees a smile like that, sometimes, in her dreams. It lurks at the end of a distant path, reflected off a pool of shimmering water, and waits on her.

"My name was once Uil." The Keeper leans in to tell her this, as if it was a secret; the Keeper does not take a breath to speak more. "Do you think it is a pretty name?"

"Yeah!"

The Keeper nods, cloudy eyes falling shut, and fondness falls over their face. "I gave that name to Lethanavir, when I pledged myself to him." She's heard of the pledges; they all pledge themselves to Falon'Din when they are old enough. From the commoners to the rich, their prayers go to the guide who keeps them from straying from the right path. The priests do more than just pray though, don't they? She's old enough now to see more than just grandeur around her; she sees the dedication that the priests, that the Keeper, offers to Falon'Din every day. The Keeper opens their eyes and looks right into her, like she were nothing but a reflecting pond. "Won't you do the same, when your time comes?"

She can taste the sweetness of the fruit still on her tongue when she speaks: "I will".

She plays less and studies more. She does not run from the priests now or rush through her duties. She becomes studious, and kind, and dedicated. The priests help her learn, help her grow, and help her cleanse herself before it was time for her pledge. She stands at the edge of a shimmering pond, the surface stunning and undisturbed, and looks at her reflection. Her eyes were bright and clear still, with only a fleck of creeping white marring their color, and she looks straight through herself. She whispers her name; for Falon'Din was the brother of Dirthamen and always heard the secrets meant for him; and watches her reflection change. The reflection pond echoes a vision of a woman back to her, with her eyes completely grey, and she embraces it. She embraces the name the vision whispers to her: Ithelana; the one who watches. 

She works under the Keeper now. She is a priest now as well, tasked with helping tend to the Orchard. The Keeper's body grows more frail as time passes. She is one of the priests who prepares for the Keeper's body for its ultimate rest. She trims the flowers and fruiting mushrooms into compliance on the Keeper's body; the other Orchard Tenders wrap their body in wool. The Keeper smiles at her as the Tenders gather around to pray. She watches, head bowed, as the Keeper's smile fades away. The Orchard accepts the body and she watches the roots of the great white tree claim the body.

She sleeps in the pure white tree that night and dreams she walks again with the Keeper.

The Keeper speaks to her in the dreams; through the Orchard. Their name was Urvun, a gift, as well as a reward. Urvun guides her, echoing advice to her, and whispering through her. Flowers have begun to sprout from her hair and she favors mushrooms over all the other plants in the great Orchard. She stands at the edge of the reflection pool and stares within it, but struggles to see much anymore. The years begin to dim, very slowly, but she is not bothered. She watches regardless, even as the cloudiness of her eyes prevents her from fully seeing the face of Falon'Din when she finally is blessed to meet him, and Urvun whispers that it is a good thing. Falon'Din was of untold beauty and kindness; his smile alone could make her heart ache. Urvun whispers these things to her and she laughs, for she is still not a quiet life, but ever watchful.

Falon'Din visits somewhat frequently, or perhaps she visits him frequently. She stays in the Orchard mostly now, rarely straying to the temple. She tends to the Orchard faithfully, even as the other Tenders lay for their finally rest. She prepares their bodies as well; their limbs bound up with roots and their eyes overgrown and shut. She watches the seasons change, years pass, and the Orchard grow. Urvun speaks to her still, but no longer through her. It was getting harder for her to talk, for her to feel; she barely sees the Orchard around her, even as she knows its beauty.

Now she sits at the edge of the reflection pool, her body weary and heavy with abundant roots, and watches her reflection. It blurs before her, sparkling, but indistinct. She leans over the pond, the shimmering water undisturbed, and prays over it like a willow. Her hair falls against its surface, but make no ripples. She is not a burden to the Orchard; to his will. He comes to her, hands pressing gently to her bowed head, and she watches the clouded reflection of his smile peer at her. She has seen that smile before, but more clearly, long ago.

"Tell me again: your name." It is Urvun who speaks to her now, even as new Orchard Tenders gather around her. They trim the flowers in her hair and help ease her gnarled hands flat. She is root bound and stiff; noncompliant only in such a sense. Each breath grows harder, with the taste of the air around her bland and unamazing. She does not feel cloth wipe dirt from her face or water pass her lips; she can only feel the breath of the Weave on her face when Urvun speaks.

"I am Ithelana." Her body is wrapped in wool, but she does not feel its warmth. She is laid before the great white trees and the Tenders gather around her. She feels comfort, yes, but little else. She reaches for the Weave, but her body is too stiff. She watches as the last bit of light is taken away from her clouded vision, roots cradling and crowding over her, and dirt covering her completely. She was not afraid.

"Have you watched faithfully?" She was being pulled beneath the great trees of the Orchard, sparkling roots that glimmer, even in the cloudy darkness, coil around her. She feels at ease here; like it was a dream.

"I have Urvun."

The sparkling grows as hands reach for her. She reaches back, no longer stiff, and no longer wrapped in wool. Urvun pulls her from the dirt, back onto her feet, at the end of the most distant of the paths she has ever seen. Urvun was smiling, but she cannot see it. "Yes you have. I am proud of you." Urvun was not the Shepherd, perched like an owl on an oaken staff among the paths, but they guide her all the same. 

They guide her along the path that leads her to the reflection that she had seen long, long ago. Of a beautiful smile, so beautiful and kind it would lead her heart to ache, and her heart does ache. Urvun leads her forward, into the pond, where her soul does not disturb the surface. She sinks into the pond, at peace, and watches through cloudy eyes as Lethanavir peers down at her. She settles among the growing pearls at the bottom of the pool, not radiant as they, but at peace. She only feels peace as the last bit of her vision fades away, staring up into the too beautiful smile of her god.

Urvun stands at the edge of the reflecting pool, plucking the rosy, pale spotted fruit with soft white seeds, from its surface; it throbs with the sound of a once dedicated Tender's heartbeat.

#goretober #horrortober #lethanaviir #:Goretober 2k19 #:work

[tepidoil]

Rating: General Audiances Relationships: N/a Characters: Shinsou Hitoshi, misc Additional Tags: Unreliable Narrator, Shinso being a shit, I'm trying to figure out Hitoshi's character so here we are, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternative Universe - Mineta Minoru was expelled, Alternate Universe - Shinso is in Class A-1

Explorative pieces of Hitoshi Shinso's character. He's such an interesting, cryptic fellow. Individual chapters all within the same universe; all chapters tagged individually.

Chapter tags: Emetophobia cw, vague vomit scene, nose bleeds, general unsanitary stuff.

We don't see a lot of Mind Quirks in canon, so I wanted to figure out more what a training a Mind Quirk might be like. Either that or I'm cranky and I wanted to inflict my migraine on Shinso. We just don't know.

#boku no hero academia #my hero academia #my hero acadamy #shinsou hitoshi #bnha shinso #:work #:crosspost

[tepidoil]

Title: Because of Him Notes: So Eline and I were talking about a particular scene in Pap/ri/ka and... well. Word Count: 2k+ Summary: He's the only reason people liked him; right? Warnings: Unreality themes, explicit gore, torture, gaslighting, Gin

The bedroom door wasn't locked. He can tell from the bed, with a little bit of light slipping in from the crack in the curtains, to the candles scattered across the room, that the lock was turned the wrong way. He always locks the door before he goes to bed; always. The only person with a key to the door wasn't here-- no-- he's wrong. Rose was here; Rose always lights candles before going to sleep.

He was here.

He wasn't in bed though. A residual warmth coaxes him to stay in bed, to curl up deeper and go back to sleep, but he can't. He's awake, his heart hammering for a reason he can't determine, and he wants Rose to come back. He wants Rose to come back to bed. He wants him. He doesn't notice the silence as he throws back the covers, ignoring how the duvet nearly touches the candles, and he gets out of bed. He can't find his shoes ( he's on the wrong side of the bed, that must be it ) and he walks to the door barefoot. The floorboards don't squeak and the door doesn't groan in protest. His back feels pleasantly warm.

The lights weren't on in the house. He only turns the lights off if Rose was with him. The things that live in the house ( the things that live with him ) know better than to make a fuss when Rose visited. The house would always quiet down, giving him some rest, and the neighbors too. The neighbors liked Rose, but most people did. He was beautiful, he was charming, and most of his moods were kept in private. People thought he was a good person ( he is a good person ) and it was nice. They were even nice to him when Rose was around.

He's the only reason people like him.

There was a light on in the house. The kitchen light streaks runny and yellow down the hall, leaving long shadows to crowd against the walls, and clutch at the paintings he leaves hung. The things that live with him know not to touch the painting. The paintings were more wicked than them. He knows the paintings watch him as he passes, so he doesn't look at them. He doesn't mind their stares anymore. Even when every face in them was exactly the same.

"Rose?" He questions the air, strangely yellow, and warm. The light wasn't coming from the lamp by the kitchen table, like he thought, but it was hovering over the table instead. It wasn't quite a ball of flame, but it wasn't quite pure energy either; it was something in between. Spindly fingers cradle the light, keeping it round and from floating off, and the yellowness seeps into them. The shadows cast over joints was jarring, making them seem terrible and gaunt, but he knows better. He knows the lights like to play tricks on people.

He's used to his tricks.

"Izuru~" The fingers drift away from the light and reach for him instead. The warmth on his back curls around him, urging him forward, and he reaches back. "Did I wake you? I'm so sorry." There's a lilt to his voice, one that's hard to pin, but that might be the light. The lights can play with more than just your eyes.

"It's okay. Is something wrong?" Hopefully not, but why else would he be in the kitchen? The kitchen wasn't well laid out for cooking, but it was nice for summoning. The tiles were stained from years of blood being drawn across them, different patterns sinking so deeply into them it only took a little bit of blood to reactivate them. There wasn't any blood on the floor though, just the light. He can't see Rose's face because of the light.

"Nothing you need to worry about." Fingers curl around his as he sits close, dragging the chair across the floor, and ignoring the lack of sound it makes. Rose's hand was cold, the heat likely swallowed up by the light, and he covers it with his free hand. He wishes some of the warmth curled around him would help Rose. He doesn't know why he feels like that is a foolish thought.

"Though…" There's an artful pause, stringing along his suspense, and he hangs onto the thread dangled out before him. He holds the cold hand tighter, squinting to try to make out more than just the wide grin that is spread out behind the yellow light, and he waits. "You might be able to help me with something." The hand that was cradling the light is reaching out for him now and he leans into it. He wants to be touched, even if yellow stained fingers are cold. He seems so cold. Rose is never this cold. "Won't you help me Izuru~?"

The smile that hangs behind the yellow light is easier to see now, because now it's hovering higher. He's stucks in his seat, like he was strapped down on some carnival ride, and he watches. He watches the grin float higher, the ball of light flickering more and more now that no one was touching it. It looked more like fire now, jerking and changing colors, the comforting warmth sinking into his skin so deeply it was beginning to become uncomfortable. The lights in the house were all off, but the yellow light was creeping everywhere. He could feel the light flickering around him.

"You will help me, won't you?" The voice is so sweet, so cold, and it echoes around him. It does not fill the room naturally, like a singer's voice might, but it projects all the same. It has a scratchy sort of tone to it, like it was being spread from speakers, blasted loud to be heard over… heard over-- "I need your eyes darling~" The voice was so sweet and the smile was so familiar that he doesn't flinch as fingers trail over his face. Calloused fingertips brush over his eyelids for a moment, dragging down, and catch on his lips. The cold is a relief to the heat coursing through him, making him sweat, and shift. He wants to pull away, but he leans into the touch instead. The light was so bright, too bright, but he can still see the big grin hovering over him, dripping shades of yellow and red.

"Won't you help me? Say you will." The fingers are drifting lower and lower, dragging across his skin, and leaving a prickling sensation in their wake. He's not sure why; it's not as if the trail stings, but-- he can't put his finger on it. His fingers were wound around cold fingers, desperately holding on, as if he was scared. As if he was on some carnival ride and he wanted comfort. He doesn't go on carnival rides anymore; he wants to forget about them. "Izuru." He wants to forget how heat makes him choke on his breath, or how flickering light reflects off of pale hair that hangs straight around a large grin. He wants to forget the grin that hangs in his field of vision, even as he shuts his eyes.

"Come now~" The trailing fingers were drifting lower, down his jaw and under his chin. He can feel his pulse hammer against them. He can feel so much, but he doesn't want to. Lights play more tricks than just on the eyes; he swears he can hear carnival music playing in the kitchen, flanked by the staticy, echoing voice. He swears he can hear other people too, laughing and talking, and ignoring the voice that talks to him over the speaker system. He jumps as the kitchen windows slamming open and he turns towards them. He can smell the sea breeze coming through them, heavy with ash, and carrying the screams from the carnival. He can see the carnival, not far from his house, was on fire. He can see him standing there, dripping in yellow and red firelight, smiling at him.

"I need y'er eyes 'Zuru."

The fingers tighten, stretching and popping, and he wants to scream. He wants to get out of the ride, he wants to get out, but he can't. He screams, he thinks, but he can't hear it. He can just hear the carnival music, warping as fire creeps up old wooden posts, and burns at the speakers. The screams lull and surge like the music though; like someone was conducting it all. Like nimble fingers were pulling on everything; the music, the screams, him.

The cold fingers begins to feel wet and clammy, like something dug up out of the dirt, and not something just lying about. The touch clings to him, wraps around him, and he realizes that they aren't fingers anymore. They're curling around him, swallowing up his neck, and brushing through his hair. They stick to his hair, tugging on it, and the stinging from before intensifies. They're wet, but not clammy; he was wrong. They were wet and tacky-- they were stained red.

"You'll give 'em to me, right~?" The voice is echoing around him, in him, and he can't get away. He can't close his eyes, even as he tries to pull away, and he can't look away. He can only see what were fingers creeping closer from his peripheral. He can see them, sliding and slithering, inching closer and closer to him. He tries to scream again, or to even make a sound, but it doesn't do him any good. The 'fingers' simply detour, away from his eyes, and into his mouth. They taste like blood and diesel.

"N'aw~ Why are y'eh fussin' so much?" He's choking on the 'fingers', their jointless, wet mass pushing straight to the back of his throat. "I know y'eh can swallow~ Y'eh used to do it all the time for me." They're pushing harder, unyielding to the bend of his throat, or the strength of his jaw. The more he tries to bite them the more that seem to pile in his mouth. He can't even scream anymore. "Yare yare… did y'eh forget y'er manners already?" He needs to scream.

Getting away isn't as important now, not as he chokes on the 'fingers', or as more slide up his cheeks. His hands were so, so cold, frozen to the hand offered to him earlier. His fingers were stiff, cold and blue, and beginning to go black. He can feel the black creeping onto him, from underneath his nails, up towards his palms. The black aches, sinking in like the heat, but freezing him instead; as if he couldn't feel the heat anymore.

"Y'eh know why I need y'er eyes?" The voice keeps talking, keeps holding a conversation, droning on even as it warps and crackles over the fire and screams. "Y'eh turned y'er music off." The bedroom door was unlocked; he never leaves it unlocked. "That means I can do whatever I want~!" He's trying to turn his head, trying to wiggle away, but it won't work. There's too many fingers, smooth and covered in blood, and they keep coming closer. They're familiar, writhing, and he wants to get away; he needs to scream. He wants to pull away as the grin draws closer, firelight flickering off white teeth and pale fringe, eyes as blue as glass piercing through him.

"I need to see where y'er boyfriend is sleepin'-- so I can kill him~"

He knows he screams, however choked, when fingers dig into one of his eyes. They wiggle underneath the eyelid, pressing to the corner, and they push. They're not gentle, but they're careful. It's not like the time he just stabbed his eyes out. He needs wants his eyes. He needs doesn't want to give them up. His hands were frozen, burnt, but his arms weren't-- yet. He pulls away from the yellow stained hand, letting fingers snap off in the flickering grip, and reaches. He tries to push the fingers away, tries to pull the fingers out of his mouth, but it doesn't work. Ash rains down on his face as blackened fingers disentigrate, crumbling under the stress and heat, and the sound of his laugh.

"Why y'eh bein' so naughty 'Zuru~?" He feels his cheekbone snap from the pressure of the fingers curling around his eye and he jerks, lurching forward, and the fingers in his mouth start pushing down. He's heaving, scrambling, but his fingers keep breaking. There's soot all over his face, mixing in with the cuts spread over his face, and he can't breathe. He can taste the blood and diesel, the soot of the flames, and the oily fatn of burned-- of burned-- "Don't'cha remember what happened last time we did this~?" Fingers curls in his eye socket and jerk back, snapping nerves and ripping muscle, and he chokes on his scream.

Fingers are slithering to his other eye, but not pushing against it. They pull at his eyelids, pulling them back, further and further. He can feel skin tearing as he watches his other eye be carried away, towards the ball of light-- no. It wasn't a ball at all. It was gold, not yellow; it had petals. The marigold flickers, burning with a fiery light, and he watches the petals spread in welcome to his eye. In welcome to him. "I changed my mind… I want'cha t' watch me kill 'im~" The fingers keep pulling and pushing, his eyelids tearing under the pressure, and his jaw finally snapping from the pressure.

There was too much in him, around him, and not enough him. He was burning, the petals of his soul withering as he dips his hand into them, his fingers still curled around the mangled eye. The mangled eye, turning from grey to blue glass. "It's gonna be so much fun 'Zuru." The fingers are growing, multiplying around him. They're slithering into his empty eye, curling up in his skull like it was a nest, and the rest-- the rest were curling around him. Fingers turn into coils, hundreds of white coils, and they all writhe. Even the ones in his mouth and throat; they were writhing. They were cold and wet, covered in blood, and they were biting him.

"I've missed bein' in y'eh like this~ Y'er just so much fun to wear." He's crushed by the coils, by every single, snake like lie he ever told him, and he crumbles. He burns in the kitchen, the duvet kissing the candles letting the fire jump inside the house, while the carnival burns on the beach. He watches through the open window, watches as he rolls out of bed, and grabs the knife tucked under the bed. He watches Rose breath, asleep and trusting, and can't close his eyes. It was all his fault. All his fault. All his fault.

He screams as something runs through his eye.

Senses like to come back in increments. Little steps taken by the mind and body to figure out what is going on around them. The first thing he can feel is just how cold he is-- genuinely. He shivers, his limbs jerking, and he feels something slip out of his fingers. The second thing he can feel is a migraine, pounding in his head, mixed with lightheadedness. It was almost as if he was bleeding. It was almost as if he was dying. It was almost as if-- "Oh my darling muse… forgive me." Rose was stabbing him in the eye.

#landofshame #:work #:bleach exorcist au #nsfw cw// #gore cw// #torture cw//

[tepidoil]

I’m trying to do Goretober this year (...again!). I am using this list! Thanks to the creator of the list for these good prompts!

DAY FOUR: UNCONVENTIONAL WEAPON(S)

word count: 1.5k+ warnings: torture, gore, organized crime themes notes: i did a poll on twitter about what unconvintional weapon(s) i should use and picked out light bulb and stiletto! what fun!

"I read something once."

"Wow, you read?"

"Fuck off JJ."

JJ is laughing, acting as if it was the easiest sound in the world, and that he wasn't still trying to catch his breath. One of the guys had caught him under the rib and had left JJ heaving for a minute as he broke a chair over the guy's head. JJ whistles once he's done laughing, tossing a bag of zip ties in the air and catching it again, as if he was showing off to a bunch of girls. "Don't be so mean to me Kitten; I was just teasing!" As if he'd forgive him for just teasing anytime soon.

"I read something once." He's louder now, climbing onto tables and ignoring the fake pout JJ shoots at him, favoring for reaching up into the dinky, tasteless chandelier instead. "That said--" He's grunting, struggling to get the angle right on unscrewing the bulb, and pretending he feels just how hot the bulb probably is. This is why he wears gloves. Well, that and they looked cool. "--if--" He manages to get the bulb at, cracking the old glass that surrounded it to diffuse the light, and he's only annoyed about that because it rips his sleeve. He just bought that shirt!

He jumps off the table, stepping neatly over the guy who he broke a chair on (he was out fucking cold), and walks over to the other one. He's got the lightbulb in hand, waving it around just a bit so it cools some, and so he can watch the filament break off and toss around in the glass. He always loved doing that: shaking things so hard their insides broke. "--You put lightbulb in your mouth, you can't take lightbulb out without breaking it." He nudges the lightbulb against the guy's face and smiles as eyes widen in realization.

He had been the one asleep when his phone rang, of course, so JJ had answered it. Which wasn't bad, really, but JJ always got that weird, 'your dad wants to kill me' look whenever he answered Viktor's calls; always. It was fucking annoying. "I was kinda fucking sleeping--"

"Yuri." The voice on the other end of the line is ice, even to him, and his complaints die off. He ducks his head, even though Viktor can't see it.

"Papa." JJ is looking at him, his phone in the air, and headphones off kilter on his head; he was listening in.

"I want you to take care of something for me." JJ's eyes narrow a little, a frown settling in, but he tries not to frown back. The Family comes first; they both knew that.

"Yes Papa."

It wasn't hard to track down the guy Viktor told them about, not with JJ typing away on his computer ('She has a name Yuri! She's Patty! Isn't she cute? She's lighter than Gertrude was~') and Yuri calling Vor out of their hiding places. Finding the guys was easy, but getting to them had been a bit trickier. JJ had solved the issue by acting like a honey pot; his suit cut way too tight and his heels way too high, and the guy had fallen for it. He had gotten to play air duct boy again, like usual, and he put another tally on the 'get back at JJ' list. He could do that later though. JJ had gotten the guy alone, just with his guard, and he had popped out of the ventilation and done the rest. Well; most of the rest. JJ had kicked the guy in the balls at least.

He presses the bulb closer to the guy's face, lets him flinch and recoil from the heat, and chases him as he tries to scuttle back. JJ had used the zip ties he had thrown at him to snare the guy's hands behind his back, the plastic pulled too tight and already making pudgy fingers turn purplish. It was kinda neat how fast some people could start to blood pool. He's grabbing the guy by the cheeks, pinching at his jaw, and wedging his fingers between his teeth. "Open your mouth." He's wrestling with the guy, shoving the bulb against his face, but not too hard; he doesn't want to break the bulb just yet. The guy jerks to the side, evading him, and he loses his grasp. The guy clenching his jaw makes slapping him the face a bit stingy, but he's not the one sporting a massive split lip now.

"Maybe I should break lightbulb over your head; yeah?" He's sneering, teeth bared and lips curled back, and he lifts the light bulb up. It's more of a threat than anything, but he could always go get another bulb. He doesn't get the chance to though, all because of JJ.

"Kitten, don't!" He sounds almost genuinely distressed, taking a step closer, hands held out before him as if to placate him. Then his facade cracks, a twitch of his lip matching the sparkle in his eye, and Yuri knows he's going to hate whatever JJ's about to say no matter what it is. "If you do that… he might get hit with a bright idea."

Called it.

JJ moves quick, quicker than most think, and he's right next to him in what seems like an instance. His fingers curl around his wrist and JJ slots up behind him; he's taller than him for once, thanks to the heels. JJ pushes him forward with his body, making him shuffle forward a bit, and he nearly brackets the guy's face with his thighs. A gutsy move should the guy decide to try to headbutt or bite his junk; JJ doesn't seem worried. He guides his hand down, urging the light bulb back towards the guy's face, and he watches as the guy's eyes seem to bug out. "Say ah~" He looks down and JJ was digging the heel of his stiletto into the guy's junk.

JJ shifts, pressing weight against him, and against the guy. The guy finally wises up, or gets desperate, because he opens his mouth to try to scream, and Yuri pushes the lightbulb in. Perfect. JJ reaches past him to pat the guy on the head before he backs off, going back towards the bodyguard, and he has to force himself to look away. The cut of that suit was unreal.

"It does fit; cool." He squats in front of the guy now, holding him by what little hair he has left on his sweaty head, and he bares his teeth again. He's been told his grins were a bit too toothy, but that was the point, wasn't it? To show people your teeth? So he shows him his teeth, getting too close, and dropping his voice; as if he was going to tell him a secret. "You think the rest of what I read was true? Like how you crossed Papa and thought you could get away with it? Or you thought my boy could be bribed?" He had watched how the guy had touched JJ, how he had pitched drugs and money at him; he had seen it all.

The guy was trying to talk, his teeth clacking against the light bulb's glass, and he was shaking his head. He grins wider, all teeth, and stands up. "No, you don't?" The guy keeps shaking his head, trying to shimmy away, and keeps trying to talk; to throw excuses or bribes. He doesn't make it a habit to accept bribes; it's why Viktor always gives him this sort of work. "Well I do." Viktor knows he'll never leave a job undone.

He lurches forward, raising his knee into the underside of the guy's jaw, and enduring the reflexive little kickback his foot gives as his kneecap hits jawbone. It's pretty amazing that the guy can scream with a mouthful of glass, he'll give him that. He can hear the splinter of the bulb, can see shards press their tips out the sides of cheeks, and blood already begin to flow. It comes out past his lips and his nose, meaning some of the glass went through his top pallet, and he whistles at it; that had to hurt.

The guy lurches off to the side as he steps away from him, rolling and writhing on the floor, gasping and choking as he desperately tried to spit out glass. It's hard to spit out glass that was embedded though, especially without any hands to help pull it out. "Guess I was right?" He steps back over the guy, stomping on the side of his face, and he screams again. He lifts his foot and kicks next, just for fun, and just a bit to help dislodge glass out of the bottom of his boot. Shit; he needed to replace these boots soon.

"Kitten." JJ was on his phone, frowning a bit, and gesturing him closer. "He called more guys somehow; did he hit a switch I missed?" He grunts, intent to come closer and look at whatever JJ was looking at on his phone, but he doesn't make it that far. The bodyguard lurches forward, evidently having been playing them with his 'out cold' routine, and he's lunging at him. The guy was after the gun that had been discarded on the floor, but he doesn't make it that far. He feels the gun dig into his stomach as he half lands on the body guard, slamming his head into the ground, and trying to grab at his arms. JJ handles one of his arms for him. The guy screams and he looks over, looking down one arm to see JJ stepping on the hand, the heel of his stiletto pushed right between the bones.

He'll have to ask JJ to step on him in those later."

#goretober #:Goretober 2k17 #:work #chocobostrider #:Royal Court Heist AU

[tepidoil]

I’m trying to do Goretober this year (...again!). I am using this list! Thanks to the creator of the list for these good prompts!

DAY TWO & THREE: EYE TRAUMA AND DECAPITATION

word count: 1.5k warnings: torture, gore, unsanitary themes, objectification of characters, unreality themes, implied god complex notes: i didn't feel super great yesterday so i slapped days two and three together!

"I dun'no what you see in her."

Gin's voice is a drawl, lax like him, draped over the nearby chair. His height is seen best when he decides to rest, letting limbs sprawl out haphazard around him, and his permanent slouch uninhibited by gravity. He takes up too much space, which is purposeful, as bare dirty toes toy with one of the vials on his desk. He wishes to chastise him, but not now; not yet.

"What do you look for in your pets?" He turns the question back on him as he reaches out, retrieving a pair of scissors from the desk. Gin is silent for a moment, a blissful moment, as the sharp tips of scissors gently press against skin. He hears the chair behind him squeak, Gin stretching out a bit more; changing his vantage point. What a nosy child.

"N'aw~ Didn't think you cared 'bout lil' ol' me." There is a smile in his voice, cloying and sticky, like the betadine that turns pale, mottled skin orange beneath his fingers. The jar beside him holds discarded swabs, stained with pus and the antiseptic. He reaches for a clean swab, delicately dabbing at the stitches he cuts at, keeping the area as clean as possible. Gin's needlework was impeccable, but the wound had become infected anyway. Dirty toes push a vial closer to the edge of his desk.

"I like 'em pretty, of course~ Just like you!" Gin shifts in the chair again, the squeaking of the metal frame drowning out the quit snipping of his scissors. Gin has used silk stitches, which was not his fault, truly. He merely needed to be more clear with him next time. He hadn't wanted to remove the stitches; he had wanted them to dissolve naturally, but Gin has used silk. Gin had dipped his dirty fingers against clean skin and sewn an infection into it.

"We have different definitions of 'pretty', I believe." Scissors are stained green and orange and he holds them out. Dirty toes move away from the vial and reach forward instead, grabbing the scissors by their point, and dragging them away. He moves to forceps next. "You have a preference for blondes; I do not." Gin laughs as he gently places his finger against fragile skin, holding it taut as he dared as he began to pull the stitches. The eyeball under his fingertips rolls and skin pulls oddly, stretching in a way it shouldn't, "You did not sew her eye shut correctly; it can open still."

The chair squeaks as Gin moves, arms wrapping around him in pairs, and dirty fingers and toes settling on the face under his hands. "That ain't right…" He's murmuring into his ear, as if he was trying to convey a secret, or hide the truth at all. There was no truth here, only infection and mistakes as silk stitches are pulled from inflamed skin, and an eye rolls underneath it all. "She dun' want to lose that eye, I guess~"

"It's not her choice."

He lets the forceps go and Gin grabs them instead. He perches on him, curled around him with familiarity that should be loathed, but is accepted. The child is faster than him, removing all he had placed in her skin in just moments, and reaching filthy fingers towards the bowl of clean swabs. He pushes it aside, fingernails blackened underneath from blood digging into his skin instead as Gin shifts, tucking his chin closer to him instead. "It ain't that bad; it should finish healin' over in a few weeks~" He can feel the smile pressed against his skin as he wipes pus and dried blood away from where the eye had been. Pale lips part, but there is no sound. He closes them with the back of his hand.

"She's only got two now; y'a think she'll be able to function with that little?" He's asking questions he knows the answers to and the smile he presses closer proves it. Gin was a troublesome boy, but he had his uses. He was kept only for those uses. He ignores him momentarily, tossing his soiled swab and fetching a new one, dragging it over the infected suture site once more. He drags the backs of his fingers over the rest of her face, pressing where eyes once were, feeling packed sockets sink somewhat while eyes rolled in others. It was pleasing to see that almost all the work on her face was done. She was beginning to look--

Her mouth falls open once more.

"Maybe y'a should sew her lips closed next~" Gin is the one who closes her mouth this time, using a hand as pale as she was, pearly fingertips brushing against lips mottled a soft violet. He touches her tenderly, with reverence that wasn't there, and the smile pressed against his skin grows with the presence of teeth. He moves back, pulling Gin with him, and the boy presses his face fully against him; laughing. "She's so sad! So, so sad!" The body curled around him vile and pure in near equal halves, shakes with laughter.

He reaches for the arms wrapped around him, intent on removing them, but Gin is faster than him. Hands attached to arms that were willowy and pale grasp his face, pressing opalescent nails against his skin, and turning his gaze aside. He looks away from her and looks to him instead, the boys bleary eyes gleaming in delight. "We ain't that different~ You want her pretty, dun'cha?" Lips are on his face now, eyes shutting as delight shakes through the body curled around him, limbs stolen from her and put on his companion digging their nails into him.

"Gin." Darker hands reach and grab at the others, pairs of arms unfolding as sorrow floods from lips that dare part again, even as lips press against him. He endures the bared grin that is pressed against him, the giggles falling from Gin's mouth nearly unsettling; nearly. The demon child pulls himself around, his tail brushing the ground, and suddenly he is off. He brings dirty, demonic hands to her face instead, and closes her lips with a kiss. He watches both of their faces contort in agony for a brief moment before he pulls him off. "That is enough."

He has to wipe her mouth now, try to stave off any potential infection from Gin spreading into her skin. He reaches for a different bowl now, which Gin shies away from, going back to his chair. Three of hands hold six others, controlling her limbs that he had been given, and keeping her from reaching out again. He puts his fingers into the bowl, dragging out the water from within, and dabbing it across her face. Mottling from poor blood flow fades as the holy water seeps in, correcting the flaws dotting her face, and banishing the pus on the remains of what was once an eye. He would need to get more holy water soon. She required more than he had expected.

"I do not want her pretty." Her hair was not blond, but gold instead. Each strand of gold merely pure silk, pulled from the demon child's innards, and dipped in holy water and molten gold. He hair was something he had sewn into her scalp, delicately correcting the mane that had been attached to her before. He lets his fingers sink into it, gently collecting the weight of her head, and lifting it. Her mouth stays closed now, even as he removes her head from his desk, and walks away from it. He steps over Gin's tail, ignoring his grin as he walks towards the cross on the other side of the room.

A body was hung there, strung up delicately to prevent bruising, even though there was not much blood left in it. He had to drain her body every week, to prevent blood pooling, as he worked on it. It was impossible to tell now that she once had three unnecessary arms. It was impossible to tell not that she had once had tails. He removed the mouths on her legs, the eyes in her abdomen, and the feathers along her breast. Her mane had been pulled, replaced, and her wings had been corrected. He did not waste her feathers, after all; he had merely placed them where they belonged. He lifts her head up, pulling her hair to one side, and places it where it belongs: back on her neck.

"I want her perfect."

#goretober #:Goretober 2k17 #:work #nsfw cw// #gore cw// #torture cw//

[tepidoil]

I’m trying to do Goretober this year (...again!). I am using this list! Thanks to the creator of the list for these good prompts!

DAY ONE: SKINNING

word count: 1.5k warnings: torture, gore, slight unreality themes notes: this drabble is part of the sub-plots of Project Strife; go check out Project Strife's blog and remember! don't stress!

The archives are a vast collection of records. Records of research, field reports, personal reports, patient and monster observation, finances, and the 'legitimate' history of The Program. The archives are largely electronic, towers of computers forming neat lines throughout rooms, coupling with the rows of bookcases for historical texts, personal logs, and files too sensitive to be entered into the database. Everything inputted into the Program's various systems eventually made it's way down into the archives, where it would then be scanned, and organized. It was a very neat and orderly process.

Much like being settled into a grave.

It was not dark, or even dim in the archives, but shadows were long. Numbers hum as computers process information, turning it over and over, analyzing data and sending it on its way. There wasn't much need for a high amount of staffing in the archives; the computers did most of the work. The silence is one made from white noise, humming loudly enough in the background that the absence of a heartbeat is lost. After all, he is somewhat a deadman.

General Sarosh was a busy person, far too interested in affairs that were actually pressing, instead of minor technical errors and information requests. He's left to his own devices more than not. A fine arrangement for him, as far as he was concerned. He and the Captain-- did not quite meet eye to eye. An unfortunate result of the political circumstance that put him here. Though… perhaps political circumstance was a strong phrase. A strong phrase for the smile that spreads wide over a face he can never quite make out.

"Avios."

He breathes for the first time that day, out of habit, and smiles. Not as grandly as the one smiling at him, or as cloyingly, but he smiles. The book that had been in his hands is carefully placed aside, new pages sewn into the spine being rewritten in a meticulous fashion, as he corrected the errors in the transcript. "Yes?" He's learned that pleasantries end at the utterance of his name.

"There's someone who needs your help." The voice is silvery, but nearly static on the edges. It sounded happy today. Perhaps the voice had won a game of Diu Siu that day.

"My help?"

"Yes. Lieutenant Rajani is going to confront Rih today. I really don't think he's going to make it out alive-- without help. You are capable of helping, aren't you?" He's being belittled, like a child might be, when they do not realize the adult they are talking to does not quite like them. He is more than aware of his place here however. His smile does not falter.

"Perhaps."

The dead should not leave their tombs. He feigns the need for breath as humid air beats down upon him, the sun searching for exposed skin, so it might burn it. He will not stumble over thick air or burn in the sun though. He's modest, dressed in layers like the locals ( layers upon layers, rags wrapped over rags to hide the dirt on their skin, to hide the truth of what they were ), and no one stands in his path. No one bothers a soldier, well, that wasn't true. The smart ones did not bother a soldier. Surfacers were not always smart though.

"I have the best of pickles on all of Myrhl!" The cart he walks next to is old and rickety, ready to fall apart at every bump it hits, and yet it remains intact. The man pulling the cart looks much the same. He has aged well, all things considered. A quick glance at the man reveals no obvious symptoms of Strife, no growths, or strange 'disappearances' of what should belong on a human. He was also fairly vivid, even through his current eyes. A warm, toothless smile mirrors the warmth of brown eyes going cloudy with age. He was a strangely charming human.

"You do?" He's polite, even if he's annoyed. He could easily out walk the cart, the walls of the city looming behind them, and yet he holds pace with it. He holds discussion with the old man, letting him pitch his wares as they follow the path, as the cliffs rise around them. The city was built on cliffs, overviewing the ocean, which was quaint. A terrible choice for an oceanic port city, but that was not the city's purpose any longer. The city was crawling in Surface Soldiers, mingling in with the people, even as they stood out unique. This city was a terrible choice indeed.

"Oh yes, of course! I pickle everything myself! My daughter used to grow my cucumbers for me, but ah, she's no more. The village she lived in was taken out some years back, a bad Monster year. Say; aren't you a soldier? Do you--"

"I am not a surface soldier." His reply is not distracted, though he hadn't been paying the man much mind. The cliffs kept reaching higher, the ocean keeps getting closer, and he can smell Strife. His current eyes disguise most of the landscape to him, painting it in colors he almost doesn't understand now, but he also sees more. He sees the Other World stretch out before him, grey and bland, screaming like a void at some part of his mind. "I am a Senior Scribe; I do not do field work. You have my condolences, however." A hand lifts, the half of his kallias in his palm blinking its singular eye as he places his palm over his empty chest, and he bends ever so slightly at the man; his clothes ripple and the shadows behind them grow darker. "Monsters are a terrible blight on us all."

"N'aw--" The old man is uncomfortable now, squinting at him, setting his cart down to sink some in the softer soil on the side of the road. He scratches at his beard, his fingers gnarled with hard work and old age, and he bares his toothless grin once more. "You don't have to be sonny, but I'll take it. Monsters are a real problem for people like me." People who were not rich enough to bathe regularly, who were coated in dust and dirt, and worked tirelessly for-- what? A chance to survive? A chance not to become the things they feared most? It was laughable.

"Please." He's coming closer now, the shadows of the cliffs laying over him heavily, and the ocean roaring in the background. The city was screaming above them, but the old man could not possibly hear it, not as the ocean beat the shore below them. "Let me buy some of your pickles." He's smiling, his teeth bright white and straight, and the old man brightens. Joy crosses his face as he turns to his cart, words already bubbling up about which variety he might like, and gnarled fingers already grabbing a pickle pot. His kallias blinks again as hands reach forward, grabbing the sides of the man's head, and the shadows behind him smile. He's old and human, his bones are brittle as his skull shudders in his hands, and cloudy eyes gloss over as blood begins to run out of the man's nose.

His initial assessment of the old man was incorrect, as Strife had begun to show itself on his body. He had small growths of teeth in his stomach, the teeth forming in immature mouths that still moved as his dead body twitched, and the mouths seem to bite at him. Hunger permeates the body, plagues every soft tissue as the shadows of the cliff face reach forward and cradle the corpse, allowing him to dig into it. His hands split skin easily, tracing from collar bone, over his sternum, to his navel. Shadow claws gently pull apart clothes, removing layers upon layers of fabric, as he pulls apart skin.

He slices open the chest first, so shadowy mouths can reach in and eat at the old man's hunger. His fear of the hunger making his flesh sour and unsettling, but that was not his fear. The mouths reach deeper, pulling apart organs and breaking apart bone, as he continues to pull apart the skin. He just needs it to pull cleanly from the muscle underneath, cutting slips from the armpits and down the arms, mimicking the action on the insides of the thighs. Mouths follow his hands, spreading over the man, and eating what is left behind. There is so little of this man, and yet so much. The shadows of the cliff blink and grin, whispering even as eyes slide over him and pull at loose skin; pulling it over themselves.

There was no blood on the road as the little old man picks up his cart and walks towards the shore, watching with clouded brown eyes ( so full of joy) as a monster falls into the ocean.

"Would you like to try a pickle, Rih?"

#goretober #:work #playprojectstrife #:Goretober 2k17 #:nsfw #gore cw// #torture cw// #unreality themes cw//

[tepidoil]

Title: Breathless Word Count: ~500 Summary: He doesn't look sad anymore and it leaves him breathless. Notes: Eline is at it again with the top notch good shit-- check it out! Warnings: Choking mentions, drowning implication, murder implication, heavy abuse things, kidnapping implication, Gin

"Y' look sad~" He's breathless, both of them are, but mostly him. Him as in him? Boney hands wrapped up tight in rope and tugging up up up. Or him as in him: choking and scrabbling on the floor. Maybe he shouldn't have stood on him. Maybe he should have kneeled on him. Maybe he should have nailed his hands down to the floor first. So many maybes! He's breathless; both of them are.

He's breathless, energy spent and hands raw from rough rope, but he's still working! He always has to do the work it seems. He's always the beast of burden. He drags him through the house; blood trickling from his blotchy face and all over the floor as they go. The bathroom was tiny, more of a closet than a room, and it's too cramped. There's no space for them by the toilet, so he dumps him in the tub. The tub was stained from water and blood. It was small too, but he fits just fine. Boneless and half alive; he's breathless.

The radio hums something he doesn't care for, but he doesn't mind. It's easy to ignore as he taps a carton against the edge of the tub, stretching his legs out past the toilet, and lights up. It's easy to ignore the tiny wheezes beside him. It's easy to ignore the blood all over the floor, all over his shirt-- wait. It was on his shirt. He taps his cigarette into the toilet and rubs his face. He liked this shirt! He's still so breathless.

He's half naked when bleary eyes finally open. He's not seeing too good, evidently, but he's awake. Fingers are twitching, arms bruised from ropes barely moving, but he doesn't move fast. He runs the water in the tub warm, something nice, and comforting. He only takes off his shirt, but not his. His new purple shirt! It was stained. He holds it and contemplates; breathtaking blue eyes blink up at him.

"N'aw~ It's okay." He's cute when he looks like that. So cute. That's why he picked him up! He was just adorable. He just didn't like it when he looked sad. He didn't like how the radio's age was telling by the static that was crackling through the off putting words. He didn't like that he stained his new shirt. He didn't like those things at all. "Just stop lookin' so sad 'Zuru! It'll be okay. I promise~" He reaches down, drops his shirt into the water and turns off the tap, and kisses him. He kisses him breathless, pushing him down, and pushes the wet shirt over his face. He pushes down. He turns off the off putting music by flicking the old, faulty radio into the tubs.

He doesn't look sad anymore and it leaves him breathless.

#:work #landofshame #:nsfw #abuse cw//

[tepidoil]

I’m doing Goretober this year! I made it a personal self challenge to make all the prompts about my favorite badship, so buckle up. I’m a little behind since I was at work this weekend, but here’s the list I’m using!

DAY TWO: EYE TRAUMA

word count: 1.5k warnings: implied torture, implied gaslighting, dissociation themes, implied eye tattooing, eye horror in general, Gin

The world is not known for kindness. It's known for twists of fate, cruel and otherwise, as well as random intervals of divine intervention. Ze's not fond of the latter, because when gods stepped into play, it rarely turned out well in the long run. Sure, zir town's water supply had been cured. Sure, the babies had been freed from the plague; sure. Everything was good now that a god had come down, horrific in appearance from what ze had seen under their mask, and fixed everything. Everything had been good; everything had been fixed. Except the god had seem zem, with too many eyes, and ze had paid the price. Nothing came without a price.

Ze had been bedridden for a month by the time someone had come. Zir nanny had tried, ze knows, but trying to cure a curse with home made medicine wouldn't help. The town had been very faithful, but not very knowledgeable. Zir parents were dead for a reason, after all. The person that had come was quite different though, smelling far too clean for a traveler, and looking it too. Pure white clothes were hard to look at through sore eyes, but ze manages. Ze manages to turn zir head a little, be blinded by the white of the person's garb, and let him close zir eyes with the tips of two fingers.

At that time, ze was grateful for the touch.

Ze had woken up the next morning well. The person had remained overnight, still dressed in pure white, and lounging with the elders of the town. He had smiled when he saw zem, he had checked zem over, and he had gone about to check the rest. A cough was pulled out a girl and an older man's pained ears were eased. The stranger didn't work miracles, but he worked magic-- and medicine. His fingertips were crusted with fairy dust and his pouch had vial upon vial of ointments and tinctures. He was helping the community. He was doing the work of a man, not a god. It was easy to be wrapped up in that, in the beginning.

Ze left with him at the end of the week, his nanny worried about zem, but obviously somewhat relieved. Zir health was no longer on her shoulders; the Kira line and it's longevity could only rest on zir hands now. The man had arched an eyebrow at zem when ze asked to travel with him, but he had smiled. "I'd love t' have someone t' travel wit'." His voice was not gentle; it was buoyant and full of a gleeful sliver of amusement. Blue eyes had pinned zem, for a moment, before a hand had come to squeeze at zir shoulder. Ze felt welcomed. The healer had a charm about him and ze hadn't realized to be wary of that charm.

"Y'know what defines a god, 'Zuru?" The question is posed after a death rattle fills zir ears, their presence too late to save a young man. Disease foamed at his lips and clouded his eyes, his death turning his body limp, and useless on the bedding. Gin was hovering right over him, watching as lips rounded out in a gape, and eyes unfocused. Pale fingers touched his eyelids, closing them, and the action makes zem shift. Ze looks away, away from prying blue eyes, and into pleading brown. Ze doesn't say anything, because the truth was too much, and ze wasn't ready. Ze ducks out the door as Gin tells the family of the death.

"Can you bring the dead back to life?" Ze asks the question when ze doesn't expect an answer; when Gin was quiet and usually asleep. He breathes evenly when he sleeps, calmer and deeper than when he was awake, even if ze can't hear a heartbeat. Ze long gave up trying to remove the snake that slept around Gin's throat, because once ze thought it would try to choke him. Gin had laughed at him. Ze jumps when fairy dust coated fingers rake through zir hair, making zem look up, and catching a glint of blue. Those fingers tap against zir eyes, pushing them closed, and Gin hums over zir inhale.

"Maybe~"

The books are unfathomable. Ze has seen them before, sectioned away in Gin's collection, like they were cursed. The tent that Gin carries with him was much more spacious than it gave on, as the little ring in its center dropped straight through a hole, and into a shrine. Ze's used to the library that Gin keeps, how it moves, and how the layout seems to change only once ze's gotten used to it. Yet the books never move; the layout of the table never changes.

"Aren't y'e curious?" He's stared too long, eying the books from a just inside a doorway, where the little snakes that hide on the cusp of a portal would try to strike out and bite zem. Gin can linger there, unscathed, and ze doesn't know how. "Y'e never did answer." He gestures at the books, has his charming smile, and moves. He pokes a bony finger against the corner of zir eye as he passes, touching the edge of a book, and fiddling with the clasp. "Y' don't know what defines a god, do y'e?"

The answer should be obvious; is obvious. Ze is too slow to grasp the meaning at first, to understand that this rhetoric demands an answer, and Gin's smile wanes; just a little. The hissing of the doorway chases zem further into the room, with an answer on zir lips. "I don't." That was the truth; ze didn't. Gin fiddles with the clasp on the book and the unsettling feeling grows; the book cases were moving again. The room has no doors and no windows now, just the tables; more tables than ze remembers there ever being.

The clasp pops, like a water bubble, or a pocket of fluid in someone's chest. Gin peels open the book, his eyes firmly shut, and his smile oddly wide. Ze doesn't know better than to look. "It's simple~" The book is bright, like Gin's clothes. It burns, like the whiteness of what Gin wears, but worse. It blinds zem, so suddenly it's reeling, and ze doesn't know how to escape. Ze doesn't know that Gin isn't helping when hands grab zir neck, when ze is strapped down to a table ze will try to forget, and the touch of the speculum under zir eyelids and wire around zir neck makes zem jerk. There's a click, a tick, and a slide as the blindness almost fades. It's enough to see Gin leaning over zem, needle and scalpel in hand, and the snake curled around his throat laughing at zem. "I'll teach y'e~"

"Hey." The voice is gravel against zir ears, startling zem, but just for a moment. The images were vivid, too real to understand, but too distinct to forget. Arms are around zem, a face is pressed against zem, and ze doesn't realize ze is whining until ze hears it through their ears. "I got you." Gravel grinds in zir ears, drowning out the clicks of a needle being dipped in ink, and the soft little noises eyes made when pierced.

A hand touches zir face, too warm, and not covered in fairy dust. "Izuru." The name is like a blessing, zir name, and spoken like it meant something. Their hand is rubbing over their face, spreading warmth, and ze doesn't know how. Ze can't grasp it. "Izuru." Ze knows the wire in zir neck had been cut; that it was no longer there. Ze knows that no one can see the bloody marks spread all over zir eyes, blotting out blue irises, and darkening white sclera. It wasn't real anymore. "Close your eyes Izuru."

He would have asked zem to open them, to push zir face against blinding pages, and be poured to the brim with things ze couldn't see. What have you done! What have you done! The warm hands are pulling on zir blindfold, easing it off, and ze closes zir eyes. Magic drips off zir lips, dripping from zir whining mouth, and Renji wipes it up. Warm fingers drag blood and magic up zir face, rubbing it against puffy, swollen eyelids. They care; they care. They kiss zem as the blinding pages chew on the backs of zir eyes, eating zem up from the optic cord out.

Ze doesn't remember what it was like before the feeling of blood on zir eyes wasn't normal.

#goretober #:Goretober 2k16 #:work #:nsfw #landofshame

[tepidoil]

I’m doing Goretober this year! I made it a personal self challenge to make all the prompts about my favorite badship, so buckle up. I’m a little behind since I was at work this weekend, but here’s the list I’m using!

Day One: Medical

word count: 1k warnings: implied torture, implied kidnapping, leeches, faux medical setting, unreliable narrator, gin

"What should we name this one?" This one, he says, as if there will be many. As if the sheer number of them might just not be enough in the end. Which might be the truth. The jar is large, it needs both of his hands on it to be moved, and it was full. The other jar, on the far table, was the same size. It was almost full too.

He's fearless, reaching into the one jar. Slimy bodies dart back and forth, fearful of his sudden presence. They're hard to catch, slipping out of his grip more than once, but it's okay! He's in no rush. "What'cha think~? Timmy? Tommy?" The names are meaningless, but fun! This was fun, wasn't it~?

There's a rattle, off to the side; it stops the moment he pauses. He's still, just for a moment! His cheeks eat self satisfaction when he moves again, the tiny pant of relief echoing in the near silence. There was only his breathing and the soft splish-splashing of his hand in water to mask any noise. Not near enough in a big room like this; nope! He liked a room with good acoustics~

Acoustics were important, you see, for him. He liked hearing things. He liked hearing the water dripping from the faucet on the other side of the room, the deep steel basins of the sink echoing the tiny drip-drip-drip nearly ten fold. The sound of the water masks some of the street noise outside. Where cars drive past every so often in the dilapidated sector of an industrial area. A fork lift switches into reverse, beeping loudly, and he looks out the window as the drip-drip-drip fails to mask the clunk of shifted wooden stocks.

"'Zuru~?" Fingers tighten suddenly, a fist forming around one of the slick, squirming bodies in the water. The water running off his arm goes drip-drip-drip as he moves from the jar, dropping his catch into a smaller cup of water, and scooping it up. Izuru still won't respond, utterly silent in the nice big room, and looking straight ahead. It's like he's afraid! What would he be afraid of? There's a siren, way off in the distance, but he ignores it. "Dun' have a name for it? Want me t' name it~?" Izuru won't even look at him as he sits down, setting the glass jar between his outstretched hands. He likes those hands. They were pretty. He sets his hand over one and swallows his laugh at Izuru's flinch.

"Mmm~ What if… I named it… Renji?" The sharp inhale rings through the room, over the drip-drip-drip and the faint whine of sirens. It makes him pause; the noise so perfect he has to savor it. "Only right, ni~? That I make 'em help y' out." He's stroking Izuru's fingers now, his pretty, purple fingers. They were normally so long, good for grabbing things, or working their way into people. He's sucked on those fingers before; he's head them all in him before. He strokes them, cradling one tense palm in his own, and tapping the end of a swollen digit. Izuru doesn't even twitch.

The water goes drip-drip-drip and the siren wails, getting steadily closer, or maybe just more noticeable. The fork lift beep isn't there anymore; they must have parked it. He looks out the window as he pinches up a cotton ball drenched in hydrogen peroxide, wiping the end of Izuru's finger. He has to clean the bite! Get it nice and clean! He has to make sure that it won't get infected. He wants Izuru's finger to heal after all. "Look… y'e can't even feel anything yet…" He sets the cotton swab aside, grabs the towel, and dabs. He gently wipes the finger up; just the one. He leaves the rest alone; they were already taken care of for the day. It's just the one he needs to worry about. Just one.

The rag is tossed over his shoulder, smelling like chemical clean, and covering the quaint little security badge pinned to his shirt. He's got his hand back in the glass, grabbing at the slimy little creature within, and he's smiling. "If the real Renji ain't gonna help y'e out… this one can~" The leech is desperate, for food, just like the rest of them. So desperate that it's already latched onto ruddy, swollen skin by the time blue eyes dart down for a glance. He loves the lovely tone of green on Izuru's cheeks.

"I told y'e what would happen if y'e went out wit' them." He's standing up, wiping his hands on the towel. The sirens are just down the block now, it seems. There's shouting outside, sharp and loud, but he can't see anything out the window. There's just some light coming in the window, falling partially over Izuru, and partially over the table he sat at. The chains are too dirty to catch the light, but the locks are new. The locks keep the chains in place, the sides of the stocks secure, and ultimately: they keep Izuru seated. There's gunshots outside, drowning out the drip-drip-drip and he can see Izuru flinch.

He drops the towel on the table, running his hands over all the pretty, purple fingers that were limp against the table, and up. The sirens cut out suddenly, leaving too much silence, and he loves it. The silence lets him hear Izuru's struggling breaths, feel the tension in his chest as he leans into the back of his chair, and closes his eyes as the stitches holding all ten fingers in place are stroked. "I told y'e 'Zuru." He's kissing him, pretty lips screwed up tight, just like pretty little eyes. He presses hard, tips his head back, and eats up the grunt that's caught in Izuru's pretty little neck. "Ain't no one that'll find you out here."

He likes good acoustics, because it lets him hear over the clatter of keys and the click of a lock; it lets him hear the shout of anguish over the drip-drip-drip.

#goretober #:work #:Goretober 2k16 #:nsfw #landofshame

[tepidoil]

Title: The Smell of Smoke Chapter: 2/? Summary: “There may be a great fire in our hearts, yet no one ever comes to warm himself at it, and the passers-by see only a wisp of smoke.” – Vincent Van Gogh They were all wisps of smoke, smoldering in the crater of a great firestorm, and cradling the embers to start a new blaze. Fandom: Overwatch Word Count: 3k+ Notes: "At the time of the Overwatch Recall, McCree was in the American Midwest, near Indiana or Kentucky." -- source What are you saying Blizzard, huh? Huh, huh, huh? Warnings: Non-Linear Narrative, Dissociation Themes, Emotophobia cw, Vomit cw, Depression Themes, tbu;;;; AO3 Link: [Part One] - [Part Two]

It starts with a letter. A letter that is manilla and plain, sealed carefully, and handed to him personally. The letter hadn't been sent through the courier, or passed through several hands. It had come by him getting pinned in a hall, still damp from a shower, and stared down by a soldier with the sharpest green eyes. His fingers had still been damp when he took the letter, his hair three shades darker while wet, and sticking to his hand after his salute. The soldier hadn't look impressed; he didn't blame them. He left fingerprints all over the letter, wrinkled stains of water dotting the envelope and pages within, and the letter sits open on his quarter's desk. He doesn't take it with him. He doesn't need to.

He's memorized every line.

It starts with the formalities, with salutes and straight shoulders and backs, and sharp green eyes looking over him again. There are other things, words that are important, but not noteworthy. He has a good memory, but it's not editic. The letter was memorized because he reread it too many times, the sharp of the pages burned into the corners of his mind, and the clean, crisply printed text marching like perfect soldiers across his memory. He was a 'perfect' candidate, so said the General, but not the letter. The letter was much more modest, polite, and completely impersonal. Now it's being sold to him, hands clasping at him, and a son nearly spilling from one Five-Star's lips. It's surreal; it's everything his Pa warned him about. That's why he smiles and takes an outstretched hand. "I would be honored."

Humble boys make for shitty patients though. He's hacking, coughing, and he's left a dent in the wall where he slammed his fist against it. The serum that they had injected in him today was extra strong, or something, because getting kicked in the head by a bull was starting to seem like a better alternative than this. Anything seemed like a better alternative than this. He eyes the IV, his eyes red from tears, and his mouth warm and slick with blood, and thinks.

"Hey, Boyscout."

The voice makes him look away from the IV, startling him, but not enough to cut through the bleariness of everything that the serum was making him feel. It was one of the other soldiers that was part of the program, Captain Reyes, if his mind was working right. He's on the other side of the room, leaning against the wall, and looking just fine. He's instantly envious, in a flash flurry of emotion that gurgles up his throat with more blood and bile. He's got enough sense left to turn his head and let the liquid fall into the bucket that a nurse had snuck him not too long ago. He can see his teeth floating in the bucket.

"Sir." It's more of a slur than an acknowledgement, or greeting, but it's all he has in him. He shifts, moving a bit closer to the wall, so he can rest his head against it while looking back at Reyes. The man was smiling, but not like he had when they first had met. The man had snuck up on him, commenting on the farm game he had been playing on his tablet, and they had joked. Reyes had been happy then, now? Jack couldn't get a read on him. Part of him didn't care what Reyes felt like right now. He scolds that selfish part of himself.

"At ease." He has that joking tone of his voice at least, though it seems more subdued. He walks with a strange little hitch, one that Jack had noticed before, but it seemed more pronounced now. Either that or his perception was fucked; it wouldn't surprise him either way. His superior moves smoothly, hitch and all, and quickly. It's too quick for his head to keep up, seconds blurring as another wave of nausea threatens to crash on top of him, and his eyes focusing seemingly long after Reyes had sat down. He was sitting down, on the floor, with him. It's the most comical thing since Wily Coyote.

"You're full of surprises."

Reyes' laugh is full of body, and deep, and cut short. It's not all he had in him, he can tell, and he focuses. He pushes past the nausea, the ache and throb, and focuses; he's going to kick himself later for triggering his migraine. He'll pat himself on the back after that for noticing white bandages sticking out from rumpled sleeves (he had never seen the Captain out of a hoodie or sweatshirt yet to date), their taped edges bright against dark skin, and mottled scars. There; he noticed it. He also noticed the way nausea refuses to dim down and he heaves mostly blood into the bucket.

The touch of a rag against his face is jarring. Not because it was a rough touch, or that the fabric was too rough (thanks to the injections he's been able to feel things in a way he never has before; he's not sure if he likes it), but that it was unexpected. Partially because he was coated in snot, tears, bile and blood; partially because it was his superior that was wiping at his face. "Qué desastre… Easy there Boyscout." The cloth disappears for a moment, rung out evidently, and it's back. It's mostly smearing the blood now, but at least it wasn't trickling down his chin now. He forces himself to focus on the man, blue eyes meeting dark brown, and a brow quirks at him; he knows there's a smile underneath it, instinctively. "Got something to say Morrison?" The rag is dropped next to the bucket, a fresh one being dirtied between Reyes' bare hands, and he gurgles a laugh. The nausea behaves and doesn't overcome him this time.

"Remind me to thank you when I'm not out of my head." He smiles a bloody smile while Reyes laughs, closes his eyes from the sound, and wakes up four hours later; Reyes was gone.

"You're going to have to be careful Lena." Oh boy, there he goes again, with the voice. The voicy voice. The voice that means 'Lena you need to sit still and pay attention for once'. She was paying attention though! Even as eyes roamed the makeshift lab that Winston had evidently built from scraps of this and that. There was a lot to look at in here: like that! What was that doohickey? She would ask but-- uhu, had she missed something? Gold eyes are staring her down again. She giggles and Winston rolls his eyes.

"Aw luv, you know I'm always careful." Winston actually stops what he was doing for that one, placing the Chronal Accelerator down on the table, and setting the doohickey he was using to tinker with it down. Oh. Right. Bandaged hands raise in a passive gesture and she offers him the most, almost sincere, apologetic smile she can offer. He snorts and rolls his eyes again. "Don' be like that luv; I will be, I promise!"

"That's what you said last month." Last month had been a little different though! Last month there had been a near coup d'état back in London! She couldn't have just sat about, twiddling her thumbs while pipe bombs flew, and people got hurt. She couldn't hold still as it was, but when people were in danger? There was no way she could be idle. No way at all.

That's why this was killing her.

. . .

A long time ago Winston had told her that if she learned how, she might be able to coil her time up tightly enough to take off the Chronal Accelerator. It hadn't taken her long to learn how! Long enough that she got sick of sponge baths and washing her hair in a basin, sure, but! She had learned how. She had gathered up the wit and courage and slipped the little bugger right off her chest. She had held it in her hands for a full five seconds without going transparent. It had been amazing! She also lost form in the sixth second and had to rescued by a well timed time stabilization blast from Winston, but details! She had done it! She had felt so accomplished!

Now she could take the device off for five hours and feel nothing at all.

Things got a little wonky sometimes, without the device on, like how she'd phase right through her cuppa trying to grab at it or how she might just blink from one end of her apartment to the other. Well, maybe the last one is just her not paying attention; her apartment wasn't that big. She could take the device off, lay it on the counter, and take a shower. She could take a nice long one, singing until the neighbors pounded on walls and floors, and all the hot water had gone down the drain. She didn't have to worry about drying out the device while blowing her hair dry or getting hair spray on it either. It was real handy! Sorta.

She didn't dare sleep without it though. The weightless, empty feeling of being incorporeal lingered like a phantom in her brain, reminding her of all the nasty bad things she didn't like to remember. Like being in someone's house, with someone speaking french to her, and a piano playing in the background. She would curl up on her side, the device tucked comfy around her chest, and cushion herself with a big, plushy pillow. The device whirs familiarly, lulling her off, and keeping her in a place where those thoughts can't reach her. The neighbor that plays piano late in the night always seemed to have a different idea though, as the notes rang through her open window, and into her dreams.

She can't see who is playing the piano, but she knows they are beautiful. That she is beautiful. She has long hair and stunning eyes and the most graceful way of carrying herself. She likes her tea sweetened with honey and without honey, which was definitely strange, but so like her. The woman was so distinct, an outline in the fuzziness of the room around her, and a voice that melted into the notes of the piano. She was playing something awful melancholy today; it seemed as if she was sad. She wants to say something, to break the mood and make light of something mundane, but the words are stuck in her throat. The woman with her normally rosy cheeks had turned all cold and blue, her lips drawn into a tight little bow, and her eyes shining like flood lights. She was blinded by it, just like normal, even as the kiss the woman leaves on her face chills her right down to the bone. She wakes with the phantom kiss on her skin and the same, stubborn words stuck in her throat: 'ne me quitte pas.

. . .

It's sunny, for once, in Brixton. All the clouds had gathered themselves up and rolled on out, but not before making everything oily and slick. Her window was cracked open, like normal, and she could hear birds chirping. She could hear a few of the cars honking as people woke up, running about and grabbing at things, for the work day would begin soon. She could smell the bakery from a few blocks over open their door and release the good smells into the air, as if to lure out the late risers, or the late for work-ers. Everybody was all rush rush rush! Everything was rush rush rush! The birds twittered and perched right outside the open window, looking into the muted apartment with an interest only animals could have, trying to find the bird that makes the most mechanical of beeps.

The comm that sits on her side table has been chirping at her for a solid five minutes now. She's got her back to it, ignoring it as she touches the empty sheets aside her, and ignores how her kettle pops and hisses in a matter-of-fact way. There were so many things telling her to get up, to get going; to get into the rush rush rush of the day! Like the news playing on the tele in the room over, droning on about new shootings, and new casualties. Like the neighbor's radio, wheezing about new terrorist threats, and this and that. It was all so rush rush rush.

The comm beeps as the connection is finally forced, a familiar voice crackling over the line, and warping due to poor connection. Huh; she wonders why there's a poor connection? "Lena, you've removed your Chronal Accelerator for over five hours; you're in danger of losing your place in time again." Athena's voice is always so crisp and clear to the point, well, usually. It seems sluggish now, drawn out and accented in a way that doesn't make any plain sense, and she's tempted to swat at the comm to try to fix it. She doesn't really want to stop looking at the pattern of her duvet through the transparency of her hand though.

"Lena? Lena!" It sounds right distressed now, like a mum trying to get their kid to respond after falling out of the tree; she'd done that once. She got a nasty bump on her head and a bag of peas shoved against her scalp, all while her mum fretted over her, and lectured her between wiping away her young tears. That had been a while ago: a few years? Right? It had been before the Omnic crisis, before Jetstream, before-- "Lena I'm losing your bio-signature-- Agent Tracer!" Before Tracer existed; yeah.

"I hear you luv." Except she doesn't, because she's got the device back on her chest, and her hands are solid against the duvet. She'd gotten up and closed the window, blocking out the sun, and drowning out the noise of the birds. Her kettle hisses and pops still, her tele had been changed to a channel full of cartoons, and she answers the comm on its first ringing beep. "G'mornin' luv." Athena doesn't reply for a long moment, which makes her think she might have dreamed it all, but-- that would have been silly.

"Goodmorning Lena; it's nice to have you back in time."

If there's just one thing he can say for sure he regrets, it's not coming out this way sooner.

He had chalked a lot of Jack's talk up to plain ol' hyperbole, for there was no way there could be endless fields of gold, and pretty green things. He's from Houston, where the humidity dripped off you like lukewarm shower water, and the tallest trees maybe got up to his hip. Here though, well-- there ain't many trees, but there's more than enough crops to make up for it all. The Hypertrain had woven through the fields like a diamond back through the water, making him awful uncomfortable the whole way through, and more so once he had popped off the top and sashayed away. The place just too damn idyllic for him to trust it.

Jack hadn't been lying though: the place was real darn pretty. There was enough fresh air to throw his withering lungs into a fit if he hadn't been smoking the moment he could scrape his lighter out of one of his pockets. His saddle bag hits his ass like it's got a fucking plot of revenge against him, but that ain't new. His spurs had been wrapped up all nice this time, so he wouldn't get a gouge in his new pack. The leather was real high dollar in this one, smellin' of great tan and care, and stitched with care; so obviously not of his own design it was pretty damn comical. It made him look like a fool, a plain ol' cowboy fanatic, with his boots and hat too. It was a pretty good cover. People don't even think once about those stuck in the past comin' to look at a statue meant to symbolize the good ol' days.

"Y'er taller than I remember pardner." He's joshing himself, talking to a carved block of stone, but hey: no harm no foul. No one else was about at the moment, it being too far into the heat of the day for the tourists to want to mill about, and the son was doing its damned best to bake whoever decided to not stay inside. It was a real familiar feeling, the heat baking at the little slip of neck the shade of his head doesn't cover, and adding back to the tan he had almost sort of lost the last few months. He's been a bit too underground to get the gold ol' sun color back in his skin; he'll have to work on that. He takes a drag, pulls the cigar out of his mouth, and taps it against his pinky. Hot ash falls on metal and he doesn't miss the feeling of the familiar burn.

"Hey!" That sure is a bright ol' voice right there: directed right at him. He tilts his head aside, away from the regal pose of a memorialized deadman, and looks dead on into a pair of the prettiest darn blue eyes. Well shit; he's really feelin' nostalgic now. "Don't flick your ash around like that; this ain't your smoky trash bin." Well isn't this one a sure spitfire? She's got hair as gold as all those waving, pretty fields, and eyes bluer than the damn sky. She's also got a frown on her face that makes him remember his friend's ma and her cast iron pan; he can't help but laugh.

"Sorry 'bout that lil' lady; don't see no smokin' signs posted though."

"Well tough tomatoes Cowboy; this ain't some city attraction."

He admits defeat before he can get a real tongue lashing, the blondie frowning at him as he grinds his cigar against the concrete underfoot, and scuffs the ash up with his boot. There, he gave it a lick and a promise, and even put his cigar away. Not that she seemed impressed about it or nothin'; she had moved away from him. She was real close and personal with the monument now, standing right in front of it, and touching the plaque that was anchored on its base. You know… come to think of it-- "You look an awful lot like John here."

He's moseying over now, immune to the sharp little glare being tossed over a dainty shoulder at him, and standing close-- but not too close. Calling Morrison by his first name was a great page out of the weird book, but y'know; times change. Jack wouldn't have minded much, other than maybe laughing at him, and callin' him some weird sorta thing. It seems the little miss minds more though, her glare luke warm now as she looks back at the plaque, and touches the name that has been raised against it. "He's my brother; 'course I do." Now she's turning back towards him, eyes so pretty blue and hair so blond it makes that nostalgic part of him throb again. Jack had looked at him with that frown before, back when he was a newbie, and not as easily cowed by the curve of angrily pouted lips. Now it's obvious why she seems so damn familiar; last time he'd seen anything of her was a picture, crinkled and folded and showing a gaggle of blonde girls all clustered around Jack and smiling.

Well fuck.

The whistle is out of his lips before he can help, low and bordering on incredulous, and the miss cocks an eyebrow at him none too kindly. He'd be nettled if he had more thoughts to work with, but she did a right good job of lassoing him up and making him trip onto his face. He takes his hat off with care, squinting as the light suddenly flashes over his eyes, and holds it close to his chest. She seemed awful young, the damn baby face gene in the Morrison family aside, which meant… "Y'er Helen ain't'cha?" At least that got her to stop frowning.

"How do you know my name?"

"Lucky guess." He's lying with a smile now, the hat shoved back up on his head, and the cigar reappearing out of his pocket. She's frowning at him real good again, her hand plastered over her family name on the plaque, the shadow of the statue's salute just about to cover them both. He's wasted enough time here; he thinks. The lighter flashes and flames, clearing the clean air right out of his lungs again as the cigar puffs and smokes, and he's nothing more than a posing wannabe once more.

"It was real nice, ah, shottin' the breeze wit'cha missy, but this vaquero's gotta get a movin'." He's on the fast track out, moving away as tourists start to file in, and moving himself into the crowd. He's lucky it's not just woman and kids together, the height of fathers and misguided male military fans was enough to cover him. Even if he could hear and sometimes sorta see Helen's gold hair popping up as she tried to weave on through the crowd; he can even hear her yell at him to wait. She ain't fast enough, bless her heart; he does rightly feel for her. Just about as much as the guilt he feels for a good right portion of all of this. He can hear his comm beeping in his saddle bag, the little wisps of clouds running like broncos due south, and it all stacks up. He's got seventy-six problems and this was just another one.

He pauses, at the crest of steps, and shoots back a wave at the blond stuck in front of a confused gaggle of moms and excited kids; "tell y'er Ma thanks for all the brownies she used to send."

#overwatch #overwatch fic #lena oxton #jesse mccree #Jack Morrison #Gabriel Reyes #:Work #:Overwatch (Divergence) #:Overwatch

[tepidoil]

I am three-quarters gone. You’re a third dying. What a mismatched pair we make. Together, not flowing, rather, settling like dirt & staying. I am a half-drowning, you’re a half lying, the other half of me has foot in your mouth, crying. Spinner spun, hand I say, try not to touch me. Somersault. Parachute. In the garden. Off the roof. Body still a body, flying, falling, gravity. I am partial to green & excessive use of hand gesturers to try to get across what it that I am feeling. I am a quarter begging. You’re seven-eights screaming. The door. The handle. On the floor. Bleeding.

S.A. Khanum | fractional  (via fleursentiis)

#text; #:otp rozuru

[tepidoil]

Title: The Smell of Smoke Chapter: 1/? Summary: "There may be a great fire in our hearts, yet no one ever comes to warm himself at it, and the passers-by see only a wisp of smoke." -- Vincent Van Gogh They were all wisps of smoke, smoldering in the crater of a great firestorm, and cradling the embers to start a new blaze. Fandom: Overwatch Word Count: 3k+ Notes: I got sucked into OW hell and I really regret nothing. I'm writing this with heavy inspiration from a friend and I hope to update it weekly. That's why the chapters are so small orz. Warnings: Non-Linear Narrative, Dissociation Themes, Body Horror Themes, tbu;;; AO3 Link: [x]

The silence is uneasy. It was a fake sort of silence, one that creeps in when your ears were still ringing, and sits hard against your skull. The throbbing pain in his head wasn't helping either. That was a concussion, at least, and a cracked skull at worst; it wasn't something that would kill him though. If he had anything left in his stomach he might have tossed it to the ground, but his body feels empty and dry. He doesn't have anything to give.

There is a phantom pain in his left arm, and it bothers him. He tries to flex his fingers, tries to do a self check, but he can't. There's no fingers to flex, no arm to bend, and just-- nothing. Eyes open, searching for an answer, but there is none. There is a great big nothing in front of him, cool sensations washing over him, and a bundle of heat sticking out harshly against his senses. It's a mouse; he senses a mouse. It darts into the open, pauses, and he barely flinches as the warmth of the owl descends upon it with a swift, tiny snap. He heard mouse bones break. He had heard mouse bones break from over twenty meters away.

That should bother him more than it did.

The heat of the owl wisps away, the noise of its soft wings so faint he can't hear it from this distance, and that is comforting. It was the most comforting thing in the span of the ten minutes it takes him to remember how to use his legs and try to stand. The area around him is cool, with very little noticeable heat. There are a few little bodies of mice, and a vole, but it was muted. The world was quiet and cool, which would have been nice, if he didn't feel so shriveled up and cold. He had gotten to a tree somehow, though he doesn't remember walking there. Or crawling, or running; or anything. He remembers the bomb touching his severed arm and then… this.

He wants to toss his lunch again, but the urge is mild compared to the dryness in his throat. He exhales, hard, trying to find something inside of him; even a little blood would soothe the dry ache. He gets something else though, cold and almost… slimy in texture coating his lips. The world goes a bit cooler in front of his face when he does it. He does it again, morbidly fascinated with whatever is coming out of his mouth, but it's not helpful. The coolness is there, the slimy texture coating his teeth, but it's not… liquid. It's not something he can figure out until he drives his shoulder into the tree for support and lifts his hand to his lips. Fingertips feel rough against his skin, his cold skin, and cooler breath. He doesn't know if he can understand what it feels like to breath cold smoke out of his lungs; he just doesn't.

There is a hoot, on his four, about fifty meters away. There is a car driving up a road nearby; he can hear it, but he can't pinpoint it. The noise echoes oddly, warbling across the field (or backyard, he doesn't know for sure), and sitting in his ears. It sits, sinks in, and dies. The noise dies in his head, the throbbing settling as he continues to breathe smoke into his palm, and the silence creeps back in on him. So much silence; too much silence. The hoot is now on his six, the owl was moving, and he feels the heat of another mouse. It was about to die; he could feel it.

Fragile bones crack under sharp talons and gracefully spread wings.

He must have fallen asleep there, or dissociated, because he comes to with a sense of warmth. Not in him, no, but around him. The area he was in had warmed up, even if marginally, and he supposes that means it's day. The tree he leans against respirates and releases oxygen, even as he clogs up the leaves with his smoke. The smoke tumbling out of his lungs is still cool, but it no longer feels slimy. He doesn't want to admit that it feels that way because he had already gotten used to the sensation. He doesn't have to admit anything.

He only has to be aware of car doors slamming shut, on his two-thirty, and that there are two very warm people coming his way. Not coming for him, he doesn't think, but they're there. He doesn't know if they can see him, but he knows they're there. There is one larger and one smaller, the smaller one ran hotter, and smelled richer. One of them was wearing some sort of perfume, or cologne, and it stinks. It was sour against his nose, striking him badly, and he growls. Their stride falters a moment, one of them saying something, but they don't stop. They keep on walking towards him.

They're talking about something mundane, judging by their tone. What they're saying doesn't make sense to him, for some reason, and it isn't until much later that he realizes why. He waits until they're closer, which he tells himself is because he was trying to understand what they were saying. He doesn't understand it though. It isn't until that he steps over two cold, dry bodies that he leaves behind him in the shade of the tree that he understands. He walks away from them and catches a breeze, the remains the only mark of his presence; of his belated comprehension.

He had been too feral at that point to understand human language.

Talon hadn't been much of an operation when Blackwatch had first started. It had barely been a speck on his radar, just a few heads pressed together that all shared the same fucked up ideology, and not a lot else between them. Now was different though. Now is where Talon had bases and soldiers, all trained to act ruthless, and most trained to be expendable. He had watched them, perched in the dark, as they shot civilians and soldiers alike in the backs, their tactics dirty, but their style lacking. They had noticed him, somehow, and had gone after him. He wonders if it was because they were after him in particular, or if it was the shared hit that he had just spread the brains of all over the bathroom floor. He had left a pile of them in his wake, with the lone survivor left on top, just so he could wake up to a bed of cold corpses. They hadn't sent any more soldiers after that.

What he gets is an agent.

There's bodies scattered everywhere this time, which was mostly his doing. Not all of it though, considering some of them still had their head intact, even as blood and brains poured sluggishly out of blistered, garish exit holes. The gun that was used to make those shots had to pack a pretty nice punch, especially for one he hadn't heard. He steps over the bodies, their warmth squelching under his boots, and moves on. Vultures encroaching on his chaos was none of his concern; they could pick at the listless meat all they wanted.

He does hear the sound of a heeled boot on his seven-thirty, three stories up, on a roof top; fifty meters away. He can't feel warmth though, not a true warmth of a human sniper, or the mechanical warmth of an omnic either. He paused, head turning, and hears the click of a heel again. The click comes from his twelve-thirty this time. Huh. It had been awhile since he's walked into a trap.

He ignores the sniper for now, still there most probably, but not on the move. He focuses on the clicking steps coming closer, blatantly obvious, and inherently casual. He crooks a finger, dragging the sharp tip of a talon along the outside of his thigh. He has one rifle reformed and reloaded in his palm by the time he turns his head back around and sees the one who walked with those sharp clicks. They were shorter than he had been expecting.

"Guten Abend." The German stills his hand, as does the level calmness in the voice that rolls gently through the space between them. The trap setter was armed, but relaxed. They move just a bit closer, out of the density of the shadows cast by decaying buildings, and into the ugly yellow of a dying fluorescent lamp. "Sehr erfreut." He would profile them, if he could see more than long black hair, a red visor and black mask, and the coiling lines of active cybernetics sticking out from under black clothes. Lips twist and he exhales a stream of mist, his voice warbling as he returns what knows is pleasantries.

"Hola."

The sigh of breath from the agent is classic, even if it was reserved, and muffled under their mask. The gun at the agent's side lifts momentarily as they shift, the straps cinched around their thigh that had been hidden by their coat exposed as the material is brushed back, and the gun whistles as it compacts itself and slides into its holster. That was an unwarranted signal of trust. "It is good to finally meet you in person, Gabriel." A very unwarranted signal of trust. His rifle is up in a heartbeat, held level and trigger sighing under his finger, before it jerks to the side. He can't hear the shot, but he can feel it, and his rifle smokes from where the majority of its barrel had been blasted off. He understands why the agent seemed so relaxed now: the sniper.

"I don't go by that name." No, not anymore. Not while his rifle clatters to the ground, dropped carelessly in front of him, and turns into smoke. Not as he sucks the smoke back in, making note of how the agent had pronounced his name correctly, and how 'romantic' their accent was. It was almost as if they hadn't been rolling heavy German off at him just a minute before.

"I'm aware. You prefer Reaper now, yes?" They're smart, they have him profiled, and he had walked straight into it; he wants to give them a round of applause. He gives them a harmless spread of his claws instead. They tilt their head, to the right, and seem to take it as an affirmative. "I was under the impression you were fluent in English." The twist of his lips is changing into a smile. A shame they couldn't see it: the mask hides his fangs a bit too well.

"I am."

"Then use it."

They're reaching into their jacket now, for what he thinks is another gun, until he's proven wrong. Gloved hands toss forward a cannister that barely rolls once it hits the ground, the design of it too heavy to be a gas can, and too pretty to be a bomb. The device clicks as it rights itself and activates, the same red glow traveling the limbs of the agent before him creeping up the device's sides, and tinging the preliminary projection it displays before him. It was loading its database, which makes him laugh; can't Talon afford anything better? The agent steps forward, unphased, and he hears the echo of their heel click from the rooftop. It seems Talon could afford just enough.

"I would hate to disappoint you--" The agent is flicking in a command, there's lists that scroll by too fast for him to catch, and then-- a map. A map with information about him.

"Then don't." There is a hiss as the mask the agent wears releases seals, slots becoming apparent as a hand reaches up, and removes the visor. The yellow light does a good job of ruining how pretty burgundy colored eyes might have been, or how flawless the agent's skin seemed to be, but that was fine. He sees white and has enough answers. "I'm not here to pose as a moral compass."

The map is enlarging, the scale of it global, and the projection expanding to ensure every little pinging marker is displayed. It's a scattered collection of his hits, lethal and non-lethal, from the past four years. It's comprehensive, concise, and the agent taps the latest marker to zoom in on it: he can see a picture of them from satellite. It's hilarious. "Then what are you here for? To fulfill a deathwish?" His voice drops and rumbles, growling out of chest in full timbre, and he takes a step forward. The chill of the blast that takes out a chunk of his mask startles him, even if he masks it under a snarl. The sniper had changed vantage points, but he still couldn't see them, or feel them. Smoke billows from his mouth and the mask stitches itself back together, as if nothing had happened at all. The agent has the rigor to look as if they were bored; it's admiral.

"If you would stop playing stupid you would know."

"Winston; it's time to wake up."

Athena's voice was not pointedly loud, meaning he hadn't slept through too many of its morning prompts, but it was close. Yellow eyes are slow to blink open and slower to focus on the monitor that had jutted itself out closer to him. It's rare for Athena to mobilize any of the equipment in the base, much less independently without his convincing. There is data on the screen, but his eyes aren't focused enough yet, and his glasses were-- "Athena, where are my glasses?"

The lab was still in disarray sadly. The main lighting fixture on the main floor had been ruined and still laid crumpled on the ground. There were blood stains on the concrete (he had been sure they would have sealed the concrete…), but all the bodies had been removed. All the bodies he could have removed, at least. There was a black mark on the concrete that he had covered, just from unease, and he had left it alone. He might put a cabinet over it, just to keep avoiding it. He wouldn't place the tea kettle there though.

The kettle lets out a cheery whistle just before he can reach it, hissing and bubbling as the water gurgles through the spout and into his cup. He drinks his tea plain still, even after years of Lena's attempts to 'educate' him on tea. The tea bag's tag dangles out of the mug, barely brushing along the top of the desk as he moves to Athena's main console, and reaches for another banana. He was running low on food again; he would need to stock up. He needed to stock up, needed to clean up, needed to reinforce Athena's security protocols; he needed to… do so much. The banana is just on the cusp of too green when he bites into it and he reaches for the peanut butter next.

"What was it you were trying to show me Athena?" The A.I. barely hums as the screens flicker between images and data is compiled and cached. The first thing that pops up is the list of known, live agents of the original Overwatch. He had watched the list dwindle for six years; he exits out of it with the tap of a toe against his keyboard. The next thing that pops up is the list of potential agents. Some of the names had changed color, confirmations and declinations scattering through the data that Athena scrolls for him, and he barely keeps up. "Slow down Athena, I can't read that fast."

"You don't need to." The main screen shifts as the global map comes into focus, all the markers of agents, potential and otherwise, scattered across the world pinging to life; one by one. Red meant a decline of call, green meant a confirmation, yellow was a delayed response, and purple was-- "Dr. Ziegler has refused to answer any of the calls directed at her."

"What?" He's leaning closer, eyes narrowing, before he gives up. The glasses, left neat on his desk like always, clear things up significantly. His nose wrinkles as they slide into place, tickling his face momentarily, but the feeling passes. He can read the logs of denied calls, the pattern that arouse that was obviously avoidant, and finally the block message:

Do not contact me again.

"Do you know what this is about Athena?"

"I wish I did Winston."

The A.I. was silent, giving him time to process what had just been placed in front of him, and he's only pulled out of his reverie by something… sticky. The banana had neatly been mashed in his hand, the accident adding to the list of things he would have to clean up, and he sighs. He swallows his pride and licks up the mess, eying the purple marker, and the data log. It didn't make sense. Why couldn't they all be like Lena?

"Encrypt a call, switch to voice profiles." The A.I. pauses, almost as if it was taken aback, but precedes. The call rings, for three minutes too long, and finally connects. It was almost silent on the other end of the line, just the hum of a ventilation system that buzzed from the other end of the line. He hears something sharp and metallic, like tools being clicked together, and it stops. The sigh is the first sign of life from the other end of the line, and so familiar.

"I told you to stop attempting to contact me Athena."

"This isn't Athena." He grumbles, letting his voice rumble, and he doesn't get an instant rebuttal. In fact… he doesn't get anything at all. The metallic clicking had stopped at least. "Do you remember me Dr. Ziegler?" They could start with the basics first.

"Please don't ask me pointless questions." She sounded tired, angry, but not quite. Angela's anger had always been one that sat on a back burning, bubbling over long before you noticed it too late, because it was finally exploding. The clicking picks up for a moment, something sliding into place, and a hiss of cybernetics filling the static white noise on the call. "Do you really intend to do this? To reform Overwatch?"

He doesn't stop the roll of his eyes, the tire he was sat in groaning as he leans forward, and adjusts his glasses. "'Don't ask me pointless questions.'"

"Don't be patronizing." Yes; she was definitely angry underneath all that tired. There is a secondary sound on the call, the sound of skin brushing over medical paper, and the groan of something that was not the doctor. She says something, not to him, and in German; he only makes out the muttered response of 'null'.

"I have one condition." Athena's logo pops up on a secondary screen, an indication that it was listening as intently as he was, and a notepad opens up underneath that as well. Conditions could be good, or tricky, and Angela has the upper hand on him. She has funding, where he-- doesn't. He has a trashed lab, an out of use Watchpoint, and an unsecured call of a call to arms that could get them arrested. "Name it."

"If I rejoin Overwatch you must accept one of my patients as an agent as well. He is a competent fighter and tactician, but despite what he says, he needs my attention more than once every few months." There is another secondary sound on the call, a soft sounding grunt, and the dots were starting to connect themselves.

"You trust him?"

"With my life."

"...Very well. I will need information on him--" He's stopped by Athena's logo suddenly flicking away, data streaming in on the secondary screen, and nearly startling him. There was video footage, fuzzy and grainy, and news reports. He had seen these news reports before… He had seen this all before.

"His call name is Soldier 76.

#overwatch #overwatch fic #reaper76 #Jack Morrison #Gabriel Reyes #Soldier 76 #reaper (overwatch) #:Work #:Overwatch #:Overwatch (Divergence)

[tepidoil]

Title: Tu sei quello che stavo aspettando. (You are the one I have been waiting for.) [Part I ] Chapter: 2/7(?) Summary: It’s a new city, it’s a new start, and he’s a newly Made Man; there’s blood on his slacks to prove it. Word Count: 6k+ Notes: Part of the Rozuru Mafia AU. Part of Eline’s really delayed present package. Thank you for being you Eline! And thank you for being such a wonderful, amazing, friend!! Warnings: Violence, mild gore, death mention, torture mention, drugs mention.

”What is his name?”

Those words tumble out of his mouth: the first words to escape after the meeting. His left hand was cradled in his right; the weight of the rings seeming two fold in sensation. He’s been rubbing at his knuckles while his officers stood clustered about, George breaking the silence only with the clinking of glasses. There’s enough alcohol in the room to put a man to death, but it wasn’t being served. Only water is passed around; the clear glasses beading up with cool moisture on their outsides. The glass that is offered to him is ignored, his thumb working restlessly, impatiently, over his skin as he waits. He waits; his violet eyes sharp and expectant as they pass over his officers. One of them had given the boy the note that allowed him to come inside the house and thus someone would know his name. If he didn’t know it meant the blond was still fresh meat; a newbie that had been plucked off the streets to start benefiting the business and ready to be thrown back into the gutters when his numbers didn’t match up. Someone did know his name and that someone would tell him.

What finally breaks the silence is a cough, a low noise used to garner attention in conversation, and his gaze is drawn to the man who uttered the sound: Robert. “Kita.” Robert pauses, breathing in and taking a gulp of water, like a man about to perform a speech might. “He goes by Izuru Kita.” Goes by; what a dangerous choice of words. The bored expression that sprawls beneath the Caporegime’s intense gaze crinkles, his upper lip jutting out ever so slightly as his incisors descend upon the lower lip and nip.

”What is his real name?” Robert is a smart man, smart enough to hand his glass of water back to George, so he can free up his grip. Large hands undo the front of his jacket, a habit of his, because he hates the wrinkles left on his suit when he tries to reach into it unbuttoned. His gun is visible, the butt of it nasty and grooved from cracking one too many skulls, but he’s not reaching for it. A notepad is drawn out instead, the officer shuffling forward so as to get enough light to read whatever is on the pad.

“Found out that he used to be Izuru Corvi, but it looks him and his family didn’t get along too well; he changed it.” That was better, his jaw relaxing in tiny increments as his tongue lolled about. The tip shoves it at his bottom lip, the self-soothing gesture making a trademark snuff bulge above his chin, and no one comments on it. He’s stopped rubbing at his knuckles; instead he is simply covering his left hand. He’s thinking; his shoulder rolling into the cushions of his chair and his eyes shifting. His gaze drifts away from Robert, a question welling up in his chest, and he’s so proud of William picking up on it before he even asks.

”Robby was sayin’,” a hand flicks into his field of vision, his main officer gesturing at the other officer almost casually. “That the boy’s got grit.” There is a cue, a cue that comes from experience and interaction, and Robert is stepping forward. He holds out his notepad for the Capo, the man’s scratchy, almost backwards handwriting afflicting the blond’s vision for a moment. He relinquishes his ring heavy hand, gently taking the offered information, and he draws it back into the gloomy shadow that the shape of his chair creates. “And,” a pause, no doubt for him to gesture for his officer to continue, which he does; “that he’s good to boot.”

”He killed a snitch for me, to get recognized.” Robert is interjecting calmly, his fingers perpetually ashy in color from ink fiddling with his suit jacket, the buttons being slipped back and the fall of his attire fixed. “Gave him a knife to do it, but I don’t think he would have needed it.” The Capo is listening as he reads, his eyes flicking back and forth over scribbled words, unrelated notes, and heavily written sentences. Robert had a habit of pressing harder with his pencil when he was excited, or upset, and the latter did not seem to set a quiver in his hand. The dots of the officer’s ‘I’s were long, jutting down and up as they merged almost seamlessly into the next letter, and it’s only practice that has the Capo reading the hen scratch fluidly. “The snitch got his knife so Kita took a brick to his wrist.” That was in the notes; the officer’s scrawl bleeding into itself to a degree that the Capo’s brow furrowed as he read. “Stabbed the guy like thirty times before he had to take a breather,” the scrawl sharpens suddenly, “And went back for ten more to make sure he was dead.”

Good is finely printed on the notepad and the Capo bites his tongue.

”I told ‘im he should bring the kid,” William was moving in his field of vision now, the glass of water the Capo previously denied offered back out to him as he hands back Robert’s notes; this time he takes it. He relaxes his jaw, parts his lips to ease the cool liquid down the back of his throat, and he thinks. His left hand, the one that Izuru kissed, has rested unmoving on his thigh since its release finally shifts. It lifts up, takes the glass out of his right, and a stretch of a boney finger towards his cigar box on his desk sends William walking.

“I see.” Did he have more to say? Most probably, but water would not loosen his lips; tobacco would. The box is handed to him next, the cedar wood container traded with the glass of water in his grasp, and he presses his thumbs onto the top. He does not keep his more lavish cigars in his office, or his more expensive boxes, and thus the top slides back easily beneath his touch. He stores only a few cigars in the box, the rest of the room filled up with cigarettes that were not as pristine and deemed unworthy of his cigarette case. The silver case was inside his jacket, quite within reach if he wanted, but he did not bother with it. The cigarette he plucks out is crooked, the paper oddly crinkled, and the quality only deters him in public. It would burn the same, which is proven when William obliges him with a light, the hiss of a match and the sharp scent of a flame tickling his senses as the tip of the cigarette is lit. He breathes the smoke in, his nostrils flaring with the first drag, and he releases the smoke with a lavish rumble. He slides the lid of his cigar box closed, the soft, scratchy sound of wood rubbing against itself filling the silence of the room, and the muted thud of the burned out match being thrown into the fire hearth seems to ring out like a boom.

”Robert,” dark eyes flit up, the officer having been checking over his notes for some reason, but all his attention was back on him; “Tell Izuru I have a job for him.”

He had been sent on grocery duty again that morning, bustled in and out of Robert’s house by the burly man’s wife, and he’s almost grateful. He doesn’t regret not having to stand about as a reminder to certain people to behave, and to pay, but it makes him nervous. All his tossing and turning from the night before has his stomach a little uneasy, his oatmeal for breakfast sitting awkwardly in his gut, so every step he takes shakes him some. He should add a little pep and spark into his actions though, make his steps jaunty and force color into his face, because it would get him better deals. Smiling flattering to the young lady at the bakery got him the better bread loaves and not stooping and huddling got him less questions at the grocery. It was a nuisance, the presentation of faces he didn’t really carry, but necessary; all too necessary.

He manages something that is halfway between ‘gloomy and distraught’ and ‘cheery and calm’ while attending to his errands, his higher steps and gentle smiles disappearing once his arms were loaded with paper sacks. He could easily shove the bag with the bread into the arm that carries the bag of cans, but he might squish the bread. Robert’s wife didn’t like the bread mushed up unnecessarily, unless of course he was being sent out to buy some stale loaves to make crumbs out of. Bringing back pristine groceries would bring such a smile to her face, her dark eyes still shiny and bright with life he didn’t quite see in most of the other normal occupants in her house, and her rough palms would always chap a cheery glow to his cheeks. He still had to wonder what it was with mothers and the pinching of cheeks.

He still contemplates putting the bread in his other arm though, leaving his right arm loose and free, because he’s suddenly got a bad feeling. It’s a nagging sensation in the back of his head and it was coupling with the unrest in his stomach, which eased neither very well. He felt like he should go into the alleyways and cut his walk short, which would seem like backwards logic to most. Thugs and other people who weren’t the best for a young man like him had a habit of hanging out in the alleys, smoking and conversing about themselves. Some of those men were just lookouts, he knew a few were sent out to stand in the cold and keep an eye on things. He didn’t know their names, but he knew how they would hold themselves. He could get past them with ease, but that wasn’t the problem.

Darting into an alleyway now would probably seem shifty, especially since he wasn’t really in a residential area, so he shoulders on. The puddles along the side of the road cast a bright reflection of his drab attire up at him, his slacks looking wrinkled in the ripples and his face looking drawn. He doesn’t dwell on how unflattering that image is, because he knows he looked fairly presentable; he had double checked this morning. Looking good hadn’t always been a goal of his, but it was almost a necessity now. Keeping the shabbiness from his form would benefit him, he knows; he’s been told this more than once.

The puddles that create unflattering images of him are suddenly disturbed, the crunch of stray gravel from the asphalt melting into the splash of water that the puddle makes. Rubber tires support the wheezing frame of a familiarly shaped car, but he has to look twice at it regardless. The police car was moving slowly, the water from the puddles along the sidewalk sloshing around the wheels, but not wholly splattering; he’s grateful. He does take a few cautionary steps from the curb though, hoping to keep his slacks as dry as possible, but also to not look too self-absorbed or too scared. Acting squeamish in front of cops was never a smart move, which is why he makes sure he relaxes his grip on the bags in his arms. The passenger window on the police car was rolling down, what he assumes is a deputy leaning back once he was done fighting with the crank, and the blond can feel his stomach flop some as he looks inside.

”’Ey kiddo~” The voice that comes with those words is oddly drawn out, almost high in pitch, and excessively lax. It is one thing to slur words together, especially when you were comfortable, but this was just— unnecessary. The degree of emphasis on how words blend together is horribly off putting, just like the lazy grin that is on the features of the man who spoke them. His head is bowed some, his temple almost brushing the steering wheel of the car as he squints out through the open window, and the awkwardness of the position would make most people simply look silly. He looks gaunt though, his spine showing on his neck and his throat drawn tight, almost as if he wasn’t healthy, or didn’t have enough food to eat. The badge that seems to be about two finish levels more expensive than the badge his companion in the passenger seat wears would falsify such an assumption. He stops dead in his tracks, holding still as the police car rolls to a stop, and shifts his weight. Standing there makes him only more aware of the gun he hides in his clothes.

The radio in the car is playing softly, the tune something he can’t quite catch, only interrupted with the static of an occasional message. There are some brown bags on the dashboard of the car, probably filled with the lunches the two officers would eat, but that wasn’t a guarantee. “Y’er lookin’ kinda jumpy out there; everything alright~?” It was the officer in the driver’s seat again, his head still ducked down and his squinting gaze still focused upon him. He had very pale hair, the color almost matching his lackluster skin tone, and it makes his clothes seem all the more dark for it. Or perhaps it was the clothes that made the man seem more pale? He wasn’t sure.

”Everything is fine sir.” He tries to keep his voice light, keep it at a level that sounded subdued with sleepiness and not tense with apprehension, and he’s pretty sure he nailed it. The brunet sitting in the passenger’s seat was shifting around, looking obviously unimpressed by this whole exchange. The pale haired officer was flicking the radio’s volume down a few notches, his attention zeroing in on the blond, and it makes his lousy breakfast creep up his throat. He shifts his weight again; masking the action by adjusting the bags in his arms, and feels the gun against his back shift again. The jacket he was wearing over his sweater was hiding the bulge the gun would make, but that wasn’t entirely comforting at the moment.

”Yeah?” The man’s voice was unsettling, somehow, which only encourages him to nod and to try to get away. A hum from between pursed lips barely makes it out of the cab of the car, but he can guess at it, just judging by the look on the man’s face. He seems thoughtful about the response, the idling engine steaming slightly in the chilly morning air, and the Made Man contemplates on just how wasteful it was of the officer to let the car run like this. “Well.” The grinding of a shifting gear makes him jump some, a smile playing on thin lips of the pale haired officer and an amused snort working its way out of the officer sat beside him. “If y’er sure kiddo. Y’a got our number if it ain’t~” It was a horrible joke, one that made his lips thin out into a faint frown, and that really makes the brunet officer snort. The window rolls up as the car rolls away, the blond taking a few more steps back from the curb to keep his slacks dry, and he watches them go.

The tune that was playing on the car’s radio is stuck in the back of his head, replacing the apprehension he had felt before, and it resonates like a toothache. He resists the urge to pull at his sore molar just to encourage some distracting pain and simply hurries on. He does not get to see the laugh or the grin from the pale haired officer, nor the query shoved at him from the deputy that was making rounds with him. “He’s fresh meat if I ever seen it.” They both laugh, enjoying the warmth of that car while the blond cuts through an alley and heads back to the safe house, his flat cap keeping the sun off his pale face and keeping his side swept bangs firmly in place.

He’s eating when Robert shows up for lunch, the larger man walking into the kitchen exactly on time, because his wife already has a plate ready for him. The Officer gets something a bit more impressive than the sandwich he devours, but he doesn’t mind. Some of the juices from the roast that is simmering on the stove had been poured over the chunks of beef that had been slapped together between two pieces of bread, which made it at least two steps up from the food he had been fixing himself the past week. His pantry was running lean again, just as he was, and he knows Mary is going to meow and nag at him to go shopping within a day or so. Without a wife, or a mother, to nag at him he only had his cat, which he was mostly grateful for. Robert’s wife was a very nice woman, her smiles sweet and her cooking good, but she was also pretty scary. Waking up to a cat yowling was scary enough; he didn’t need to wake up to a woman’s shouting.

He mulls over nothing as he eats, taking his time on the sandwich in his grip, and he almost doesn’t notice Robert sit down almost right next to him. The squeak of a chair being pulled back from the table doesn’t mean much to him, not until the gentle clatter of a plate being put down and the grunt of a businessman undoing his jacket reaches his ears. Blue eyes slide over the textured wood of the table in the kitchen, the edges worn with age and the finish flecked with abuse, and land on the gun that is pulled out of its harness and settled down next to the plate. He swallows slowly, watching as a notepad comes next and eventually a pen that no doubt had been stuck in the Officer’s suit pocket and forgotten. He waits, anticipation flaring to life like a wave of heartburn, and forgets how to breath for a moment. Just a minute though, because Robert had simply been divesting himself of unnecessary equipment, and was digging into his meal.

He relaxes despite his better judgement.

They eat in companionable silence, the kind of quiet that good bonds could form within, only broken with interjections from Robert’s wife. She slaved over the stove, or perhaps he should say the stove was her slave, considering how it groaned and creaked every time she prompted it to work harder for her. The smell of gas burning was not off putting, only for the fact that it was controlled, and heavily masked by the smell of cooking meat. Bread was rising on the far end of the counter, ready to be chunked into the oven once it was time, and turn light and crisp beneath inescapable heat. He liked the bread here, but that was probably because it was sweeter than the bread he can afford, and fresh. He finishes off the last bite of his sandwich, laments that the bread waiting for him at home had already gone hard and stale, and moves to get up. He has the plate in his hand, which he will wash and put on the drying rack, just to be polite. Instead he drops it, lets it clatter back to the table top (it doesn’t break, thank god), all out of the shock of the hand closing tight on his shoulder.

Robert still has a mouthful of food that he was working on, but he smiles while he chews. His fingers, darkened from what the blond can assume to be years of working with a printing press (or guns), were white at the knuckles. The grip was tight, warning, and he takes the warning to heart. He sits back down, glances sheepishly at the man’s wife, who was eying him critically for dropping her plate, and faces Robert again. The older man takes his time to chew and swallow, clearing his throat and licking at his teeth, before he flashes a full smile. It was forced, too light and airy for the grip that has not relented in the slightest, and he wonders how dark the finger shaped bruises will be the next morning.

”Relax Kid.” There is an edge to his tone, but it is still at least openly friendly, which is better than some things. The hold on his shoulder finally relents, all so the Officer can clap him on the shoulder and back, and he flinches. Robert lets him go, his hand falling idly in his lap, and he weighs his options and their consequences. He takes a risk, reaching up to rub at his smarting shoulder, and Robert’s smile does not fall. In fact, Robert’s smile doesn’t change at all. This was bad. ”The Boss wants you to do something for him.”

This was very bad.

The church itself was nothing exceptional, considering where it was located, and the donations it received. It was small, tucked away where real estate was poor, and looked admittedly shabby. The roof had seen better days, the windows look painted, not stained, and the entry door was scarred from unforgiving seasons. It was a sturdy entry door though; it was heavy enough that he struggled to close it behind him with the wind pulling against him. The gusts outside had successfully ruined the warmth of his lunch and cut him right through his threadbare coat and down to the bone. His scarf was wet either from the drip of his nose or the spiteful drizzle outside and his fingers were red from the chill. A lovely afternoon for him to seek refuge in a beat down, if warm, church.

There was no donation box in the entry hall, as he had expected, but a small prayer box. Or-- perhaps prayer box wasn’t the right word. Lightly crumpled pieces of paper filled the box, their edges studiously straightened, even though it was obvious they had been gripped too tightly in too many hands. There was coffee stains on a few of the pages, stains he wasn’t sure about on others, and even a touch of makeup. He wonders what would consume someone with a great enough need to kiss a piece of paper, or rub it at their eyes, but he remembers where he is. Faith was not something lost on him, merely muted.

There is a foot step down the hall, a click of a heel that suddenly falls silent, and he makes a point to ignore it. He takes his time, instead, looking at the ‘prayer’ box, and pretends he doesn’t hear the carefully slow and quiet steps coming towards him. He reaches into the box, brushing his fingers along the bottom, and promptly removes his hand. One of the pieces of paper falls out as he tries to move away, fluttering gently to the floor, and he stoops to pick it up. The print at the top, “LEVITICUS 24:17”, catches his eye. The woman who had been ‘creeping’ up on him will only catch him smiling and neatly placing the sheet of paper back into the box; all the while brushing fine white dust off his fingertips.

”Do you need some help…?” She’s not hesitant, by any means, with her projected voice and brightly colored clothes. She’s polite though, giving him the moment he needs to collect himself and take off his hat (he had forgotten to take it off before when he first came in) and give her a polite nod of his head in return.

He lets the dryness of his lips spur on the nervous movement of his tongue, a swipe across his lower lip helping soothe parched surfaces, and visibly driving the nervous energy home. “I was hoping I could speak--” He coughs, and manages to sneeze as well, before he can finish his sentence. “Pardon me; I was hoping I could speak to the pastor.” His interrupted confession is met with a stern gaze, dark eyes giving him a strong once over that was nearly as biting as the wind was, and he exposes the long, dark mark on his face by reaching up to unwind his scarf and knocking back his fringe some; it works.

The woman finally breaks a smile, one that is too inviting and warm to be completely genuine. Maybe it could be considered a motherly smile, but he doubts it. He’s seen that kind of smile one too many times to be drawn easily into its warmth. He hurriedly smoothes down his hair, hiding away the flaw on his cheek, and lets her smile at him like a lion would to a lamb. “Pastor Mondt is in the middle of service right now, but you can wait until the service is over, or you can come back.” She doesn’t gesture towards the door when she says this, which means you should stay, and considering the wind outside? He’s wholly too happy to oblige that thought. So he drags up his smile, tight in the eyes and gaunt in the throat, and peeks from side to side underneath his fringe. Her smile gets wider for a moment, but she ratchets it down; he saw it though. He’s done this dance before.

When she beckons him deeper into the church he shoves his hand in his pocket and wipes the rest of the giggle dust off against the unlined wool.

He ends up waiting outside the main hall, sitting on an uncomfortable bench with a coffee mug cradled between his hands, and listens to the service. The exact words roll off of him, his eyes flicking between the doors and the clock, and occasionally the woman who tries to sneak a glance at him from around the corner. The service ends with songs, the off key music of the organ somewhat masked by the congregation of even more off key worshippers, and the buzz of normal conversation helps break the uncomfortable echo of the near silence. He abandons the coffee mug, still full but no longer hot, and disappears into a side room before the doors can open. The side room was actually a closet, a dark closet, but it would do. He’s been in more uncomfortable positions before.

The buzz of conversation takes a while to die down, probably around an hour or more, and he winds his scarf tighter around his nose to stave off the bored chill that creeps up his spine. The buzz rings in his ears even as the voices drift away, only a few voices left, and then finally none. There was only the tapping of heels on the floor, the sounds of someone stopping and starting over and over again. He waits until the annoyingly loud clicking of those heels disappear, going off down the hall, indicating that the woman from before has gone on her way in continued search of him. Ah, oh well; her mistake.

The sun had finally decided to take pity on them, momentarily showing its face through the wind and clouds, and its light was tumbling in through the windows. He was right, before, about the windows: they weren’t stained, but painted. The painting was nice, at least, and done with some amount of care, but it was old. It was fading, chipping, and adding an unpleasant orange glow to the air in the congregation hall. The dust particles that dangled lazily in the air were painted like small, odd oranges in the off color light, which conflicted horribly with the musk that stood stagnant in the hall. The musk being the remains of too many muddled perfumes drifting away from their lady’s necks. It was stifling in the room, in the oddly orange light, and lonely, but not quiet.

The pastor was at the organ, hitting keys too quickly and suddenly to be considered playing, but he didn’t seem to be interested in making music. The tuning process was a loud one, a tedious one, and he hangs back for a while at the end of the pews, just so he could watch him. The man seems oblivious to him though; his brow furrowed and his eyes squinted horribly. He had heard that the pastor was losing his eyesight, due to old age, along with his mobility. The cane and glasses seemed to validate that, even if it hardly mattered; it merely meant that the rumors were true.

He has to clear his throat once he gets close to the man, his fist warmed barely by the sharp exhale of his moist breath, and he can momentarily smell the garlic on his breath from the roast gravy that had been on his sandwich. He ignores the smell, how it creeps up his nose and stays there, making the musk of the room that much more unbearable, because the pastor was turning around. He twists on the bench in front of the organ, his fingers curling into the ivory keys, making the beast of an instrument wheeze in the quiet. Aha, so that’s how he played the music earlier.

A smile breaks out over the pastor’s mouth, finally, and reveals aged, but intact, teeth. “Hello there! You must be the boy that Betty told me about.” Of course the woman had warned him that he was here, somewhere; he should have expected it. All he can do is nod, his eyes darting about the room, and lingering for a moment too long on the door. Mr. Mondt’s smile becomes larger, another lion grin turned towards him, and he wrings the hat he holds in his hands to continue posing as the lamb. “Come here, sit; there’s no need to be so uptight.” A wrinkled hand is gesturing to the pew that is closest to the organ, offering them an impromptu meeting, but he can’t take it. He looks around the room one more time, spots the exit door that was off to the far right, and shakes his head.

”I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

He wrings the hat in his hands a few more times, letting the words settle on the pastor’s mind, and follows a spec of orange dust with his eyes. “Does that mean you wanted to see me for a confession?” He’s more guarded now, but his smile sticks to his leathery cheeks, and the tenacity is interesting. Not impressive, or endearing, but interesting. He nods slightly, a hum dragging across his breath, which gets him the same sweeping gesture of the older man’s hand as before; he ignores it. He fixes his cap, delicately peels out the piece of paper that had been hiding in one of the inner creases, and drags it forward. It’s a shame that the man’s eyesight was failing.

“I have more of a question, than a confession, actually.” He fiddles with the paper, eyes flicking between its surface, Mr. Mondt, and the side door. The man is no longer smiling, but his brow was furrowed, and he was reaching for his cane. He takes a step forward, reaches out with his foot, and knocks the cane over. The clatter of the wood is sharp, echoing in the somewhat large hall around them, and it wipes any trace of a smile off the man’s face. He extends the paper out to him, even as he undoes a button of his jacket, and releases the tension off the middle of his back. “I was wondering,” He lets his jacket fall open as the man brings the slip of paper closer. “Why you hadn’t,” The gun harness is obvious now, standing stark against his undershirt, and his gun is barely warm from being pressed up under his arm for several hours; he grabs it anyway. He drags it out as the man’s expression switches to a familiar sort of horror; his eyes wide and his glasses pushed high up his nose so he could make out the symbol carefully inked on the piece of paper. “Paid your debts.”

“Now son--” He’s trying to stand, reaching for his cane, and the flailing hand is ignored in favor of cocking back the hammer of his gun. He does not attempt to hold the gun single handedly, but his supporting hand is loose, and ready to grab at the man should he need to. The room was too large, still echoing from the crack of the falling cane from before, and the nervous wheezing now coming out of the pastor’s mouth.

“Sit down Mr. Mondt.” He does not raise his voice, or reach out, but the man acts like he’s been slapped. He slumps back down on the bench, his eyes still wide, and his expression settling into the horror. Realization seems to creep up on people in stages, usually starting with denial and ending in acceptance; Mr. Mondt seemed to be stuck on disbelief. “You should have put in a donation box in the entry hall, not an ’exchange’ box.” The heroin will need to be washed out of his coat now, by hand, but that wasn’t a huge deal; he had to scrub out specs of blood and gunpowder fairly regularly now. The drugs were not something he was interested in, or the Caporegime was interested in, but the lack of payment was; it was obvious Mr. Mondt had been hiding his other wallet.

“Listen.” His voice is higher now, nervous, and shaking in time with his shoulders. He was on the ‘bargaining’ stage of realization now, it seemed. “I can pay, I am good for my word, I just--” His eyesight wasn’t so poor to know when a gun was being shoved into his face.

“Need more time?” The last man who had tried that line had then tried to stick a meat hook in his face and had missed; he had been thankful for the drain in the floor helping remove the excess blood on the floor. “You are already two months behind, Mr. Mondt; how more time do you need?” He lets the barrel of his gun warm itself up against the man’s wrinkled forehead, his eyes no longer wide, but squeeze tightly shut; there were tears rolling down his face. “Enough time to abandon your ’flock’?” He had been listening to the service, somewhat, but now he ignores the sob coming out of the man’s mouth. There was no way to earn the sympathy of a Made Man, after all.

“I can make the payment; I can. I just need a little more time. One more exchange and--!” He’s now in the ‘desperation’ stage of realization, which is the most animated, and the most tedious. He reaches out towards him, tries to pull the gun off his head (and out of his grip), and he evades. He draws back, just for a moment, and stoops down. The cane on the floor is made of solid wood, was thick and study, and does not break when he brings it down on the bench seat next to the pastor. The splintering of wood crackles in his ears, makes the orange tinted particles rush away, and the man’s rambling stops; good. He had been here too long as it was.

“Turn around Mr. Mondt.” He lifts the cane from the damaged bench, giving him room to do as he is told, and tosses it aside. It thuds quietly on the strip of carpet that runs through the center of the pews, leading out to the main doors, and signalling the last path of freedom the man might of had. The other door led to the alley, not to the office, and there would be no way to make up his debt in an alley. This wouldn’t make up for his debt either, but that was fine; a warning to the community would be enough.

“I want you to play your favorite song Mr. Mondt.” The man was crying openly now, a hiccup making his trembling hands shake worse, and the first notes of said song were atrocious. The tuning from earlier seemed to help though; considering that through all the shaking and mistakes the music actually sounded better. Maybe he was just too close to the loud noise to hear how off key it might be though; he couldn’t be sure. All he was sure of was that the gunshot was not as loud as the organ, the music wailing and slumping into a long wheeze of a premature end. The pastor’s bowed head on the keys extended the last long sigh of the organ’s music; their collective death rattle. His ears were ringing, but his hand was steady, and there wasn’t even a spec of blood on his clothes. He almost wants to pat himself on the back.

The sudden, unexpected clapping and garishly cheeri ’bravo’ kills that desire entirely.

#landofshame #:Work #:Rozuru Mafia AU #:Canon Timeline Rozuru Mafia AU #:You are the one I have been waiting for

[tepidoil]

Title: I Like You Summary: The alarm clock came with the apartment; it would be ashame to not use it. Word Count:·1k Notes:·Era’inan (the main pov) belongs to Sam. El’las’sin belongs to me. Part of·‘that modern au’. Warnings:·Mild dissociation themes, murder mentions, gore mentions, drowning implication.

He is awake, just moments, before the alarm rings.

The bedroom sits in a dull silence, thick insulation drowning out the noise of snoring neighbors and their music, as well as the rain falling upon the beeping of cars in their early morning commute. It wasn’t raining hard, more so just drizzling, but it was enough. Before the hour can roll forward he is up, sitting lightly at the edge of the bed, and flicking the alarm’s switch. He has never needed an alarm to rouse him, despite how deeply he might sometimes sleep. It simply was not something he needed, but the alarm clock came with the apartment; it would be a shame to not use it.

He turns the news on out of habit, filling the living area with senseless noise, for what was coming from the anchor’s mouth was not truly news. Marriages had so little value now, for once they could make, and destroy, countries. Deaths were publicized and not respected any longer, with services broadcasted, and silence limited. He tunes it out, allowing the words to remain as noise, and his focus to drift elsewhere. He stops seeing the knife in his hand even before he had finished buttering his toast.

The apartment is sparse in furnishing, making it easier for him to move about, and not trip over unnecessary things. Minimalism leaves room for him to move, for him to think, and he sets the tea kettle on the stove before he moves away. He carries his toast with him, his free hand brushing across the back of the couch, and fumbling at the string that will lower the blinds. The dreary atmosphere outside has no place in his open space.

He eats as he moves; his steps smaller and more tentative than before, but not out of fear. He nudges bare toes against the edge of the kitchen island, coming around towards the stove, and he shoves his toast in his mouth. He was getting crumbs on the counter, but it was fine. There would be more crumbs on the counter soon regardless. He has the tea bags out of the cabinet just in time for the kettle to start to scream. He moves the kettle, drops in one too many bags for a pot of tea for one, and sets out two tea cups.

Opening the door to the balcony makes the air stifling and muggy.

He sits, the crumbs that had fallen on his shirt before brushed off gently into the trash, and he relaxes. The last of his toast is just on the edge of going cold and hard, the lack of heat making it stiff, and he tears off an edge. He throws the edge out the door, onto the balcony, and waits. Pigeons wouldn’t come, not in the rain, but a crow does. It lands on the balcony, well out of his limited range of sight, but he hears its cry. It caws gently, loud against the rain, but quiet against the cars. The caw turns into a sigh, the crow gone, and the piece of toast is thrown into the trash; El’las’sin closes the balcony door behind him.

He is awake, listening to noise, and enjoying the cool again. The muggy air is sucked away by the central cooling system, meaning he does not get uncomfortable. The seat is comfortable, and soft, and he sinks into it. He listens, over the noise, to El’las’sin pick up the knife he had discarded. He can hear him cut the cake he had left out the night before, into two perfect pieces, and he sees them. He watches, which looking into the closed blinds of the windows, how El’las’sin puts the pieces neatly on the same plate. There is one fork, one plate, two pieces, two cups, and one pot of tea. There was only one reflection in the mirror that spans the far wall of the living room while El’las’sin walks past it, but it wasn’t his; he can see himself sitting in the chair.

There is a question on the other’s tongue, but he bites onto it, and they eat cake in silence. The tea is hot, not lacking in flavor, but still slightly bland. It would be better with honey, but he doesn’t mention it, because he can see the honey stain in the other’s new shirt. He blinks through the fog, focusing on bright pin points of light, and slowly swims to the surface of it all. He breathes in the fog, exhales the fog, and fog lights of a friend seemingly guide him back to shore. Shore was quite an odd concept though, now that he focuses on it, and he drifts back into the foam once again.

He can hear El’las’sin laughing.

There are fingers intertwined with his, not suddenly, but surely. They are bigger than his own, warmer, and covered in scars. He can see, once, that El’las’sin had no scars. His skin had been pale, smooth, and his hair had been long. “We both had long hair.” He says, for no reason, and the pin points of light grow brighter again. He is waist deep in water and neck deep in foam.

”My hair was longer.” There is a smile beneath those lights, full of bloody fangs, and lined with fresh sacrifices. Every tooth is an eon, full of death, and stained with it; he remembers the decades in-between. He wades through the water, watching it turn to blood, and sees an empire fall.

”I like your short hair.”

”I like you.”

There were fingers between his and fingers in his hair. El’las’sin runs his nails at his scalp, making his skin tingle, and touches the tip of his ear. It was soft and mostly rounded. He remembers when they had stronger points, like the daggers he once wore at his hips, and used to carve out disobedience. He wonders how the Orchard blooms in acid rain and sighs.

He inhales fog, exhales fog, and embraces the bright kiss that cuts through it for a time.

#:Work #:DA 'that modern au' #:Era'inan #:El'las'sin #Contributor: Sam #erainan

[tepidoil]

” You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep spring from coming. ”                                                             -- Pablo Neruda

Winter clings desperately at the world, curling needle like claws into every shadowy crack and dark crevice, and hugging tight to every surface. The warming sun and changing winds is winter’s enemy, for even as it hisses and howls, storms beckoned by its call, their winds grow milder and more tepid. The chill no longer sends frost skittering across every lake and stone and icicles hanging from branches and structures alike drip and sparkle, the sun filling them with warmth, and sending winter scurrying away. The bears know a rumble, deep inside of them, that says it is time to appear once more. Their musty dens will harbor the shadows where winter hides, with baleful eyes and jealous nips of cold, and the world will erase it’s seasonal tyranny once more. The world waits for no beast to become tame and mild; there were flowers budding up through the snow.

He steps delicately, his footsteps large and loud, but his presence small and mild. The snow crunches beneath him, brittle and edging towards softness, and he chooses a path that takes him through the persistent blooms. He does not need to reach out with a whisper, a tug upon the Weave that would send messages out like spiders do to their webs, not when there is such clear evidence before him. The rumbling in his core, an echo of something he is not, but intrinsically is, offers him guidance as well. He knows to follow the smell of freshly blooming life nestled in the softness of thawing death.

He follows the flowers until there is less snow, when the cold gives way to merely soggy ground, barely carrying the wisps of soon to be sprouting grass. He follows a trail that has no scent or mark, but is clearly cut all the same. He steps gently across the line of mushrooms in his path, moving himself from a place of an observer, to the place of a practitioner. He is not passive as he weaves himself, like a common thread, into the fabric of this place, but there was no need for him to be. When he sets his staff down it roots itself to the ground; standing firm and tall upon the bare field and acting if it was without peer. A laughable thought, considering that one of its kin is nearby.

Era’inan’s silence is calm, neither judgmental or irate, and he invades it. The ground softens his steps, brings his own silence to the air, and the wind gossips around them. The breeze is still cool when it runs past them, pulling at the lengthy sleeves of his robes, and toying with the gauzy ends of Era’inan’s, but it was no matter; the sun blazes upon them. The sun’s warming light robs a pale face of much detail until it turns, allowing shadows to draw contours that he is so terribly familiar with. A season cannot change them, even one this long and cruel; there was no cruelty greater than what they held within themselves.

”You have awoken.” He speaks with warmth, the warmth that gathers around a hearth, and sticks to ancient stones. He does not blaze upon the other, though his eyes catch rays of the sun with jealous abandon, and he is graced with a pale gaze in return. There is barely a smile upon pale lips, a ghost of an expression diffusing out over his face, and nature sighs around them. A spider spins a web, its threads sparkling in the sun, and watches them as they work.

”I do not rest.” A jest, he knows, but also the truth. The words Era’inan uses are uncovered from within, moss and earth peeled back in slow layers as he comes closer, and mirrors the Scryer for a moment. He stands studious, calm, and eternal; there is a cackling of crows nearby and he turns his focus to them.

”No?” The bear cubs born within their mother’s dens are starting to escape now, youth filling them with vigor their mother will be tested to match, and he is aware of it. “I do not envy you.” The cubs jump and wrestle, tumbling themselves in the last of the snow, as their mothers prowl and hunt. “I have grown partial to quiet dreams.” The cackling crows go silent, their secrets buzzing dully in his ears, and his gut turns as an arrow lances a bear’s heart. He does not dream, for there are no dreams important enough for him to take him from this awareness.

Era’inan indulges him, turning fully to face him, even as that throws his shoulder into the sun. Aged wood, so pure and white now, shines far too bright in the light. He looks like a Spirit, dripping in physical representations of the Weave, even as it curves around him. The wind blows, catching at sparkling robes, and gliding past a slowly blossoming smile. “Is that so you may rest on your laurels?” The spider pauses in its web, leaning over the edge, and observes as youth shows one of its last blossoms between them.

His retaliation is swift, an instantaneous movement that brings him closer, and the sun is shouldered slightly away as he drags warm shadows into place. He traces the contours of a familiar face, the tip of his nose barely brushing against Era’inan’s, and their foreheads sliding against one another until the place of comfort is found. He set his staff aside before, just so he may lift both hands, and tease the tips of fingers into dark hair. He keeps his touch close to the scalp, where gentleness and intimacy go hand in hand, and no one can part them. The hands that heft to his neck, crawling into the purposefully sloppy braid hanging from his head, bind those hands even tighter. A marriage is clad in iron, but this is wrought in blood, and only the spider sees the shadows lift like a veil as their lips meet in a kiss.

The cackling ravens come and devour the spider, careful of its web, and their twin forms perch in silent observance of a secret that is tied together at the hands.

#:Work #:El'las'sin #:Era'inan #4/ #5/

[tepidoil]

Title: Prodóti̱s Fandom: Dragon Age Inquisition Summary: Prodóti̱s, Greek for Traitor. That is what he was, a traitor to his homeland, his family, and most of all-- his heart. Chapters: 1/? Word Count: 2k+ Notes: A certain friend decided to keep me up with this au idea and me, being the smart and responsible adult that I am, has let it consume me to a point where I am beyond okay. This is unbeta'd due to the hour. AO3 link: [ x ] Warnings: Canon typical violence

You know, call him suspicious, but the time ’fucking’ Rift hanging out in front of the town gates? The obvious lack of preparation for their visit and not to mention the sheer amount of stunned, quiet, and unsupervised mages milling about? It gave him the ‘heebie jeebies’. Not that he didn’t trust mages or anything, but old habits had a tendency not to die out all that quick. They linger, like the old Mabari who is well retired from war, but still watches the door like an assassin may be bold enough to step through it. It yields at his heels, weighs him down as he passes through the crowds that part around the Inquisitor (and them), and demands he invest as many of his senses into his surroundings as possible.

”Got a bad feeling about this Boss.” His voice is gravel, ground out even as he crushes rocks under his boots, and leaves more gravel in his wake. He has to lean down, just a little, to make sure she hears him. He gets his answer when she tosses him a tiny, dismissive sort of wave, though he can tell she’s only got half of her good ear on him. The scars that curl daintily under the carefully parted and falling hair she has indicate one hell of a head wound at some point in her life, which, when considered with her partial deafness, explains a lot of things. None of them explain why she decided coming to the Rebel Mages would be a good idea.

”What’s the matter Tiny; nervous?” Varric is relaxed, or he is showing himself to be. Just because he didn’t have Bianca (he still wants to know the story behind that one) balanced in his hands doesn’t mean he wasn’t ready for shit to hit the fan. Though considering what he’s heard (and read, through various reports that have trickled in over the years), he shouldn’t be too surprised by this level of obvious ease; Kirkwall had been worse than this. He shrugs nonchalantly, committing to nothing as he watches a few mages dart past, fear filling their eyes as they took a look at him. Damn, where the horn’s giving him away, or something? You would think the Arishok had come to town or something. Which reminds him…

”What about you? Can’t imagine you’re too comfortable.” Now he’s just making conversation, keeping the tone light as he watches the Herald talk to a mage just on the outer range of his hearing. She’s making movements with her hands and the-- shit-- Tranquil is being way too passive about it; no surprise there though. He gets a shrug from the dwarf in return for the one he had chucked out earlier and he buries the smile it makes him want to share. The dwarf had a decent enough head on his shoulders to give as well as he took; he had to give him that. They don’t get to converse more on the subject, or somehow leave the subject behind and dance around a thinly veiled, completely separate topic, because the Herald was waving them on. They were following the Tranquil now, the crowd not going silent as they passed, and he sighs.

It’s easy to pretend that the tavern somehow brightens his mood.

”You think we can get a tankard while we’re here Boss?” Again he gets the waving hand, though considering he has leaned close enough to her left ear that she can hear him through all those scars on her face, the waving hand is actually more of a slapping hand. She starts and apologetically pats his face, which is equal parts endearing and flat out embarrassing, and he backs off with some hint of grace left. Varric doesn’t hide his grin even as he looks away and Vivienne pretends she hadn’t seen the whole display as it was; that woman was hiding the head of a saint in those mage skirts somewhere, he was sure.

There is a mage there, more important than the rest, he hazards a guess. It might have something to do with the fact Vivienne had sat on that saint’s head and hidden their eyes as she lanced her words precisely through the other mage (elf, small, but with determined eyes; potentially dangerous). It doesn’t take him long to be thankful for not collecting up his senses, because sure enough, there are mages showing up that he feels the need to be worried about. The Mabari watching the proverbial door was now giving a metaphorical growl as men clad in the all too fucking familiar robes of Tevinter fashion were walking up to them. One was a Magister (he could tell by looking, even before the introduction), and the other one-- well. He had a curious sort of look on his face when he looked up and met his eye. He held his gaze evenly, not fiercely or in antagonistic warning, but in acknowledgement. That was better than the half a second glance and dismissive tilt of eyes the Magister had given him.

”This is my son, Felix.” Oh boy; a Magister and and Altus. This day just couldn’t get worse, could it? Except it could, because he had been signaled to stay back for the most part, and wasn’t close enough to wrench the boy up by the back of his ridiculous robes when he staggered forward and fell on the Herald. He’s half a heartbeat away of reaching out, grabbing him by the arm, and dislocating it when the look on the Herald’s face stops him. Evidently he’s not the only one, because there is one big, huge pause as the Herald helps the boy stand up to full height again. Okay, shit, the kid did look pretty bad; he was two shades away from being kind of rigid looking.

Vivienne catches herself first, lunging forward in a perfectly controlled gait, and protectively curling her neat and dangerous looking manicure on the Herald’s shoulder. “Moira, darling, are you alright?” She checks in with the Herald before turning her gaze on the boy, distrust written clear in the elevated angle of her chin, even as concern decides to take to the battle field of her steely eyes. She detaches herself gracefully as the boy staggers aside, clutching at himself, and heaving for a breath that looked less helpful than it should have. The ’yes’ and ’I’m fine’ are drowned out underneath the sudden exclamations coming from the Magister.

”Felix!” The older man is upon him at once, supporting him a way a father does for a son, and at least that’s something. Whether or not he’s just treating his kid right as a pawn in getting leverage in the social circle (or a family tie to a higher seat of power) or to ensure his family name didn’t die out early, he couldn’t be sure of. “You will have to excuse me Herald-- we will have to continue this at a later date.” Despite the vocal disagreement from the boy, he is whisked off, and the elf mage from before (her name was Fiona and she seemed rather lost and confused by this whole ordeal, the more he watches her) follows after them diligently. Was she aware she was acting like a hand servant for the Magister, or worse, a slave? He honestly doubts it.

He watches the Magister and his small entourage leave, the edge of his axe digging into the wood of the upper level railing he was pretending to lean into, and leaving a mark. Good; don’t let anyone forget a Qunari the size of two full barrels had been in here, and hadn’t done a damn thing other than watch; maybe that would get rumors started. Or he could get some started, at least. He almost misses the soft crinkle of fresh, foreign paper, what with him being so wrapped up in his own head. He doesn’t miss the way the tavern’s din seems to dim in the immediate presence of the Herald, her eyes scanning the paper critically, and her mouth setting in a hard line. “Mary?” Varric cuts in first, leaving him out in the cold again, but that was fine. A look at the Rogue’s profile was more than enough to tell him he didn’t need to speak up.

”It says ’come to the Chantry. You are in danger.’” She pauses, glances from Varric, to Vivienne, and then to him-- but ultimately her eyes fall back onto the note. “That boy, Felix, slipped me this note when he fell on me. He did it on purpose.” It didn’t take a genius to figure that one out, really, but he held his tongue. Well, he held it for a little bit, but not all that long. He beats both of his fellow companions this time, speaking out in a voice that is more of a rolling echo of thunder, than any actual tone. He respects how the Herald has to watch his lips to catch what he says:

”It’s a trap.”

He does get his tankard of ale, as does Varric, as they sit about a table within the Tavern and discuss their options. Vivienne drifts away for a moment, finds the Tranquil that had led them here to begin with, and sends him on his way. She comes back, speaks of a new liaison, and the tension at the table drains any joy any of them might find in those words. Moira rubs at her face in a way that indicates she is more physically tired than she would like to let on, but can’t help from doing so, with her inability to hide her tics. He mentally records it all, files the information in his cluster fuck of a personal vault to be considered later, and perhaps translated into a cipher and put in a report. He doubted that his superiors needed to know just how the Rogue’s eyes drooped when she was tired and considering something, but hey, he watches intently anyway; the lamp light in the tavern really brought out the red tones in her hair.

”Suggestions?” She controls the conversation, as she usually does, and he’s proud of how she pushes past her grogginess and wariness to address them. He’s pretty sure, if Cullen was here, he’d be hot under the collar from it. Varric goes first.

”I say we send an Agent to check this out. No need to put you in any more danger than we already do on a daily basis.” His suggestion is reasonable, perfectly balanced on the knife edge of this and that. Moira seems to appreciate that, both his calm sensibility, and his middle ground hitting the table first. Too bad that wouldn’t last.

”Darling, the boy fell ill upon you. I wish I could see it as purely as an accident, but I cannot encourage any action that has you playing into their games. Let this ‘danger’ pass and focus on swaying Fiona instead-- a Magister has no such political power here; outside of Tevinter’s borders.” He’s not surprised by that idea either and raises the tankard to his lips. The last of the foam still clinging to the wood tickles his nose as eyes turn upon him, and he swallows down the watered down ale to hide his grin.

”I say we go now, and bite this danger right in the ass. It will give them less time to set up an ambush.”

In the end, after several assurances that yes, he could help get them out of a Tevinter ambush, they head for the Chantry. Night was starting to fall on Redcliffe, the sun peaking between the mountains, and painting the sky a bunch of lovely colors. The colors were bordering on dark and violet by the time they make it up to the Chantry doors, the large structure having doors as intricately detailed as the one in Haven, and damn near just as heavy. He puts his shoulder into opening one, his hand lifted up behind his head, and his fingers delicately brushing against the haft of his axe. They move forward as a unified front, ready for whatever bullshit was thrown their way, but they meet more than he had been expecting. They meet a mage, for all his posh and youthful Tevinter style and pretty words, screamed danger louder than the Magister from before had. They meet eyes, across the stone floor of the Chantry and the remains of demons, and something within the man’s bronze gaze chills him.

”Watch yourself Moira. The pretty ones are always the worst.”

#dragon age inquisition #dorian pavus #iron bull #adoribull #5/ #:work #:unbeta'd

[tepidoil]

Title: Proper Etiquette Summary: They need a system– like neck ties on doorknobs. Or big signs on the door saying ‘Scene in Progress. Do not Disturb’. Word Count: 3.5k+ Notes: Part of the 369 Apartment AU and cross posted at AO3. Warnings: Explicit sexual content, BDSM themes, D/s themes, bondage, consensual spanking, hints of sub drop, explicit after care, mentions of kink negotiation.

Proper etiquette would require he knock, but then again, he’s sucking dicks with both of the men who live here; proper etiquette probably gave up on them a long time ago.

The jingling of keys is usually more than enough to summon Zabimaru to the door, barking and whining, demanding to know exactly who dared to stand outside of his door. He would talk to the dog, get barked at a few more times, and have his knees licked off once he got in. He’s struggling with the keys at the moment though, without being berated by a needy fluff monster, and he’s thankful for small mercies. The load of groceries leaving angry lines on his arms not being one of those mercies.

Once he manages to make the key go into the lock like it should he is still rather surprised at the lack of dog pouncing on him. Not that he wasn’t grateful for that, of course; seeing as he has to dump all the groceries on the kitchen table before he can do much else, like close the door behind him. Keys rattle as he hangs them on their hook, going silent as rustling bags fills the static air, filling the ambiance with a tone of weary domesticity. Or maybe that was Capitalism; he wasn’t sure.

The fridge is packed with too much take out, something he will have to probably take outbefore Renji decides week old ramen is still edible. He shudders to think about the potential food poisoning. He shoves stuff, organizes other stuff, and uses brute strength to put all the groceries up, which tells how tired he is; he could usually trick the pantry to close on its own. The living room is vacant, holding only the charging tablet and phones that could never quite fit in the same charging station all at the same time; he adds his own to the overstuffed mix.

”Renji! Izuru!” He expects at least some reply, which he gets, but not from the two men he calls. A whine and a scratching paw drags his attention over the crate that takes up an eighth of the living room (the snake tank takes up another eighth). Zabimaru has his face pressed up against the bars, looking appropriately whipped, abused, and starved; meaning, of course, he was absolutely fine. “Hey boy.” He wiggles fingers through the bars, smiles as they are licked, and possibly croons to the dog. Not that anyone could prove that, since he was evidently alone, and Zabi was easily bribed. He slips the over grown pup a small treat (crumbly milk bones for half price, fuck yeah) before leaving him alone, passing the anti-social snake without a second glance.

With groceries put up and seemingly no one home the next logical step for him to take is to get out of his work clothes, take a shower, and take his eye out. Wait, that wasn’t the right order; he’d need to take his eye out before the shower, because otherwise soap gets in when he is rinsing his hair. He should have knocked, but the fact still remains he doesn’t, and with him being wrapped up in his own thoughts he fails to even notice how tightly shut the bedroom door was, or the fact that there was whimpering behind it, not from Zabi’s crate.

Opening the door thrusts the living room’s light into the darker bedroom, the soft mood light lamp being the only light turned on, and the last rays of the setting sun blocked out with the curtains. The light was soft, but now it was harsh, especially considering it was illuminating a fairly large amount of bare skin. Tattoos run down from broad shoulders and into the dip of an arched back, sneaking away from his line of sight over the swell of an upturned ass. An ass nearly as red as the hair pooling loose around the man’s head, his beady eyes blown wide in the fog of a scene, and his light cutting into them like a knife.

Shit.

Heavy breathing is to be expected from someone getting their ass whipped, especially when he manages to understand what was being used to turn the red head’s ass so red. The heavy paddle seems almost too big in Izuru’s hands, his knuckles turning white as he grips at the leather covered wood, and concern tugging at too blue eyes. He seems like a wraith behind Renji, so pale in comparison to the red head’s flush, but he can tell that he’s flushed too. It was up his neck, into his lips, and down his throat and chest. He can’t see much else, considering how Izuru was behind Renji on the bed, and probably had been grinding up against that red ass a little while ago. He catches a glint of lube, maybe precum, and narrows his eye. That seems to do it; Renji’s breathing goes shallow.

He takes open mouthed gasps that don’t fill the lungs, but exhaust the chest. He was maybe, if he had to guess, two small steps away from hyperventilating. The fear of— rejection (?) Seems to crawl across his face. His high was falling, probably long before its intended crest, and it washis fault. This, of course, meant it was his responsibility to fix this; unless Izuru would stop staring at him like he was. Which, surprisingly enough, he wasn’t. Fuck..

He notices that Renji’s eyes have gone beady again, too quickly, and he steps past the threshold of the door so he can close it. The sudden change of light makes the room seem much darker than it is, his entire form wrapped up in it, and that’s all it takes for him too. He takes a breath in, a breath out, and leaves Shuuhei at the door. The man who walks forward isn’t the journalist, or the mechanic, or the avid animal rescuer; he’s the man Renji needs to keep from crashing in that moment.

”What’s this?” His voice is sharp, sharper than it had been maybe three whole minutes ago when he was talking to the dog, and deeper. He lets his pitch drop with his volume, keeping his voice low, like a distant crack of thunder. He hears Izuru catch his breath, but mostly tunes him out, his focus turned on Renji. It was hard to maintain eye contact with him, with how his face was mostly pushed into the bed sheets, and when he gets closer he understands why. He can look back and see a rope wrapped around Renji’s balls; his hand reaches under to tug on the cord connecting his wrists to the rope pulled tight around his scrotum. His hand wanders, light and unassuming, up and then down the tension in the red head’s back. His fingers dip effortlessly down the cleft of his ass, over a lubed, but clenching, asshole, and down to the rope. He pulls on it, watches as more than just Renji’s balls lift, and he frowns. “You were a bad boy, weren’t you?”

”Yes sir.” The reply is tentative, unsure, and borderline husky. It was understandable, out of scene, but the scene wasn’t broken just yet. He reaches out, both forward and back, and takes a hold of Renji like he would an obstinate dog. Fingers tighten heavily over a bared neck, forcing his head down deeper into the sheets, and the other grabs one red ass cheek. He squeezes both, pushes, and gives the ass a firm slap. Renji whines, deep into sheets, and shudders. It’s a good shudder.

Renji’s breathing starts to even out, but not enough, so he turns to Izuru. He’s still unsure, obviously having broken out of his role as much as Renji had, and he lets go of Renji’s ass. He lets go just so he can wrap his free hand around the blond’s neck. Firm pressure, squeezing at the sides, and making a sharp chin lift at him; he won’t deny liking the way Izuru’s pupils dilate in response. “How many more strikes do you have left, bad boy?” The question is directed at Renji; obviously so through the lacking use of his name. That was the rule: if you were the one “in trouble” you didn’t get a name. It made the scenes safer, made the line more clear, and when he doesn’t receive a prompt answer from the bad boy? He tightens his hold on the red head’s bared neck, releases Izuru, and gets personal.

“I asked you a question bad boy. Are you going to add to your count?” He is close enough to hear Renji’s soft wheezing, a side effect of having most of his face pushed into the sheets. The same sheets he has a mouthful of which, of course, prompts him to let the red head’s neck go. That way he can reach up, grab a fistful of bright red hair, and yank his head back. The resulting arch of a tanned throat and whine does wonders for him as well, but still not as much as the rebellious way teeth hold onto the sheets and the glare of beady eyes roar in defiance. He always loved stubborn bottoms.

His grip tightens, in increments of course, but large ones. He’s got a good chunk of Renji’s torso off the bed now, which pulls on his arms, which in turn pulls on his ball. Stress etches itself into the curve of his back, trembling subtly in his thighs, and the frown that works its way onto the red head’s face is priceless. “Go on, try it.” Narrowing his eyes really only appropriately narrows his left eye, seeing as his right eyelid was damn near sent to hell and back, and doesn’t quite line up perfectly with his left, in its movements, anymore. Still, that was half the effect, well; he supposed anyway. Renji and Izuru would always catch their breath when he did it, but that usually also was when he was choking them, so that might have had something to do with it. Either way, he can see that flicker of doubt in his bad boy’s eyes, right in the way his pupils flare and his panting turns harder– and not from stress.

“I’ve got all night.” He leans closer, even while he forces Renji to meet him half way, and hauls the red head ever closer. More strain, more tension, and a strong jaw finally relaxes enough to release the sheets held between teeth. There’s a wet spot there now, probably a wet spot between his legs too, and if he dared to glance back? He would bet his eye that there would be a wet spot between Izuru’s thighs as well.

“Six, sir.” He spits the sir like a curse, which only fuels the situation, and he retaliates in turn by shoving the bad boy face first back into the bed. He holds him there for a count, fifteen Mississippi’s trailing through his head, before he relents; just enough. The color of his face and his ass now match his hair; prefect. He liked it when things matched like that.

“Izuru.” He snaps, his fist full of hair being used as a hand hold to push the bad boy’s face back against the bed, cheek first this time. Izuru doesn’t startle like he thought he might, but his eyes are a bit more dreamy than they had been before, and the shift in rolls seems to have effected him the least.

“Sir?” Polite and quiet; he wondered were that attitude went when they were out of bed.

“Finish the strikes– add one more for bad boy thinking it was funny to be smart.” He doesn’t want to drag the scene out, though he’s pretty sure he could at this point, considering how his lovers were reacting. He doesn’t want to though, not after how he barged in. Renji was reacting well, his teeth bared in a silent show of resistance, but he worried. He gathered up long red hair again, pulled it into a tight, fake ponytail in his hand, and gestured for Izuru to continue. “Count for us bad boy; you gotta earn it.” He always did, no matter how it went; Renji was a great one to push.

“Twenty six.” He’s tense, anticipating the strike, and it makes it worse. “Twenty seven.” He’s relaxed a little, choking on his own breath, and shuddering. “Twenty eight.” He shudders again, because he’s being pulled up by the hair again, and that’s perfect. “Twenty nine.” He looks fucking thrashed, his mouth hanging open and his face screwed up. He stutters here, unable to breath enough to even form a pained whine, and Izuru waits; even without his command. He nods, against the hold on his hair, and Izuru goes again. “Thirty!” There’s relief in his voice, though really, there's no reason for him to be relieved. His ass was red, hinting at faint bruises– the kind that you would wince when you sat on, but not cringe for– and his balls weren’t much better. He signals Izuru stop, so he can reach under the bad boy, and touch his cock. He’s hard; proudly flaunting his masochism as precum dribbles from the tip and straight into Shuuhei’s palm. He takes it and rubs it on his red ass, watches as his bad boy flinches and moans, and Izuru bite his lip; that was nice.

“Make the last one really hard. I want bad boy to feel it tomorrow– feel it when he thinks about getting smart again.” The teeth are back, bared at him, and he bares his teeth in return– in a grin. “Go on Izuru.” He’s all over his bad boy, his shoulder pressing against his back and side, he left hand still wrapped up in Renji’s hair, holding him down on the bed, and his right hand skimming down beneath. Tattooed abs flex and twitch under his tough, echoing of ticklishness that doesn’t quiet fit into the scene, but it still triggered regardless. He can hear Izuru’s wrist pop as he readies himself for the last strike, his big blue eyes, stormy with arousal, were narrowed in concentration. It was a nice look on him– just like the lack of clothes and the paddle in his hand. He almost wishes Renji could see him, but he’s sure Renji will be fine; he gets the full force of the impact regardless.

The slap of a paddle makes his gut clench, his body going tense in response, because, sure enough, his bad boy was flailing. The red head was rocking forward, trying to escape the pressure, but couldn’t move because of the hand in his hair. His next response was to jerk his hands, but they were tied to his balls, and that would give him no relief either. Really, all he did was trap Shuuhei’s hand against his stomach a moment, from the rope, before he frees himself and lunges for the red head’s cock. Izuru already knew what he had intended to do, the paddle falling to the bed sheets, and his body moving forward. Red asscheeks are pulled apart, just so he can line his sock up between them, and squeeze them tight against him. The frotting would be good for Izuru, painful for Renji, and perfect for Shuuhei to watch. He digs his thumb right into the glans of Renji’s cock, twists his palm against the head a few times, and lets his bad boy flail. Too much stimulation in too many places, but it still wasn’t enough, and the noises coming out of the red head’s throat weren’t all tinged in pleased anticipation. He leans down, closer still, and takes Renji’s ear between his teeth. “Cum for us, bad boy.”

He loves it how that’s all it takes to Renji over.

Renji is limp, totally limp, by the time his orgasm was over. Izuru wasn’t far behind, pumping his hips a few more times, before spilling all over Renji’s red ass. He leans forward, buries his flushed face right into Shuuhei’s offered palm, and licks up Renji’s spend. He sucks on Shuuhei’s fingers, even as he smears his cum on his own, and massages it into Renji’s sore ass. The whine that is muffled into the bed sheets is a good one, low and long, but relaxed; he had finally gotten rid of that tension.

“Good boy.” Praise is easily falling off his lips now, now that the punishment was over, and the scene was wrapping up. They had been meant for Renji, specifically, but he watches the blush darken just a bit more in Izuru’s cheeks; he kisses him for it. “C’mon.” He’s talking to both of them now, to Izuru to get off of Renji’s ass, and Renji to roll onto his side. Urgency twines into some of their movements now, mostly his and Izuru’s, so they could release Renji as quickly as possible. There’s an angry line around the red head’s balls and cock, from the rope, and similar lines on his wrists. His ass was a mess and the bed sheets were covered in cum. A good, messy, scene.

The only problem he could ever think of Renji, specifically in bed, was his size. Not pertaining to his cock, of course, but do his sheer bulk. Lifting him up so Izuru could strip the play sheet off the bed wasn’t easy, especially since he was a maelable as a rag doll in that moment, but they manage. He’s rolled onto his chest, his ass left to relax under the touch of a cool wash cloth, and a water bottle is slipped into his hands. He’s prepped to be left alone for just a minute, long enough that Shuuhei can help Izuru clean up the mess, and then clean up Izuru too. Izuru slinks into bed, fully sated, and attaches himself to Renji. Pale fingers card through red locks with a gentleness that utterly contradicts the way he had paddled him before, but it was good. He’s looking forward to the blond doing that to him someday.

“Hey– you with us?” He’s stripping, so he can get into bed, and Renji opens his eyes to probably just see the wet spot on the front of his boxers.

“Mmyeah.” The stretched out sounds of contentment are comforting for Shuuhei to hear, especially with the easy way Renji reaches up and wipes at his eye, like he had just taken a really long nap instead of a fresh beating. That same hand reaches for his cock, which he easily avoids, all so he can go to the bathroom. He wipes himself up, ditches the wet boxers, and hopes that the splash of cold water will be enough for now. Another cool wash cloth makes its way back into the bedroom, just so he can wipe at Renji’s face. The tracks of dried tears are wiped at slowly, gently, and it’s one of the few times he can fuss over the red head without complaint.

“Good to hear– Izuru?” The blond looks half asleep, tucked up against Renji’s side, but he reacts instantly to his name. His eyes were clear again, focused and sharp, and the hint of a smile playing across thin lips is a comfort. He doesn’t verbally respond, but he nods, and that’s good enough. He props up onto his hands and knees, leans over Renji, and gets a kiss for his efforts. That was a good way to end a session, for sure.

They cuddle for a while, with him getting up and down, fetching cool wash clothes and another bottle of water for Renji. He and Izuru kiss, slow and without rush, and he doesn’t intervene. He had stepped on toes earlier as it was, and he was still learning– still learning his lover’s patterns. Not every scene ended like this, he knew; he watched a lot of them. Most of the time all it would take for them to bounce back was a good, hard kiss, and a shower. Renji doesn’t seem up for a shower right now, so he just continues to wipe him down, eventually rubbing arnica cream on the blooming bruises on his ass. It’s probably why he’s a bit surprised when strong fingers catch at him, his hip and his arm, and pull him down. He doesn’t argue with the kisses though.

“I’m sorry about that.” His voice is soft, about as soft as the dim lighting in the room, and he wonders if Izuru can hear him. Renji’s gaze goes from low and nearly closed to narrowed and sharp, judging Shuuhei, even as he silently demands an explanation. “For intruding– breaking scene. I didn’t mean to throw you for a loop like that.” It looks like Renji was fine; he just rolled his eyes.

“S’fine.” He’s as eloquent as always, his broad, calloused fingers reaching up to gently frame Shuuhei’s throat. He doesn’t squeeze, or push, but just leaves it there. It’s a trusting gesture, on both ends, and he doesn’t tense up under it. When Renji tries to move himself on top of him, his knee going to bump and grind up against his mostly flaccid member, he stops him though.

“No.” He’s firm, but soft, and the thunder from before is gone; the storm has moved on. He pushes the red head back, aided only in the fact that he wasn’t resisting, and pushes himself closer to him. “We’re focusing on you tonight.” He mirrors Renji’s earlier gesture, tracing his fingers around the red head’s neck, and testing his acceptance. “Right Izuru?” He gets his reply by spindly digits curling up around Renji’s throat as well, threading into his own, and a shift of his body pushing Renji even closer to him.

“Of course.”

He wakes up to two mouths on his cock and a delayed conversation about neck ties on door knobs.

#Bleach #Renji Abarai #Shuuhei Hisagi #Izuru Kire #Abarai Renji #Hisagi Shuuhei #Kira Izuru #:Work #:Repost from Personal #:369 Apartment AU