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Nota: Scritta per "Explorers" capitolo 1 settimana 3 con prompt "nuova legge", "castigo" e "dimensione alternativa"

Jacobi fucked up.

Which, quite frankly, could refer to a lot of situations he put himself into - and not just speaking about the past few days or months or even years, but rather his whole damn life.

His first fuck up was, of course, being born.

A difficult task, if someone were to ask him, but statistics say one in a million infants decide to ruin their poor, good parents' life by coming to life equipped with horns, a pointed tail and a whole lot of demonic blood in their veins, and it just so happens that Daniel ended up being one of those children. Cursed and sinful right from day zero.

His second fuck up was believing his parents were poor or good people at all. Quite to the opposite, the name Jacobi is not unknown across the kingdom, and for all the petty reasons rich people love to be remembered by: they are, as already mentioned, quite the wealthy family, with strong connections throughout the whole kingdom, and they profess to be close to the King – whatever that might mean for them – having occupied, traditionally and for many generations, some of the highest ranks in the nation’s military, which makes them also some of the most dangerously important folks at the King’s court.

And that’s why, going back to the day of his birth, the way Daniel Jacobi decided to present himself to the world was, in fact, quite disastrous.

Not that he was gifted with any other redeeming quality that would restore his honor in the eyes of his parents, anyway. He tried – the Gods know he really tried hard - to be a kid just like any other, disciplined and obedient, always striving to look flawless in his father’s eyes, but in the end he could never unsee that awkward, disgusted and hardly contained shadow in his old man’s gaze whenever he glanced at him, like he was some kind of vicious monster waiting for a good excuse to be gotten rid of.

Such was his youth, spent mostly behind closed doors, isolated from the people, a well-kept secret that would only bring shame to the good family name – and for a long time, that was all Daniel convinced himself to be. He had no friends, aside from the rare members of the family staff that would take pity in him and try to approach, only to be quickly disposed of when mother would find out. He also had no vision of the future, when all he knew were the uselessly refined walls of his overly expensive bedroom, and the stories of distant, remote worlds told by the books he was allowed to read.

No doubt those tales kept him alive all those years, and for many years to come. They taught him how to dream the impossible when no one allowed him to, and they trained his mind to think, his voice to speak and his heart to feel. They were his only companions and teachers for such a long time, that the concept of being alone eventually stopped making sense to him. He was never truly alone, when so many voices spoke to him through those old, yellowed pages.

And so, against all hopes, Daniel found a way to survive.

He was thirteen when he finally fucked up again.

By that time, he had already read most of his father’s books about war and combat. He had learned everything about the theory of fencing and he knew all the dueling moves’ names and tricks by heart. His passion for romances and tales about kingdoms at war and the heroes that saved their people had already taken root in his heart, and the way he allowed himself to dream about being one of those champions was nothing but a naïve product of his childishness.

The day of his birthday, one of those rare occasions when his parents would allow him a semblance of freedom, he felt bold enough to confront the fear he felt towards his father. Sitting at the uselessly huge dinner table, while consuming a meal deceitfully prepared to celebrate his life, he mustered the courage to cut through that heavy silence born from discomfort and the absence of love.

When he said: “Father, I want to join the military”, he thought he was finally doing him proud.

The week he spent without sleep, with a broken nose and a black, swollen eye, crying the pain away, was enough to teach him better. He never dared having such foolish thoughts again, and with his hopes and innocence shattered just like that, he quickly became a young man.

He absorbed himself in his studies, abandoning the stupid, childish tales he so dearly treasured to expand his knowledge of the real world and the rules that govern it. By chance he discovered this new field of study that mixed science with magic, and it took him but a few dozen pages to be totally fascinated by it.

Alchemy, they called it, and to him it was like if chaos was channeled to the best version of itself by means of logic and reason. Something in that notion resonated deeply with him.

He did everything he could to obtain any book on the subject – even at the cost of awakening his father’s rage once again. He asked for favors and paid well-disposed servants, and some days, when he was feeling courageous, he would even sneak out of the Jacobi estate to venture into the city by himself. In time, he discovered that the more years passed, the less his family seemed inclined to keep a close eye on him, almost as if trying to forget about his existence, and so he took advantage of their growing mutual indifference.

It was during one of his escapes that he stumbled across an old alchemist’s lab, a hole so hidden among the narrow streets of Old Town that he ended up believing that it must have been fate that brought him there.

The place smelled like rust and stale oil, but it had a unique touch to it. Books and papers were scattered all over, but they were not like the ones he’d read up to that point – no, they had all been written first hand, notes and projects developed and corrected through the years, segment after segment of ink trying to grasp the nature and the secrets of reality – trying to make it work, somehow, according to someone's own desire.

The old man who would make it work was not an easy one, but he didn’t look at him with disgust when he saw him enter the door for the first time. Instead he said: “Who the hell are you?”, staring from behind his goggles, as if the door to his rathole of an establishment wasn’t left open for anyone to come in, and invited him closer with a brusque, annoyed gesture. Daniel later found out that the reason behind his irritation was, to quote, that he barged in in the middle of a history-changing experiment, thus causing it to be lost forever – and yet the man didn’t send him away, expecting instead that he helped with whatever he was trying to achieve. What that was, Daniel never got to figure out, but all in all he never truly cared – not that he would have grasped the meaning of it anyway, not at the time, at least.

His surprise was evident when the old man invited him back – or rather, he demanded that he came back to help him with a new job. When Daniel asked why, he said: “You didn’t blow off your hands, something I can’t say about my last three apprentices.”

Suffice to say that such reason was enough to let Daniel believe he was becoming an alchemist apprentice himself – and so he allowed himself to start dreaming again.

He began spending more and more time outdoors, sneaking off into the city to spend whole afternoons at the laboratory and coming back home smelling like metal and gunpowder, and yet no one in the family seemed to notice or care, too busy with their own concerns. Daniel didn’t really understand, but he heard voices, whispered in the halls of the estate like some shy secret, about a terrible invasion threatening from the west.

One day he asked the old man about it. He said: “The kingdom is getting ready for the war.”

“What war?”, Daniel inquired.

The man stopped for a second, staring at his tools absorbed in thoughts. “If only we knew”, he said after a few moments, and it sounded to Daniel as if he was lost in some distant memory. The silence that followed suggested that he held back any further question, and so he did.

His teacher was right about the war at least, because Lord Jacobi was nowhere to be seen and his shining armor and sword were both gone from his room.

Daniel didn’t really worry, his mind still captured by all those novels about war and heroes that made the battle look unrealistically fascinating – if anything, he was a bit jealous that his father got to take part in the fight while he was left at home, like he’d always was.

That, precisely – petty enviousness about something that wasn’t worth longing for –, was the reason why, when the old man asked, with a grave look on his face that Daniel didn’t quite grasp the meaning of, if he was ready to put what he learned at the service of the country, Daniel didn’t hesitate.

“What do I have to do?”, he asked, and that was the moment his life began to fall apart.

To be fair, it all looked amazing at first.

What he had to do, the old man said, was to enroll in the Royal Academy for Applied Magic. Daniel smiled, a little bit sad, a little bit dreamy.

“They would never accept someone like me”, he noted, still holding on to a childish hope – the same that earned him a shameful beating years before.

But the old alchemist was soon to correct him.

“They would, if I were to vouch for you.”

Daniel knew that confusion was showing on his face when the man continued.

“I taught there”, he explained. “Actually, I was one of the first to explore the mixing of science and magic, back in the days. If I were to tell them that you have talent, they would take you in without batting an eyelash.”

“And how did you end up here?”

The man seemed to consider his answer for a moment.

“Let’s say the academic life never really suited me. Too many constraints, too much limitation. But for you, it can become an opportunity.”

“An opportunity for what?”

“That, you’ll have to decide for yourself.”

Daniel didn’t really understand what he was talking about, but as always, he trusted his master.

“Will you get by, here without me?”, he tried to laugh, but the idea of leaving that place both terrified him and made him nostalgic. It was the closest he ever felt to having a home.

“Don’t be full of yourself, I have no use for an arrogant brat like you.”

Daniel smiled, catching the affection hidden behind his grumpy lectures, and got back to work.

A month later he was wearing the Royal Academy uniform.

Despite coming from one of the wealthiest families in the kingdom, Daniel was all but accustomed to formalities. His parents never deemed it necessary to educate him to the ways of aristocracy, and so all he really knew was the craft he’d learned while training under the old man. It took a few months to get used to the proper etiquette, the methodical organization of routines and, most of all, the freedom he was given while living at the Academy.

Of course, he was using a fake name. The one condition his parents set for him was that the family name was never, under no circumstance, to came out of his mouth in front of others. Aside from that, it looked to him as if they were happier to let him go than to keep having him stay in their home. All in all, it was probably just as significant a relief for them as it was for him.

And so, began the short-lived career of the tiefling alchemist named Midland.

It was immediately clear to both his young colleagues and the teachers that he was one of the best. By that time, he had already read most of the theoretical manuals ever written about alchemy, and his apprenticeship had given him a kind of confidence in the use of the tools of the trade that most students lacked.

All things considered, his years at the Academy went by with little worry. Tales from the incursions from the west and the fights at the front were rare and scattered, and the war sounded like a distant problem bound to be someone else’s concern.

Much to his surprise, he spent most of his time locked in the laboratory, not so different from the life he was forced into when he was younger – only now it was his choice, and he did not intend to waste a single minute of the time he was given.

At the age of seventeen, while the High Chancellor was announcing his name in front of the Academy along with those of the others graduates, Midland finally understood what his old teacher meant when he had spoken about opportunities all those years ago. His chest was filled with pride and joy and his life was finally starting to take a turn in the right direction.

That night he cried and laughed and drank with the friends he had made along the way – there were not many people that would trust a tiefling, not even in a place like the Academy, where they teach you to challenge reality in order to achieve the impossible, but that way he knew that the bond he shared with them was based on loyalty and respect.

The following morning, when the time of celebration was over, he realized he had nowhere to return home to. The Academy only offered residence to enrolled students and the most prestigious teachers, and he hadn’t heard from his family since the day he had left giving up his name, so going back to ask for shelter was out of the question.

He was finally a Royal Alchemist and he had no one to share his dream-come-true with. Life suddenly felt bittersweet, and despite everything he finally got a taste of what loneliness felt like. He didn’t enjoy the sensation, and so he decided to go back to what made him truly happy: the old man’s laboratory and the crazy experiments they fabricated together.

When he finally knocked on the familiar, long missed door, his heart was beating like crazy. He felt again like the little kid all those years ago who had stumbled across that incredible place of magic, and despite never getting a reply to the last letter he had sent his old mentor, informing him about his coming graduation, he was not feeling sad. If anything, he was gleaming in anticipation of the face the old man would make when he told him the news.

But that morning no one came to the door.

Nor the next morning, or the one after that.

On the fourth day, with a heavy apprehension weighing on his heart, Daniel finally mustered the courage to ask around the neighborhood.

He couldn’t even feign surprise when the news came to him.

The professor passed away, kid.

He had died of old age two months before. He was dead. While Daniel was studying hard, while he was sleeping, while he was laughing and drinking with his friends, the most important person in his life had died, and he had no idea.

Daniel got the key to the small apartment from an old lady in the district, an acquaintance from his time as an apprentice that had taken care of them many times, bringing them meals when they absorbed in work until late forgetting to eat. She was just as heartbroken as he was, Daniel could tell, and yet she mustered a forced smile for him, to make him feel better. She explained, not without a hint of bitterness, that some officials from the government had already stopped by the house to clear it of any important documents or notes and experiments that could help the country in the coming war (when was it coming, Daniel wondered, as it seemed that years had already passed since the first news of the invasion began to spread), but she'd rather give the place to him than to have strangers ransack what remained of the old man’s memory.

He took the key and went to the house. Not because he really wanted to be there – the idea of finding himself alone in a place of recollection, filled with precious memories now lost forever, made him feel like tearing up – but rather because he desperately needed a place to stay.

The first weeks were rough. He kept finding himself staring at hollow corner, or at the messy writing amassed on a piece of paper, and his mind went back, catching a distant vision of a memory, and image connected to that place – the smell, the little noises coming from the street outside, the feeling of the tools in his hand – it all reminded him of his mentor.

He set himself to work in order to get distracted. He had no idea what he was trying to achieve, only that having something to do would take him thoughts off the grief. Sometimes people from the King’s court would come inspecting the house, just like the lady had warned, and he just paid them little attention as he let them do whatever they had to do.

It was a few weeks later that he received a visit from someone different – someone new. She, too, was government, as the colorful King’s crest finely embroidered on her coat suggested, but she had a solemn air about her, a look importance and pride, something similar to the feeling he got from General Jacobi, his father.

She looked at him with firm composure, almost unmoving, and he could tell by the way she stood that she was a big shot.

“Are you the one that calls himself Midland?”, she asked.

“That’s my name.”

Daniel couldn’t decipher her little grin until the moment she spoke again.

“But I believe your name is Daniel Jacobi, heir to General Jacobi.”

Daniel felt his legs go weak as he lost a heartbeat. His mouth turned dry, and as he tried to speak he couldn’t find any clever word to say. Fear suddenly overcame him – an ancient, distant fear that he hadn’t been feeling in a long time – one born from family bonds that he was never supposed to have.

Despite everything, he still had a smug grin ready for her.

“I’m sure the General would not forgive you for speaking his name like this.”

“General Jacobi is aware that I am here”, she said, indifferent, and Daniel stopped smiling. “So, are you his son or not?”

For a moment, he considered going for not. Had Father finally decided to send someone to take care of him?

“What does he want from me?”

“Oh, him? Nothing. Actually, he was quite shaken when he found out the King knew who you really were. No, I’m here on behalf of His Highness himself.”

“The... King?”

“Yes. As a Royal Alchemist who earned quite the reputation at the Academy, you are called to serve your country. The nation needs people like you. People who can help turn the tables in the upcoming war.”

Where this war was fought and who it was fought against, Daniel never got the chance to ask. The scary lady escorted him to court that same evening, giving him time only to collect a few belongings and bid a hushed farewell to the empty house of his mentor.

In no time he started making a name for himself.

He was officially appointed as consultant artillerist, and his job was to research and build new weapons for the army. His new job even required him to cross paths with his father more than a few times, and every time they met only the few, necessary words were spoken, and General Jacobi glanced at him with a look of distress. Daniel smiled, proud and arrogant, the fear he once felt for that boring man now disappeared completely, and he felt like the world finally belonged to him.

By the time he was twenty-five, most explosives used in combat by the army bore his name. His new life had many limitations, much like the old man had warned him all those years before, and yet Daniel had never felt so free.

He was alive. He existed in the eyes of the world, and his name was known by any soldier fighting on the front lines – but most important of all, he was finally making that little, scared tiefling boy who read any book about alchemy proud.

His tale could only have ended with a happy ending, or so he thought.

If only he had avoided this last, massive fuck up.

---

The tavern is quiet and dark, Daniel chose it for this reason precisely.

He has been drowning himself in booze for the whole night, jumping from terrible drinks to more disgusting ones, and he feels he could keep going for another century. Maybe he’ll overdose, maybe he’ll finally find a way to die. That wouldn’t be so bad. It would finally make the world a better place. One without crazy explosive murderers in it.

“Is this sit taken?”

A voice asks next to him. He doesn’t care, so he just shakes his head, taking another long sip.

“What are we celebrating”, the voice speaks again. And if Daniel hadn’t drunk one too many drinks, he would have considered punching this guy in the face.

“The end of my fucking life”, he answers instead, still without looking.

“You look more than alive to me”, comes another comment from the man, jovial and bright. “What’s your name, deadman?”

Daniel groans, and he lets out a hollow laugh. He’s not having fun.

“Daniel”, he says, and then he considers another thought. “Daniel Jacobi”, he drinks.

“Jacobi”, he hears the man next to him murmur his name, almost interested. “You're not using your made-up name.”

“Why would I? Who cares?”

There’s a long pause, to which Daniel convinces himself that the man has decided to leave him be – as he should. When he turns around, however, he’s still there. A literal half-orc knight in shining armor, with beautiful bright eyes and perfect golden hair. Daniel catches himself staring a moment too long, so he goes back to looking at the bottom of his now empty glass.

“I gather you’re not on optimal terms with your family”, explains the man. “Besides, your kind tends to choose new names for themselves. Names that give meaning.”

Daniel shrugs, uninterested.

“Yeah, I don’t need meaning, and that’s too much of a bother anyway. I'm okay with Daniel. It’s a stupid name, it doesn’t mean anything, my parents didn’t even bother naming me after one of our ancestors. They had already decided that I would never amount to nothing.”

And they were right, but he doesn’t say.

“You still made quite a name for yourself around here”, says the half-orc.

“Yeah, what a great fucking success. Hurray."

“You are not in prison though. That must be something.”

“No, and that’s only thanks to my name. Even though I bet Father would have rejoiced in finally seeing me in chains.”

“And how’s the future looking for you?”, asks the knight, his voice slower, quieter, as if trying to predict a plausible answer before he even gives one.

Daniel thinks for a moment, or at least he tries. His head is heavy with booze and guilt. “I prefer not to look at it.”

“You must have thought of something.”

He shrugs. Of course he has. He’s had many thoughts lately, all starting with the image of his young, innocent student blown up by one of his bombs, and then ending with plans and conclusions he’s not proud of. As the half-orc said, though, he is still here somehow.

“Maybe I'll leave”, he says – and since when he’s so inclined to share something so personal with a total stranger? “Get out of this damn city, get away from everything and everyone. Fam wouldn’t mind me disappearing, I guess.”

A pause. “And then what?”

“And then who knows. I don’t want to think about that.”

“So you’ll just... leave.”

Daniel turns and looks at him. For the second time tonight. “Maybe”, he frowns, almost trying to decide if he trusts this person. “I’ll decide when I decide.”

The knight stares back, and his gaze is suddenly so intense that Daniel considers looking away for a minute. He doesn’t. He’s better than that.

“Come with me”, the half-orc says, with a certain gravity to his voice.

Daniel, on his part, bursts out laughing in his face. “Where?”, he asks, the voice of a man who has nothing to lose, not even his dignity.

“I'm going on a trip”, the other explains. “I want to show you something. And I could use some of your... talents.”

“You mean destroying things.”

The half-orc gives him a bright, honest smile. “I mean precisely that.”

“And why do you know so much about me?”

“Mr. Jacobi”, he starts, as if savoring his name. “Let me get one thing straight: my job is precisely to know stuff. And if there's something I'm sure of, is that you are an extremely capable individual, whose skills and competence could and will achieve great things if channeled in the right direction.”

Daniel scoffs. “Yeah, you missed the part where my skills and competence actually killed innocent people.”

The other nods, eyes still fixed with his. “And you were punished for it. I just think that it was the wrong kind of punishment. I think it would be insane to let such potential go to waste.”

“They should have put me in a cell and thrown away the key.”

“Then I’m glad they didn’t”, he says, as if it’s the easiest answer to give at such a statement. “Listen, a passion like yours, you don’t find it everywhere. You don’t just make things explode: you have a fire inside of you. I can see it burning. It just needs some taming, that’s all. I could use your skill, but I need them in their perfect form. Wasting such a gift just because of an honest mistake, though... I don’t think anyone would benefit from that choice.”

Daniel frowns, genuinely creeped out this time. “You have no idea what you’re talking about”, he says, in all seriousness.

“Then show me.”

“Oh, trust me, you don’t want that.”

“Well, now it’s my turn to say that.”

“Say what?”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The half-orc smiles, and Daniel feels so confused. There seems to be nothing in this person he’s able to read. A total mystery.

“Whatever”, he shrugs and looks away at the barman, asking for another round.

It’s only after a few moments that his neighbor speaks again. “Mr. Jacobi”, he says standing up from his chair. “I see this conversation is not going anywhere useful tonight. Let me make a proposal then: think about what we talked about, think about my offer, sleep on it. I’ll be leaving in a week from today, once I gather the information I need in this city. If I don’t have an answer by then, I’ll be going alone. That is not a problem, but I will appreciate some company if I have it. And I’m sure you’ll appreciate having new laws to live by. Better ones.”

Daniel turns. He has so many questions, and so little desire to ask them. It’ll be easier to just mark this person as a madman.

Right?

“Goodbye, then”, he says, already leaving.

And Daniel sees a small pile of money left on the bar, just in front of him

Asshole.

Fandom: original

Personaggi: Remy (oc), Kyp (oc)

Warning: //

Note: scritta per Explorers capitolo 1, settimana 1 con prompt: SAFE | Silenzio | non più di due battute di dialogo

When Kyp enters the room the lights in the observation deck are out, and the space around the small window, rising open and vigilant over the town streets outside, is wrapped up in an uneasy silence. It’s been like this for days.

The shadow crouched by the window, dark and unmoving, contrasts the everchanging lights from the shop signs outside in a way that makes it look even smaller, sadder. More helpless.

Remy, he said his name is. That’s the only information they and Djadi managed to get out from him before he glared at them, grinded his teeth and refused to speak again. The boy was angry, that much Kyp could tell without asking. But he was also scared and hurt when they found him on the streets and took him in – Djadi still has bites and scratches on her arms from the desperate fight he put up, like a wounded predator who's lost one too many fights but is not ready to give up on life yet. Or so Kyp thought, cause now he just looks... powerless. And vulnerable. They almost – almost – feel bad for having to get closer, as if sneaking into a beast’s lair uninvited.

They know the boy hears them approaching when they see him getting even smaller under the blanket wrapping his body against the window. They don’t want to put words between them, so they just let the silence speak whatever it is they are trying to figure out about each other. As if reciting a well-oiled routine, they place the medical kit on the small metal bench by the window, the one where Remy is crouching, looking away. The boy doesn’t move when he hears the clinking of metal against metal, and Kyp is not sure whether to consider this an improvement from the last time they did this. All the same, they let a silent sigh escape their lips and they sit down beside him. Not quite close, but near enough they can get a glimpse of his profile sneaking out of the blanket. His dark skin is bathed in the lights from the street – greens and yellows and blues that dance in chaos on his face, taking turns to kiss his bright golden eyes. He doesn’t flinch – he doesn’t even seem to blink. Kyp wonders what he’s seeing down there, or if he’s looking at all.

They start by uncapping the bottle with the disinfectant, then grabbing the little bag containing the bandages and a piece of cotton wool. They consider warning Remy with a few words, but then they remember the last time they did that, and the way the boy bared his teeth, almost hissing, staring at them as if they were some kind of monster. And so Kyp holds a breath, and decides not to give voice to his thoughts. Instead, they extend ad arm, long and thin, until they’re barely brushing the tip of their fingers against the blanket. A hint more than a warning – as if to say I’m here, I’m about to touch you, don’t bite please.

And Remy doesn’t, much to Kyp’s surprise. He lets them pull down the blanket, uncovering his body and all the big and small wounds he bares on it – old fights and new ones, some still painfully fresh as the memories he holds of them. There’s gauzes and bandages on every single one. It’s been a long time since someone tended to his cuts and bruises, and he has no idea how to feel about this.

(‘Cause this is not home. This is not family, and these people might be dangerous, they might have interests, ‘cause no one is so kind as to invite a hurt beast into their home – there must be something else they want. Something bad. It’s always something bad – even when it starts good, he ends up fucking everything up ‘cause he’s incompetent and naïve. His fault – always his fault. But what should he do? Fight back? He did. And look where it brought him - into the house of strangers. He’s scared. So, so scared and tired. Yes, so tired...)

Kyp presses the cotton wool, wet with disinfectant, and Remy hisses ever so slightly. Kyp freezes for a moment, his body rigid and ready to run, but then Remy just catches his breath and relaxes – or tries to, anyway.

Kyp doesn’t like this one bit. They made sure to remind their disapproval to Djadi over and over, every additional day they spent guesting this shady stranger on the Pathfinder. Their opaque skin, once translucent as the diamond shaped horizons on Hlvraine, is a testament of the guilt of bringing danger into your own home. They know better than to repeat an old mistake.

And yet he keeps coming back here night after night as some kind of stupid, unqualified nurse. It’s so much worse – they find themself realising – when the boy doesn’t fight back, because now they feel so bad they even conceived the thought of him being somehow dangerous and bad. They stop to listen to his unsteady, pained breath as they unfold the clean bandage in place of an old one, trying to touch him as little as he can. Who knows who he fought battles with, who he hurt and who hurt him back, who wants to hurt him again, whose attention he drew on himself. Kyp really doesn’t like attention, least of all when others bring it inside his home, uninvited.

But then Remy sits so docile, his empty golden eyes looking away, holding his breathe between gritted teeth as if trying to push back the pain, and Kyp can’t help but somehow feel angry at him. It’s stupid, they know, because letting such frivolous emotions cloud the mind never brings good consequences – they realize better than anybody else – but if there’s something they cannot bring himself to forgive is the act of giving up – of losing hope, of becoming tired of trying. Even them, with their weak heart and fragile will, were able to keep finding new ways to survive – no way such a wild creature can’t find a place for himself, be it with bare fangs, discipline or raw strength of resolution.

Kyp shifts to the next wound, and they know their skin won’t change colour – not even a millimetre, not even the slightest of shades. Rationalize your frustration, take it apart, break it down to pieces so small they lose all meanings, fold it away, close the door, throw the key - and there’s silence again, inside and out.

It takes them half an hour to finish the job. They do so impeccably – gentle hands and absence of voice – and by the time they’re finished Remy looks like a new man.

Kyp sighs once more, thankful for the peaceful encounter, and starts folding away what’s left of the medical supplies. The neon lights from the street are swirling like a bad harmonized stroboscope on top of the lid of the metal box, and it takes a moment for Kyp to realize the small, feeble voice that takes place, ever so shyly, at the heart of a room that heard no sounds for days and nights.

It gets almost devoured by the silence, but Kyp still hears.

“Thank you.”

They freeze in place, a knot in their chest they don’t quite know how to explain.

Even in the darkness of the room, Kyp sees shades of yellow and white starting to paint their knuckles – and they know it’s not the neon lights this time. They quickly cover one hand with the other, breathe in, breaths out, skin is boiling and they never knew if the sensation was ever only in their head or if the other felt it too – they never dared to ask, too afraid, too guilty to bring the topic up once more.

Rationalize your emotion, take it apart, break it down to pieces so small they lose all meanings, fold it away, close the door, throw the key --

It’s so hard when they have no idea what name to give to the brawl happening in his chest.

But--

They have strategies for that as well. Always carry a plan b with you. That’s the lesson he learned – one he will never allow himself to forget.

Kyp cracks a silent smile and turns – they have a million smug, bitter, sarcastic answers to give to the broken, sorry creature next to them.

Not a single one of them has any occasion to escape their lips, however.

Remy’s head falls heavy on his shoulder, his breath steadier than Kyp has ever heard in these restless nights – fast asleep.

Not for a moment Kyp considers moving away, and his skin quickly goes back to the same pale shade of grey he’s so fond of. Everyone is entitled to brief moments of peace, even wild creatures – maybe them more than anyone. And so Kyp closes their eyes and waits. As long as it takes.

Fandom: The Magnus Archives
Ship: Peter/Elias
Warning: age difference, underage (professore/studente)
Note: scritta per Explorers 0.III con prompt: NSFW | Erotico | Sweet but psycho (Ava Max) | ambientazione scolastica

They pretend it’s just coincidence that everytime Elias crosses the entrance to his classroom outside of lesson hours Lukas is there, sat at the professor desk casually reading through some tests, but it never truly is.

They have to be careful, waiting for school activities to be over and crafting perfect excuses, and luckily they are both very good at it. And how Elias managed to get a copy of the class’ keys for himself to keep – well, that’s a secret he doesn’t wish to reveal anytime soon.

He closes the door behind his back, locking it without even looking, his gaze already drifting towards Lukas, unreciprocated. He leaves the keys on one of the desks as he walks, light as a feather and already savoring the man’s taste, like a wolf slowly and silently dancing around an oblivious lamb.

Lukas doesn’t flinch when Elias sits on his desk, crossing his legs and stretching them across the man’s lap.

“Mr. Bouchard, I am reading, as you might have noticed”, he says, his tone flat and his eyes still locked on the papers.

Elias grins.

“Oh, sorry professor, I hadn’t”, he says, sly and defiant. “How did I do on the test?”

“A perfect score, I imagine. I haven’t graded yours yet.”

Elias raises his eyebrows in amusement. “Should I leave then? Come back when you are done?”, he asks.

And that’s Lukas’ cue to raise his gaze to Elias, slowly, taking off his glasses and gently placing them on the desk. “You leave when I tell you to, Mr. Bouchard.”

Elias smiles, gets closer and then finally leans towards Lukas. “Then don’t make me wait, professor”, he protests, and yet the way he looks at the man, as if ready to devour him, it sounds like an unforgiving demand.

Lukas shivers. He absolutely adores the feeling.

“Get off of my desk first”, he orders.

Elias pauses, opening his legs to surround Lukas instead. “I don’t think I will”, he says.

Lukas doesn’t even look at him. He grabs his thighs, harsh and tight, and drags Elias towards him, almost making him fall. “Don’t push your luck, kid”, he warns, still not letting his legs go. Sometimes Elias forgets how deliciously, intensly rough the professor can be. He loves it when he’s reminded like this. “Get off”, and he lets him go.

Elias smirks. “Yes, sir”, he says almost mockingly. He pushes himself down, falling on Lukas’ lap. “Is it okay like this?”

Lukas stares at his eyes for a long moment – a long, intense moment, that Elias savours from start to finish. He wants to bite those lips and make them bleed, he needs to hurt, needs some crude intimacy with a man who knows nothing about him, and yet can see so deep into his soul when he holds him in his arms and owns him like a toy.

Lukas doesn’t answer the question. He lets his gaze drift down on Elias’ shirt instead.

“That will need to go.”

Elias grins.

“Oh, so we’re doing anatomy after-class", he says, fingers already busy unbuttoning every button he has on him. “Not my favourite, but I don’t mind some experiments. For science, of course.”

“Shut up, Elias.”

“I volunteer as a subject”, Elias continues, his shirt already forgotten, lying on the floor.

“I don’t need your permission”, Lukas says, grabbing his hands when Elias starts unfastening his belt. “Leave that on for now.”

Elias stops. “As you wish”, he leans down and whispers on the man’s neck, kissing it slowly and gently. “For now.”

They kiss for a long time, Lukas’ hands all over Elias, his teeth pushing against his skin to leave secret marks no one but Elias will witness in the morning. Then Lukas pushes Elias down from his lap, back on his feet again. He relishes the flicker of surprise in Elias’ eyes when he stands up, lips wet and dark and his hair completely undone.

Peter gets up from his chair.

“Get down, Mr. Bouchard.”

“No way”, Elias protests. “The floor is filthy.”

“Get down”, Peter says again, and the way his voice sounds, rigid and crude, makes it clear that he doesn’t enjoy repeating himself. “On your knees.”

Elias doesn’t smile this time. He hesitates, looks away for a moment, but in the end he drops to the floor obediently.

“Good”, Peter comments, leaning against the desk and extending a hand to Elias’ face, gently brushing his cheeks while unfastening his belt. Elias looks up, and when he does Lukas’ fingers twist in his hair, grab him and painfully yank him, mouth open on his cock.

Elias lets out a distressed, choked moan. He has to grab Lukas’ clothes to keep balance, which makes him look even more desperate. He feels the grip on his hair tighten, and a moment later Lukas is forcing him to look up, mouth full and eyes altready wet with tears.

“This is for interrupting my work”, Lukas says calmly, swiping a tear away with his thumb. He guides Elias’ mouth back and then he slams his hips against his face again, suffocating him for a sweet, painful moment. “And this is because you talk too much.”

Lukas doesn’t let go, keeping Elias in place, his cock brushing the boy’s throat. Elias closes his eyes, his mouth sore and his knuckles white, closed on the man’s shirt.

“Elias, look at me.”

Elias doesn’t. This is too much – too much already.

“Oper your eyes and look up”, Peter repeats, again, and Elias knows there better not be a third time.

He slowly, achingly opens his eyes. Lukas smiles, slightly amused. “Good”, he says, and finally lets his hair go. Elias coughs and arches down, knees and elbows on the floor, taking in all the air he can. “Fuck you, Peter”, he pants.

“It’s professor Lukas, kid. Don’t forget good manners. Now get back here, we aren’t finished.”

Elias looks up, nothing but defiance and anger in his eyes. Well, most of it. He hates how much he loves this.

“Come on”, Peter smirks. “You like this, don’t you?”, he mocks. “It won’t hurt this time. Come here.”

He extends a hand, and Elias hurries like the most obedient of puppies. He rubs his cheek against his palm, and Lukas pets him gently, stroking where he grabbed his hair only moments ago. The relief Elias is feels with the touch is exquisite, and he knows he wants more – wants more of the hurting, more of the comfort that comes after. Most of the times at least.

He starts by taking Lukas’ cock in his hand and slowly licking at the head, patiently earning little, discreet moans from the older man. He knows he must look like a worshipper in adoration right now, and that is all he wants Lukas to think of him. Sometimes he opens his eyes just to catch the man staring at him, his gaze so piercing and sharp Elias feels as if they were miles away from each other, even when this is the closest two people could ever be. It makes him feel even smaller – exactly what he was looking for. After all they’ve just been using each other all this time, no love or affection, only this mutual need devoid of any tenderness.

When Lukas finally pushes him back, Elias licks his lips and looks up, an expression of pure adulation on his flushed face.

Lukas lock eyes with him and gets back on his chair, sitting down.

“You can take off your pants now”, he concedes, and Elias readily complies, leaving them on the floor, already unmindful of the filth he so much despised until a moment ago. He stands up and gets closer to Lukas, waiting for a comand.

Lukas smiles and touches his stomach, letting his hand slide down to brush against his thigh before pulling back.

“So quite all of a sudden”, he notices. “You bit your tongue, Mr. Bouchard?”

Instead, Elias bites his lips. He shows the man a little, snarky grin. “Not really what I wanted to bite”, he says.

Lukas’ smile widens. “You are so full of yourself, Elias.”

“And you love that.”

“I don’t love anything about you.”

He pulls Elias towards him, forcing him to straddle across his lap. He takes his chin between his fingers, guide his gaze so they’re looking straight in each other’s face. “You understand?”, he asks, dead serious.

Elias would laugh in his face, but he knows it would not end well for him. Instead he only nods obediently, his fingers already rushing to unbutton Lukas’ shirt. “Don’t fool yourself”, the man lets his face go and kisses him fondly, licking his lips before pulling away.

Elias takes Lukas’ fingers in his mouth, sucking them like his life depended on it. He moans lascivously around them, in a way he knows will drive the man mad, and when Lukas pushes his first wet finger inside of him, Elias falls forhead against his shoulders and lets a long, deep sob escape his swollen lips.

Elias loves this – to be completely naked, arms around Peter’s shoulders, his lips parted and desperate for air, Lukas' cock sunk to the base inside of him, throbbing with greed. He loves to come undone and let any restraint burn to ashes when he’s at the mercy of this man – he love this, he repeats to himself, he doesn’t love Peter, he only loves what they have, and it will never be anything more than a dirty, liberating fuck.

When he’s about to come, Elias leans to rest his teeth on Peter’s naked shoulder. He licks, and rubs and moans loudly, and then, when his cum spurts all across Peter’s abdomen, Elias bites, deep and hard, slamming his hips on the man’s cock. He hears a cry of agony and irritation coming from Peter’s mouth, and he can’t help but curve his lips in a satisfied grin, teeth still tight on his sore skin.

Lukas jerks and strong hands grab Elias by the waist, slamming him onto the desk with no gentle warning. Air gets stuck in his throat as he opens his eyes in suprirse, Lukas looming over him with an irritated expression on his face.

“You are a fucking psycho, Elias”, he says, not content at all, and Elias grins.

“We’re in this together, professor”, he says, so full of himself.

All he sees is Peter wrinkle his nose in anger, before a hand presses on his mouth and nose and pushes.

“I believe I said to shut up.”

Elias’ eyes open wide, his lungs empty and air blocked from his mouth. He raises his hands to grab Lukas’ wrists, tries to push him away – he needs air, he can’t breathe, he’s going to --

“I make decisions in this room, Elias”, his hand doesn’t move, and Elias starts quivering under him. He’s to weak to break from Lukas’ grasp. “And I don’t want to hear you say another word”, Peter continues, pushing even harder. A tear fall down Elias’ cheek and he closes his eyes, desperate.

“Are we clear, Elias?”

Still grabbing Peter’s wrist Elias nods weakly.

“Are we clear?”, Peter asks again, and Elias nods harder, opening his eyes and looking at him, begging.

Peter lets go, and Elias curls up in an agonizing, desperate cough catching for air. “Fuck”, he curses, but his voice rasps against his aching throat and it stings even more painfully. Peter leaves him no time to catch his breath though. He forces him to turn, lifting him like a dead weight, effortlessly, leaving him prone, bent over the desk. A pile of papers falls to the floor, but none of them pays it any mind. The tip of Peter’s cock brushes mockingly against Elias’ hole, and the boy let’s out a miserable cry.

“Peter, please”, he tries to turn his head but the man pushes it against the hard, wooden surface.

“I’m not Peter”, he almost growls, and then pushes into him, deep and hard.

Elias screams. “Sto--! Professor—Professor please, please, please stop”, he begs, but Peter doesn’t seem to listen. He slamns into him once again, and Elias chokes a desperate moan in the palm of Lukas’ hand pinning him down.

“Shut up, Elias. I hate to repeat myself."

And at this point Elias knows the man is not telling jokes at least. He moans, pressed down and aching and just hurt everywhere, Peter’s hand uncaring and heavy on his back, making it difficult for him to even breathe – and god how can he be so in love with something so wrong? Something so painful?

Peter kisses his eralobes when he finally comes, filling his insides with hot, wet cum that drips all over his inner thighs. Elias cries, begging for a reliese he knows all too well Peter will not grant him tonight – he's pushed too many limits, but it’s alright, he loves this, he would never trade this sick pleasure with any pathetic, fake lovers sweetness. That does not belong to them, and if Elias has to break in the end, he wants it to be at the hand of the one man who’s able to destroy him in the most delicious of manners.

“Are you still there, Elias?”, a soft whisper against his ear. He barely recognizes the man who’s been fucking him senseless until now.

“You’ll be devastated to know I’m still alive, professor”, it’s difficult to even speak, yet he still manages to sound sly.

“Pity”, says Peter, and kisses his cheek before pulling out. He falls behind on the chair, taking Elias with him, body heavy and sore in his arms.

“You’ll manage to kill me one of these days”, says Elias, tired, with his eyes closed and his forehead resting against Peter’s chest.

“Would you hate it?”

“Mmh”, Elias mumbles. Peter caresses his faces, and the touch feels almost sweet, except Elias knows it’s not. It will never be. “You are an asshole, Peter.”

“Then don’t come to me next time.”

“You would die of loneliness”, he grumbles. You would die because you love me, he thinks, but doesn’t say.

“You wish.”

“I do.”

The silence stretches for long, with Peter brushing his fingers languidly all over Elias naked skin and the darkness of the evening engulfing the almost empty classroom. Peter lights a cigarette, eventually, and Elias steals it from his lips not but a few drags later. He’s never having sex again in his life, he thinks.

“Was it too much?”, Peter asks. Elias stops and looks up.

“What?”

“Did it hurt?”

“Why are you worrying now, asshole?”

“Elias, did it?”, he insists. The voice almost - almost - sounds like minutes ago, when he was choking him on his desk, and Elias shivers.

“Shut up, I’m fine”, he looks away and takes a drag from the cigarette, leaving the ash to fall on the floor.

“Maybe we won’t do this again”, Peter says, his voice low, as if talking to himself.

“Mh."

Elias doesn’t have the gut to tell him he would die if they ever stopped this. Instead he gets up, puts his trousers on, picks his shirt up from the floor and gets into it. “You better give me a lift home”, he says, voice dry, looking away.

The pause is long, but eventually Peter stands up, already dressed. He doesn’t even look at him when he walks to the door, buttoning up his shirt.

“Don’t forget the keys”, he says, and Elias could swear he spotted a trace of something off in the man’s voice – it reminds him of... shame? The thought infuriates him.

Everything about Peter Lukas infuriates him, and he felt this anger over and over again, every single time he walks away like a weak, pathetic man who can’t even take responsibilities for something so foolish.

It’s no big deal, asshole, he wants to tell him.

But Elias knows it is, in the end. So he says nothing and follows him in silence, Peter’s cigarette almost consumed between his lips. And they’ll be back here next week, one last time.

One last time, like last time.

Fandom: The Magnus Archives
Personaggi: Basira, Daisy
Warning: cannibalismo (circa)
Note: scritto per Esploratori del Polyverso 0.II con prompt: Wendigo + Fantasma

( The world has changed, and Basira would rather it had ended instead. )

Aside from the more blatantly graphic ones, most transformations were subtle, and they did take her a few days to recognize. Like the way the air smells, that faint stench of rot and decay that takes a moment to register, even more so when you realize you don’t even need to breathe anymore. Same with the food, the way it tasted putrid when she finally managed to convince herself it was better not to starve to death – only to come to the conclusion that eating, like breathing, or sleeping, is not a requirement for life anymore. She’s not sure she would call this warped impression of a nightmare life, either, and yet here she is, very much alive and very much alone.

Or so she wishes, at least.

No, because the Eye never shuts, it never looks away – it observes, it feeds on the terror of the subjects it created, and it reminds them that there is no mean of escape, because if one does not need to breathe, or sleep, or eat to stay alive, then it means nobody is allowed to die unless the Eye so wishes.

Or unless the slaughter is perpetrated by a fellow prisoner, Basira can’t help but thinking, and there is a brutal sense of self-awareness in this simple understanding. It feels like this particular fear was crafted meticulously after her very own, greatest regret, for when she looks straight into the Eye she does not do so with terror, but with disgust and hatred, but when she is reminded of the last promise she made as a mortal, that’s when she shakes in despair.

She and Daisy are wandering the same lands. Some nights, when she closes her eyes to feel some semblance of humanity under her skin, she can hear the terrible howling rise up to the sky, and she knows they are not far.

The thought neither comforts nor scares her, strangely. Her heart is so full of doubt these days, as she is slowly losing every comforting certainty that made her who she is. Or was. Back then it was so easy to hate, to love, to make promises, to take responsabilities she believed she could own, but now? The world has changed, and so has her, nothing but a pale ghost of a woman she could once respect and trust.

They’re all ghosts of somebody who once was, walking these deadlands with nothing but screams and agony and the Eye to keep them company. Not even the fears have changed. They have been let loose, yes, free to wander and chase and own the nights and days alike instead of lurking from a place of secrets, but ultimately, Basira knows it, nothing has truly changed.

Now it is only more distinct, the one thing she already feared the most – and it is not Daisy, it is never Daisy, it couldn’t be her. Some nights, when she hears the distant howling, she looks up at the Eye and thinks: I don not fear her, you will not make me fear her; and she knows the Eye will hear and see whatever is inside her heart, if she really has one left, and she is glad to let it know the truth.

She also knows the gratification is essentially narcissistic in nature, and thus doomed to be nothing short of temporary – the same way she is doomed to make a final choice one day.

Basira doesn’t want to. Not when every possible consequence is bound to destroy her.

She doesn’t want to live in a world where Daisy doesn’t exist, even if that world is ugly and twisted and full of terror – especially because it is the way it is – and even if it means breaking the last promise she made to her. The reassurance she finds in listening to the growl of the Beast is sickening, and Basira hates what she’s become, but the Hunt was never her territory and it pains her to be the one that’s supposed to be stalking in the night.

That is not Daisy, she tells herself everytime, but she knows she’s not being honest. The lie only eases the decision a little, but it is not, unfortunately, any less painful.

The day it happens, of course, Basira is not ready, above all because it is not the result of a choice.

She finds the Beast hunched over a still body, drenched in mud and covered in worms. Daisy’s fur is dark from the rain, his jaws soaked in thick, fresh blood after it's pulled out from the revolting dead flesh of the corrupted corpse.

The crunching noise of bones and tissues being torn from the body and then chewed is dreadful. Basira will never forget it as long as she lives – and maybe, if she’s lucky enough, she doesn’t have to endure it for long.

When the Beast becomes aware of her, Basira is already crying but she doesn’t dare look away. Daisy’s eyes are round and red, all pupils, and her lips are vibrating in hatred showing sharp teeth underneath. Her limbs are thin and long, her fangs sunken deep in the poor corpse’s flesh.

In her restless, feral gaze Basira doesn’t recognize any trace of her old partner.

She tightens the grip on her gun, tears streaming down her face like any other droplet of rancid rain that’s coming down from the endless Eye covering the sky. Tears of joy and amusement against tears of despair and resignation.

That Beast is not Daisy, and Basira doesn’t want it to be, finally. She holds her gun in both hands, slowly taking aim. The Beast’s eyes sparkle for a moment, and Basira knows the Hunt is about to begin.

When they start running into each others, their screams and growling get lost in the sound of rain that’s falling only for them.

They are both ghosts of something – someone – that is no more.

They may as well be laid to rest.

Fandom: Originale
Rating: safe
Warning: nessuno
Parole: 4586

Cow-t: ultima settimana, prompt "La Papessa" (Arcani maggiori)

@ TALPY, NUKI E CHIBI NON LEGGERE PLEASEEEEE

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Fandom: Critical Role
Personaggi: Beau, Jester
Rating: safe
Parole: 671

COW-T: settimana 5, m1 (Scontro)

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Fandom: Critical Role
Personaggi: Nott, Caleb
Rating: safe
Parole: 538

COW-T: settimana 5, M1 (In fuga)

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Fandom: originale
Rating: safe
Parole: 2976
Note: @ NUKI, TAPLY, CHIBI VIA DA QUI O EOIN MUORE

COW-T: settimana 5, M1 (In fuga)

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Fandom: Star Trek (new movies)
Pairing: Pike/Kirk
Warnings: D/s; violence; mind breaking

COW-T: settimana 3, missione 2 ("È un fatto importante che le apparenze molto spesso ingannano.")

James Kirk has never been a patient man.

He's used to rush into most things – a meaningless fight in the filthiest pub in San Francisco, some nameless alien's bed, Starfleet Academy, death – and any person who's had the questionable pleasure to talk to him at least once wouldn't hesitate to call him a reckless bastard who talks too much (possibly true), thinks too little (definitely wrong), and usually does the latter only after making rash, dangerous (but somehow brutally efficient) decisions based on what he'd call, smirking and fearless, gut feelings.

James Kirk is well aware that this is the kind of reputation that gets you to sit on the captain chair of the most advanced ship of the Terran Empire – the kind of reputation that shows you're willing to take responsibility for all the dirty work with a smile on your face, that you wouldn't hesitate to put your men to death in case of mutiny or even personal offence, and that you're capable of handling the most ruthless, dangerous and treacherous bunch of people they have the guts to call a ship crew.

And yet, the same James Kirk that most people are both grateful and terrified to have as captain – the same James Kirk that's known to bow to no man, obey no rule and fear no danger – is also the man who's been patiently waiting on his knees all morning for the word – any word – that would free him from the restraints he's joyfully welcomed on himself and grant him the release he's been silently, desperately longing for for hours now.

Admiral Pike’s private quarters have been silent for most of that time, the man quietly sitting at his desk, going through documents over documents of boring imperial bureaucracy, while the young captain, ordered not to make a single sound until prompted differently, has been obediently and carefully waiting for a signal.

Jim cannot see right now. His eyes are covered in the fine, gold band that would be normally tied around his waist, a precious reminder of his renowned rank in the Starfleet – the same band that is now, like hundreds of times before this day, being used in the least honourable, yet somehow most pleasurable of ways. And as strange as it might seem, there is pleasure to be found in this slow, excruciating torture, even though Jim has been dying for some kind of physical contact – any kind, really. Sadly, he’s been mostly ignored by far, and he’d be infuriated by the thought, him being the narcissistic, egomaniac bastard that he is, wasn’t he sure that through absolute subordinance he would acquire way more satisfying results than by angrily lashing out against the Admiral – he tried the latter when he was younger and careless enough not to know better, and he has never repeated the same mistake since.

It’s been hours, however, and the initial eagerness to comply is starting to slowly fade into frustrated impatience – one that, Jim knows, if not kept under control could cost him dearly and leave him completely unsatisfied for a long time – way longer that he could stand right now, surely. And yet, there’s too much pride stored in him to accept that a good, humiliating beg would please Pike to the point of them both getting everything they long for – a nice fuck, an ever-cathartic dose of controlled, consensual pain – some given, some received – and a fine show of submission and compliance that would leave the Admiral both delighted and surprised, for a change. Jim is just not sure he’s ready to deliver said change tonight.

"Is there something troubling your mind, James?"

The voice, casual and almost distracted, cuts through the silence like the most unexpected of back stabs, regardless of Jim’s sensitivity, shamefully and painfully heightened by the recent lack of sound or physical contact.

Jim doesn’t flinch and doesn’t move a muscle – he knows all too well he’s not permitted to. His knees, bent and pressed on the floor under his own weight, are starting to hurt, and so are his arms, tied behind his bare back by the wrists. His thighs are spread and there is not a single inch of his body that is not in display right now. As busy as he pretends to be, Jim knows the Admiral is taking his time to appreciate the view from his desk.

Nevertheless, Jim doesn’t feel like giving him too much satisfaction tonight. He licks his lips, slow and deliberate, but doesn't say anything. He knows he’s succeeded in making Pike annoyed when he hears a sigh coming from the other side of the room.

"A year in space and you're the same stubborn bastard who was having his ass kicked in that bar, all those years ago", the Admiral says, and Jim just now realizes how much he’s been craving for the man’s voice. "At least you can be quiet. Did you learn some discipline out there?"

Finally, the familiar sound of the chair being pushed on the floor. Pike stands up – or so Jim imagines behind his blindfold, guided only by the sounds surrounding his exposed body – and then walks around the desk, slowly. Every step sounds like war drums throbbing against his ears and inside his chest, making Jim quiver in anticipation. He tightens his lips, takes a deep breath and tries to relax – he simply refuses to give away his eagerness to be fucked inside out just yet.

As if capable of reading his mind (Jim is starting to think that it might really be the case), Pike’s voice surprises him once again.

"You don't look very happy to be here, you know?”, he asks, and Jim can’t help but frown at the unexpected remark. Luckily, his face is almost entirely covered behind the gold captain band. “Did you fuck many men on my ship, James?” Pike continues. He comes closer. “Or did you let them fuck you?”, a pause, both in his voice and in his steps. “That's not it, right? You can't do that when you're the captain of the Empire's best ship. You never let your guard down, not even inside your bed – especially inside your bed.” He starts walking again, pacing in circle around Jim. “You must always have your fingers around their neck and their hands where you can see them. Doesn't leave much room for your entertainment, uh? Sure, that kind of shit is fun, but isn't it better to be on the other side of the rope? Isn't it good to feel annihilated once in a while? Don't you love giving up control, Captain? It must be refreshing to put your trust in someone for a change, right?"

Jim is not even listening by this point – he's just intoxicated by the sound of a voice he could never grow tired of. He knows all too well his words burn like poison, and he’s not come to stand where he stands by throwing himself carelessly in the arms of danger, yet he's never been able to resist this kind of hazard – on the contrary, he finds himself inevitably drawn to this voice over and over again, each time reminding himself it will be the last, but the next always coming no matter what.

Admiral Pike is right, after all – Jim loves to give up control from time to time, and he would certainly lose every atom of reputation he’s built in years after years of hard work if someone was to see him in such a humiliating position, but the truth is he’ll never be able to give up total control. Be it for an excess of pride or a total lack of trust, there’s always a part of him that eagers to be in charge.

When he smirks in response to Pike’s nice little monologue, he knows exactly what he’s doing.

"Oh? Do I make you laugh, captain?”, the Admiral fakes amazement. “Enlighten me, please: what's so amusing here?"

But once again Jim doesn’t say a word. He opens his thighs more and stretches his back, arching it slightly just to expose his crotch better. Afterall, he doesn’t have to speak to make the Admiral understand.

"I take back what I said about discipline: you are being very insubordinate right now”, Pike says, his voice sternly flat. Jim almost lets out a pained yelp when the tip of one of the man’s boots presses against his genitals, but somehow manages to catch his voice before it escapes his throat. At least now he knows he managed to make him mad.

The boot suddenly pulls back and Pike gets down, knees bent, finally in front of Jim’s face – he can feel it, all of him, just the sheer presence of his body even though he’s not touching him yet.

“I see you are going to make me lose my patience tonight.”

He leaves him no time to smirk this time. Cold fingers wrap around Jim’s cock, unexpected, causing his mouth to fall open taking in as much air as his lungs can sustain. Pike’s hand starts to move all the way to the tip and then back, massaging him slowly. Jim’s thighs tense, the sudden, startling contact already sending shivers through his stomach, while he feels his erection growing hard and pulsing under the man’s touch. It’s still not enough, though. Jim realizes after a few moments, the strokes are sluggish, almost deliberately lazy, and every time they seem to get gradually faster – every time his breath grows deeper and quicker – Pike goes back to the initial, slow pace, leaving Jim endlessly chasing after an orgasm he doesn’t seem so inclined to grant him.

It’s only a matter of minutes before Pike leans in, his dangerous proximity given away by the sudden sensation of thin breath against Jim’s cheek.

"It's about the Vulcan, right?"

It’s nothing more than a whisper against his ear, and yet it’s more than enough to make Jim hold his breath in sudden fear.

He hears a chuckle, then Pike’s hands stop, without leaving his cock just yet.

"Oh, it is then. You found a nice little toy to play with when I'm not there, James?"

His voice is frighteningly calm, but Jim knows there’s danger in the answer he might choose to give. He decides to simply not give any, for now.

"Can't say I'm surprised. I saw how he looked at you, as if he was getting ready to devour you at any moment”, Pike continues. “But a Vulcan? I know what they say about their... sexual habits. You must really like it rough. Is he the only one allowed to stick it up your ass?". Jim hardly holds a painful whimper as soon as the grasp of the man’s fingers suddenly tightens around his cock. Now he knows he’s made him really mad. "Not that cocky anymore, uh? Don't feel like laughing now?"

Still, Jim smirks at his face, fearless and provoking. It’s one of those night when he just can’t help but risk crossing that thin line that separates composed tolerance from irritated annoyance.

Pike clicks his tongue (annoyance, thinks Jim, not without a sense of masochistic anticipation) and lets go of his cock.

"Might as well leave you here, hanging and the fuck alone”, Pike claims while getting back on his feet. “You'd deserve it. Might keep you locked in this room until the mission resumes – when is it? In two weeks? You wouldn't be getting a single orgasm until then."

Definitely annoyed. Jim starts to worry he might have pushed it a little bit too far this time – and yet he hasn’t really done or said anything worse than most other times.

"But you know what?”, the Admiral’s voice interrupts his thoughts again. “I like Spock. Maybe I'll let him visit, let him see what I'm seeing. Bet it wouldn't be much of a surprise for him, right?”, a couple of steps echo through the room, taking the man away from him, and then: “Should I call him now?"

It hits Jim in all kinds of ways, instantly. Unexpected ways. Unwanted, worrisome ways.

"Sir--"

The sound, urgent and nervous, comes out of his mouth without him really having the time to process it.

Is he... scared?

"What was it?", Pike asks. He stops.

"Don't... Sir."

Really, it’s just that the joke has been taken too far and he can’t risk anyone of his men seeing him like this. It’s not about Spock – it' can’t be about Spock.

Can it?

"And why would I want to obey you, kid?"

Jim’s lips part, and the word is right there, stuck in his throat. "Please”, barely a whisper.

There’s an infinite pause, then: "That's new”, Pike chuckles, amused. “So you did learn something. I wonder who I should thank for this."

"Sir."

"Now you're starting to sound like a broken record. If you intend to beg, at least do it properly."

Then, the sound of a single step, coming back towards Jim. That’s it, Jim thinks. How immensely stupid of him to let the thought of the Vulcan scare him for even just a moment. Spock is nothing to him, after all, there’s no reason for him to let emotions take the best of him – and more importantly, now he’s got Pike attention again; he can go back to their little game of chase and catch. He smirks, raising his chin in defiance, making sure his expression is caught by the Admiral – and then he lets his tongue stick out of his lips, licking them slowly, biting them.

Who cares about Spock when he can have this?

"Kid”, Pike starts, after a few moments. “I don't think you understand. I looked forward to this nice little fuck, sure, but it is quite clear you need it way more than I do. I'm not touching you again until you ask me to. And you're not getting out of here until I hear you scream so loud your precious Vulcan will worry someone's butchering your guts like the pig you are." Jim’s grin deepens, he’s starting to feel his erection grow hard again just by the sound of Pike’s voice. Then, he hears him chuckle again. "These are going to be some long two weeks, eh, kid?"

This time, there’s more than just one step. Jim doesn’t even have the time to gloat to himself before he realizes that the steps are taking Pike away, further from him. He stops, hesitant, a hint of doubt growing in his chest, but then he hears the familiar, slow hiss of the automatic doors opening, and the suspicion suddenly becomes reality.

"No—stop!", Jim shouts angrily, the sudden aggression in his voice born from fear and a furious sense of humiliation – just not the pleasing kind, this time.

The silence that follows lasts forever, but it’s finally interrupted by the sound of the doors closing again. For a few moments, Jim holds his breath, not sure if the man is still there with him or if he’s been left alone for good.

"I'm listening."

The words are merely a whisper coming from the opposite side of the room. Pike’s still here.

Jim stretches his lips in a nervous smile.

"Come back”, he says, driven by the same intrinsic reflex that always allows him to fake utter resolution even when lacking any bit of it – the same reflex that made him the captain he is today, fearless and unmatched. “Nobody's going to give you a better fuck anyway."

He can feel Pike’s silent smile, followed by a few, slow steps leading him closer again. Jim feels every inch of his muscle tense in anticipation – he's not sure for what exactly, pain or pleasure, or maybe there’s no real difference between the two when the Admiral’s involved.

Then, Pike speaks again.

"Maybe you're right, James, but see: I'm not that desperate.” He’s so close Jim can feel the presence of his body towering over him – and then a hand grabs his face, long fingers tightened around his chin, forcing him to raise his head and look up – if only he could see anything beyond darkness. “And this is not how you beg for punishment. Not today." Pike’s hold is anything but gentle, but the touch of his fingers alone is enough to make Jim shiver in excitement. And he knows very few reactions triggered by such a sudden burst of adrenaline.

"Fuck you”, he murmurs, and then, with a rapid jerk, he frees his head from Pike’s grasp and closes his teeth around the hand that was holding him.

It all takes but seconds. He feels the man’s skin against his lips and teeth – an electrifying sensation, flesh and bones ready to crush under the pressure of his jaw, a destiny for him to choose in a matter of seconds. He doesn’t want to break, though – not tonight. Tonight, he only wants to start a predictable cycle of pain the he expects to close.

And Pike – Pike is infuriated. His hand jerks away for just a moment, then immediately closes tight around Jim’s neck.

"You bastard", Pike laughs, pushing his back violently against the edge of the bed, and in his voice Jim recognizes the same frenzied adrenaline that drove him just a moment ago. "Did I raise you like this?”, he asks, forcing him to arch his spine and twist his wrists against the restraints in a hopeless, desperate attempt to free his hands to stop the man from choking him to death. “Didn't I teach you manners? I gave you my ship and this is how you thank me. Are you sure you want to risk it on your fucking, pathetic pride?"

Jim gives him a painful smile, yet somehow defiant.

"You can't beg me to fuck you but you're ready to die for this shit? I'm not stopping, James, you should know. There are plenty of young men and women fresh out of Academy eager to take your place."

And Jim knows better than anybody else, Pike is a man who keeps his promises – but then again, James Kirk is a captain that knows no fear.

"You wouldn't", he says in a choked voice, tears already starting to water his eyes.

Pike shakes his head with a smile, not letting go of his neck.

"Oh, but would I? I made you, James, I can destroy you just as easily. And I bet anyone could do a damn better job at worshipping their superiors."

"Please—"

Pike rolls his eyes, visibly out of patience, and Jim can feel cuts opening all around his wrists where he’s struggling against the ropes. When he opens his mouth, desperately chasing after a breath the Admiral won’t let him take, he feels the grasp around his neck shift, although not letting him free just yet. He struggles to keep his eyes open, only to catch a glimpse of the man bending over him, his face so near he can feel his breath on his cheek.

"I can't hear", he simply says, his voice sternly quiet while Jim’s body continues fearfully struggling against asphyxiation.

"Please—”, he begs, finally, his own voice scraping against his pulsing throat, almost inaudible to his own ears. “Please, Sir, I can't—"

Then, just like that, Pike’s fingers spread and he releases his neck, finally letting him breath.

Jim’s head falls forward, his face red and his chest shaken with a violent, painful cough – and yet the Admiral doesn’t let him a moment to catch his breath, grasping his chin again and forcing him to look up. Jim barely feels a hand running through his hair, and a moment later the golden band that was covering his eyes falls from his face, forcing him to squint and look away from the light.

With a rough gesture, Pike yanks his face back in place.

"Look at you. How pathetic”, he looks at him with a disgusted grin. “You don't call him 'Sir', do you?"

Jim, exhausted and out of breath, still manages to stretch his lips in an amused smirk. "You'd like me to?", he asks.

Pike’s expression gets suddenly serious. "Don't push your luck, James”, he says. The hand holding his chin slides further down, coming to rest around his aching neck, causing Jim to tense his muscles in fear. “Unlike you”, he continues, his voice dangerously flat, “I genuinely love being in charge."

When it’s about him, Jim knows better than to push his luck beyond a line that could mean the difference between life and death. He’s seen the Admiral sentence men to death before, and he’s seen those men meet their fate in advance, executed on the spot, left with bruises around their throats so deep that they had to collect shattered bones and blood together with the limp bodies.

That’s why he looks at Pike in the eyes, the smirk completely vanished from his face, when he says: "I know, Sir", making sure it doesn’t sound like a joke.

Pike sighs, then he nods, looking somehow satisfied. He bends down in front of him, the one hand resting on his neck not moving from his position, while the other, slow and unseen, lays on Jim’s cock. "Now, let me ask you one last time”, he says, staring at his eyes. His hand starts to move along his erection, causing it to grow hard once again. “Do you", he tightens his fingers both around his cock and around his neck, "call him 'Sir', or not?"

Jim, both exhausted and aroused, still barely holds a moan escaping from his lips. "The fuck I do", he manages to say, his eyes closed and his voice coarse.

"Am I making you uncomfortable? My apologies."

"Fuck, Pike—", Jim’s head falls back, and once again Pike’s stimulation manages to bring him just on the right spot before stopping altogether, letting his orgasm go before going back to chase the next one, never really reaching any. As fun as this little game might be, it’s really starting to feel like too much, after all these hours spent frustratingly, obediently waiting. He’s starting to lose control of his own body, and when Pike notices his breath getting deeper and faster – when he slows down the pace to leave him hanging for the hundredth time, Jim can’t help but push his waist against his hand, desperate for those fingers to grant him the release he’s been so hopelessly aching for.

“Easy”, Pike pushes him back against the mattress, keeping him in place while he doesn’t stop masturbating him slowly, at his own pace. "It's two weeks or now, kid. Your call."

Jim, collapsed against the side of the bed, every inch of his body hurting, has no strength left in him to fight back. He parts his lips, his breath heavy and loud, collecting what little voice he’s got left to finally give up – let the Admiral know he’s won, he’s his to do with him what he pleases. “Sir...”, he says, nothing more than a whisper.

But suddenly, before he can attempt a second word, a familiar, low ringing sound breaks the silence.

The notice of an external communication incoming.

“Computer, respond”, Pike says promptly. He gives Jim a quick glance and a smirk, immediately stopping his hands without letting go of his cock – Jim struggles, or at least he tries uselessly when strong, steady hands keep him in place without effort. "Admiral Pike here."

The voice from the communicator sounds distant like a bad dream.

"Admiral, the meeting is starting soon. The other attendants are already gathering."

"Copy that, I'll be on my way”, Pike responds in his stern, professional voice. He stops for a second, then looks down at Jim. “Oh, I received word from Captain Kirk that he won't be able to attend, I've already taken responsibility”, a satisfied smile. “Pike out."

When the Admiral gets up, letting go of both his cock and his throat, Jim pushes himself up from the bed, an urgent, worried look on his face that only deepens when Pike starts to collect his jacket from the seat at his desk.

"What are you doing?", Jim asks, the same anger covered in sheer humiliation he experienced but minutes ago already building inside his stomach.

"Saving you the pain of a boring meeting attended by old, disgusting men", Pike responds, quietly.

"Fuck, I don't mean that."

The man stops just to stare at his eyes, dead serious.

"And what do you mean, James?"

Jim purses his lips. "You're not going there", he says, angrily – and he means it.

"That's my job."

"And mine, but it's clear you don't care about that—just fucking untie my hands, will you?"

Pike lets a smile cross his face. "It's a bit late now, don't you think?"

"God—just, please."

"That's better."

Jim looks at the jacket fall from the man’s arms and drop silently on the floor. He looks up, staring defiantly at his eyes while he gets closer step by step – but all the resolution he managed to collect simply drifts away when Pike gets down, poses his fingers on his cock and starts touching him again, and again, and again, a never-ending cycle of deep, desperate arousal fallen to frustration – just enough to make him moan and whimper and start feeling the building of an orgasm, but never sufficient to really take him over the edge.

Jim struggles, desperate, pushing his body and then reaching for Pike’s lips – not a bite, this time, just a hopeless kiss, one the man has no intention of giving him. He stops Jim by the shoulders and holds him steady. "Are we back to the beginning? We've got some serious communication issues here."

"Sir—"

Pike leaves him no time to elaborate. Two fingers press against his lips, forcefully finding their way inside his mouth. When Jim feels them push on his tongue, he’s got no time to argue – he starts licking and sucking on the Admiral’s hand, relishing the taste of his skin, the harsh feeling of his nails scraping against the back of his throat.

It lasts only a few moments before the fingers slide away from his mouth – they don’t go far, though. They start leaving wet trails along his throat, tracing the bruises he left earlier, and then further down on his chest. Jim’s eyes fall open when the fingers start massaging his hard, aching nipples, and he lets out a moaning sigh when Pike’s other hand travels down, down, and further down barely touching his genitals. Then, the hand slips between his legs, forcing them to open even wider. Jim head falls back against the mattress while he stretches his muscles to open up for the Admiral even more than his body can take right now. Pike pushes his whole body against him with an amused grin, his wet fingers barely brushing against his entrance, and yet never really touching him.

"God, please, please—", Jim starts feeling pushing against his eyelids.

Pike gets shamefully closer. "I'm here", he whispers in his ear – and that’s about how much Jim can take tonight before falling utterly destroyed.

"I want to be fucked, Sir, I want to be fucked by you, only you, please—"

Pike smiles staring at the horny body shaking under him – a body he managed once again to claim his own, to break both in the flash and in mind. "That was unnecessary, kid”, he takes just a moment to admire Jim’s tense muscles, the sweat trailing down his shoulders and chest, his hard nipples and his cheeks, bright red and overflowing with excitement, and he can’t help but think he’s made such a perfect job at taming the animal out of him tonight. “But good job on the flattery", he says, pushing one first finger inside of him.

Jim’s whole body shakes while he lets out a deep, loud moan, arching his back against the mattress and spreading his legs for more. “You really are pathetic, aren’t you?”, Pike mocks him, and after a moment a second finger pushes inside, making Jim quiver even more. “I should take you before the Council like this, then everyone will see the kind of man you are”, Jim cries out, his muscles tensing around Pike’s hand when he finally pushes the third finger inside. “You’re nothing but an animal desperate to get his ass filled with someone’s cock”, a thrust, deeper than the others, and a loud moan that echoes through the romm. “You are mine, James. I created you. You remember, right?”

Jim can’t tell the difference between pleasure and pain anymore. Pike’s fingers are almost completely dry, deep inside his body, but his words are making him mad, desperate to belong to him completely, heart and soul, flesh and bones – he can’t escape after all, he doesn’t want to, and he never will.

“I remember”, he says, his voice dry, almost lost in his quick breaths. “Please--”

“Good.”

And then, without warning, the fingers slip away from his body, causing Jim to yelp in both pain and bitter surprise. The same hand then grabs him by the shoulders, the other running quickly through his hair before tightening around them, harshly and painfully, forcing him to get up on his feet.

Jim lets out a moan, his legs and back hurting from the prolonged stretching, but Pike lets him no time to complain. He pushes him forward, and for a moment Jim has no idea where’s he’s leading, and nor he cares, really. He stumbles once, twice, but there are always strong arms keeping him up, leading the way. Just a few moments later he feels a hand laying on his stomach and another one pushing from behind his head. “Bend over, kid”, Pike orders, and Jim obeys without hesitation.

The surface of the desk, cold and smooth, welcomes his stretched body granting some relief to his aching muscles. He spreads his legs in anticipation, feeling his own erection pulsing hard against the table, desperate for release – and then Pike’s cock is brushing against his entrance, a couple of wet fingers massaging his muscles again, one last time.

The first push is sudden and anything but gentle, and Jim’s loud and painful cry fills the entire room.

Pike moans, delighted, sliding a hand down his back, gently tracing his spine down to the bottom – then pushing again, hard.

Every thrust sends shivers of pain through Jim’s already aching body. Tears start collecting in his eyes at every push that force his throbbing erection against the table, and his wrists begin to struggle once again against the ropes, desperate to find freedom just so he can touch himself and let his come ruin Pike’s precious desk.

“Tell me what you want, James”, the man’s voice whispers against his ear.

“God, Chris—Sir, let me come, please, please”, he shivers, tries to push against Pike’s cock, taking it deeper, faster.

“And what if don’t want to touch your filthy cock?”, he teases.

Jim parts his lips, he moans, shakes his head – he’s driving him mad. “Please, I beg you--”

“Oh”, a delighted sound, right against his ears. “You do? Then I might think about it, kid.”

Another thrust, deeper and harder than the others. Jim can feel Pike’s breath over him becoming more and more unsteady by the seconds, getting faster and deeper, interrupted by low moans – he knows he’s getting close, he’s just scared he might come before he does and then leave him without release.

It seems, however, that after all this might be his lucky night.

A hand slips under his body, quickly caressing his stomach and then sliding down – and Jim realizes almost immediately, it’s not the rough surface of Pike’s scarred hands – it’s smoother and colder, almost like leather.

He holds his breath when gloved fingers close around his erection.

“I expect extreme gratitude after this”, says the voice in his ear, and then the hand starts moving. Jim’s moans grow louder and louder, his erection pulsing under every stroke just as his whole body shakes at each thrust sinking deeper inside of him. He comes with an heavy cry, letting himself be consumed by a pleasure that’s devoured by the most delightful of agonies – and Pike fills him but moments after, spending himself completely inside of him.

In the silence that follows, their spent breaths seem to chase each other in unison. Jim collapses on the desk, and he doesn’t even flinch when Pike’s cock slips out of his body, leaving trails of semen to fall down along his shivering thighs. Jim opens his eyes in time so see Pike quietly cleaning his spoiled gloves with a handkerchief, his jacket already placed on his shoulders.

"Chris”, he whispers, devoid of all energy. “You can untie me now."

Pike gives him a tiny smile.

"Just wait here like the good boy you proved to be”, he says, a hand gently caressing Jim’s hair before slipping away.

"Chris!", he shouts, tired and angry.

Right on the door, Pike stops and turns.

"Oh, kid”, he says, delighted. “It's Admiral Pike now and for the next two weeks. You’d better get used to it."

The door closes behind him, leaving him in complete silence – alone again.

And Jim knows – he knows better than anyone in the universe, that Admiral Christopher Pike is a man that keeps his promises.

Fandom: Originale
Rating: safe
Warning: /
Note: @ CHIBI, NUKI e TALPY CI METTO DUE SECONDI AD AMMAZZARE I VOSTRI PNG PREFERITI

Cow-t: settimana 3, M2 ("Era una gioia appiccare il fuoco.")

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Fandom: Originale (campagna di D&D)

Rating: safe

Note: @ CHIBI, NUKI E TALPY QUESTO È UN COLTELLO E QUESTO È DAMJAN. NON LEGGETE. AVVISATE. XOXO

Cow-t: settimana 2, M2 (Neve)

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Fandom: Originale (campagna di D&D)
Personaggi: Hoggart Moreau, Azar Klopas, Ravi Zdravko
Rating: safe
Note: @ chibi, nuki e talpy NON LEGGETE PLS KISSINI STELLARI XOXO

Cow-t: settimana 1, M1 (Tensione)

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Fandom: Critical Role (campagna 2)
Personaggi: Molly, Yasha
Parole: 675
Rating: safe
Note: scritto per il cow-t 8, ultima settimana, prompt "giustizia"

"Sembra tutto così sbagliato."

Molly guarda il vuoto, si rigira la spada fra le mani ma la sua mente è altrove, distratta da pensieri più urgenti. Yasha rimane silente al suo fianco per attimi che si stiracchiano infiniti. Non è mai stata di molte parole, ma quelle poche che riesce a dispensare Molly le ha sempre trovate utili, a modo loro. Yasha è una buona amica, e su questo almeno vuole credere di poter contare.

"E' tutto sbagliato," ripete dopo un po', e scuote il capo, come a sottolineare l'incapacità di prenderne ancora atto. "Non doveva andare così." Solleva gli occhi e la guarda. "Non doveva."

Gli occhi scuri della donna si riflettono nei suoi, immobili, e Molly blocca la spada nella mano destra, afferrandola per l'elsa.

E alla fine, dopo quella che sembra un'eternità, Yasha apre bocca.

"Cos'è che ti tormenta tanto, Molly?" Gli domanda solamente. La sua voce è pacata, come al solito, e le sue braccia spesse sono incrociate contro il petto. Non l'ha mai vista perdere il controllo né la compostezza, se non quando agita una spada con l'intento di uccidere – allora sì che fa paura davvero, Yasha. Eppure di lei si fida, immensamente più di molti altri.

"Ti sarai accorta che abbiamo perso ogni cosa," le dice. "Il lavoro, una famiglia – tutto. E per colpa di quello... stupido rospo," scuote il capo, ancora e ancora, e si lascia sfuggire uno sbuffo nervoso, con tutte le parole – le imprecazioni – che gli rimangono incastrate in gola.

"E' questo che ti angoscia?" Domanda Yasha. "Il lavoro? Ne puoi trovare un altro."

"E' una seccatura."

Yasha solleva un sopracciglio.

"Ora ognuno se ne andrà per conto suo," continua Molly. "Mi ero abituato a questa vita."

"Erano solo due anni che eri con loro," puntualizza Yasha. "Non può essere così terribile."

Molly rotea gli occhi, si volta per darle le spalle e comincia a camminare avanti e indietro, coprendo tutta la lunghezza della tenda. Chissà per quanto ancora rimarrà in piedi, prima di essere smontata, caricata sulla carovana del circo e sballottata verso la prossima città. Chissà se lo vedrà mai, un altro festival, ora che le cose stanno così.

"Mi sembra che tu ti sia fatto già altri amici, no?" La voce della donna interrompe di nuovo i suoi pensieri. Molly si ferma e si volta verso di lei.

"Amici," ripete, sprezzante, con un sorriso che guizza fra le labbra. "La trovo quanto meno un'iperbole."

Yasha sorride piano, senza fare rumore, e Molly sa che anche lei la pensa allo stesso modo.

"Per un po' possono andare bene," gli dice. "Finché non ti sistemi di nuovo."

Molly sospira piano, socchiudendo gli occhi. Gli fa male la testa. E continua a risuonargli in testa il pianto disperato di Toya una volta scoperta la testa mozzata di Kylre – Kylre, gli fa strano persino ripetersi in testa il suo nome, ormai, come se non in fondo non avesse diritto ad averne uno. È triste quanto in fretta si possano dimenticare gli amici, quanto facilmente si possano disfare le famiglie, quando l'odore di morte s'insinua nell'equazione.

"Non è stato facile uccidere uno di noi," ammette alla fine, nel silenzio della tenda, e Yasha annuisce senza far rumore, come a dirgli: Lo capisco. "Nonostante tutto, non è stato facile."

"Non potevi farci altro," le dice lei, e Molly lo sa bene, ma questo non basta ad alleggerire il peso che si sente gravargli sul petto. "Kylre ha ucciso. E' stata fatta giustizia."

Molly annuisce, ma vorrebbe avere la forza di crederci davvero. Le sorride piano prima di avvicinarsi. Quando chiude gli occhi le loro fronti sono unite, e Molly sa che è arrivato il momento di salutarsi.

"Sarà più facile, col tempo," sono le ultime parole che gli sussurra Yasha, prima di staccarsi e sparire oltre la tenda. Molly lo spera – lo spera davvero. E quando i loro cammini si incontreranno di nuovo - perché è sicuro che succederà - forse si sentirà il cuore più leggero per poterle dire che ha ragione.

Fandom: Critical Role (campagna 2)
Pairing: Beau/Yasha
Parole: 756
Rating: safe
Warning: modern AU
Note: scritta per il cow-t ultima settimana

«Eddai» è un lamento quasi miagolato contro il collo di Yasha. «Eddai. Eddai eddai eddai.»

Se esiste nulla di certo a questo mondo, è che la sua ragazza è un’enorme rottura di cazzo, quando ci si mette – e Yasha deve riconoscere suo malgrado che Beau ci si metta con una certa frequenza, a tentare di farle perdere la pazienza.

«Beau, no» sibila, roteando gli occhi ed allungando una mano per spingerla via sulla panchina sulla quale sono appollaiate ormai da un po’. Beau si lascia allontanare quanto basta a darle l’illusione di esser riuscita finalmente a farla tacere, quindi torna ad opporre resistenza riversando tutto il proprio peso contro di lei. Mugugnando un lamento fra i denti.

«Mmmmheddai, ma che vuoi che sia?»

Yasha sbuffa, scuote la testa, e ormai ha perso il conto di quante volte ha ripetuto questo stesso gesto nell’ultima mezzora. Maledetto l’istante in cui le è venuto in mente di proporre a Beau una passeggiata nel giardino del campus, un disastro annunciato che avrebbe dovuto ormai imparare a prevedere.

«Ho detto no. Guarda che ora mi alzo e me ne vado se non la pianti» la allontana di nuovo, e lei si inarca come un gatto sfuggendo al suo tocco, tornando in men che non si dica a spalmarglisi addosso. «Beau…» mormora ormai senza più la forza di opporsi, sperando che lei colga tutta l’esasperazione raccolta nella sua voce. Non succederà, lo sa, ma a questo punto non le è rimasto più molto altro in cui sperare.

«Uno solo» la sente pregare, «Piccolo piccolo» e quando abbassa gli occhi Beau la sta osservando dal basso, aggrovigliata ai suoi fianchi e con il mento appoggiato contro il suo petto, gli occhi grandi e supplichevoli come quelli di un cerbiatto.

La odia quando fa così. La odia, e Beau lo sa benissimo – sa benissimo che vorrebbe baciare quel suo adorabile visino da stronza, ma non lo farà. Non gliela darà questa soddisfazione.

«No» le ripete, irremovibile, ricevendone in risposta un broncio di tutto rispetto.

«E allora sai cosa ti dico?» fa Beau, con le sopracciglia inarcate ed un principio d’offesa nell’espressione a cui Yasha non crede nemmeno per un istante – al contrario, l’esordio la allarma alquanto. «Che io lo faccio lo stesso.»

«No, Beau—No!»

Ma è troppo tardi. Beau aggrappa entrambe le mani alle sue spalle, le si spinge addosso e solleva un ginocchio per scavalcarla, finendole a cavalcioni sulle gambe senza troppa difficoltà. Yasha fa appena in tempo a puntare gli occhi nei suoi e a scorgere il ghigno malizioso che gli increspa le labbra, che Beau si sporge in avanti per soffocare quel che rimane della sua imprecazione fra le labbra di entrambe, premute una contro l’altra.

«--Ma porco cazzo!»

Inveisce Yasha tutto d’un fiato quando l’altra si sposta – o meglio, quando se la strattona via di dosso che l’altra è già piegata in due dalle risate.

«Sei tutta rossa, amore!» La sente esclamare, e se possibile si sente le guance avvampare ancora di più.

«Sei una cazzo di stronza» ringhia fra i denti, e Beau ride ancora più forte, eppure questa volta non ce la fa davvero a cacciarla via quando questa le si accascia addosso stringendo le braccia attorno al suo corpo – al contrario, le affonda il naso nel collo e lo strofina nervosamente contro la sua pelle, affogando nel suo profumo. «La prossima volta che lo fai ti ribalto. Ci avrà visto tutto il campus» borbotta imbarazzata, eppure continua a stringersela addosso.

«Yasha, dubito che tutto il campus abbia qualcos’altro da vedere, ormai» le dice baciandole il collo distrattamente.

«Smettila.»

«Costringimi.»

Yasha sbuffa. «No, che poi ti piace.» La sente ridacchiarle addosso. «Ma quando torniamo in camera ti faccio vedere.» Le vibra tutta quanta addosso. Fa le fusa adesso, la sua ragazza, come se non fosse già abbastanza assurda per conto suo.

Yasha sospira piano, e pensa che in fondo non ha poi così tanta voglia di alzarsi da questa panchina. Che forse può sopportare gli sguardi degli altri studenti un po’ più a lungo, se questo significa perdersi ancora nel profumo della pelle di Beau, nella sua voce soffocata contro la pelle come se appartenesse solo a lei, nelle sue mani che non si stancano mai di cercarla, in questo abbraccio che per qualche motivo non le ha mai dato fastidio come tutti gli altri.

La stringe, e quando Beau la bacia per la seconda volta, Yasha si dimentica di dirle di no. E assaggia le sue labbra, dimenticandosi di tutto il resto.

Fandom: Critical Role (campagna 2)
Ship: Molly/Caleb
Rating: safe
Parole: 1677
Note: scritta per il cow-t 8, ultima settimana, prompt "safe+slash"

L'aria di questa serata di festa è frizzante, satura di voci e risate e delle note degli strumenti musicali che si rincorrono guidando i corpi in danze spensierate che fanno sembrare la morte e gli orrori dei giorni appena trascorsi solamente dei ricordi lontani, sbiaditi e facilmente accantonati fra mille altri pensieri di poco conto. Non è così, e ciascuno di loro lo sa - come potrebbero aver dimenticato così in fretta, dopotutto? - eppure c'è qualcosa di stranamente liberatorio nell'osservare tutte queste persone rimaste ormai orfane della propria semplicità e monotonia sublimare un simile lutto celebrando la vita nel migliore modo che esista: con del buon cibo, i bicchieri strabordanti di vino e musica a tenere lontana la consapevolezza di tutto quello che è andato ormai perso.

Caleb è rimasto tutta la sera ad osservare in disparte, in compagnia solamente delle ombre lunghe e scure che danzano proiettate dai fuochi allestiti al centro della piazza. Non gli pesa la solitudine, non questa notte, non quando il mondo di fuori gli sembra così distante, così alieno che potrebbe semplicemente chiudere gli occhi e scivolare via, lontano, non sa bene dove ma non gli importa nemmeno. Ha stretto la mano di Nott per un po’ per non perdersi del tutto, ed è bastato, eppure Caleb sa anche che più di questo – più che rimanere ancorato alla realtà senza concedersi lo sforzo di farne parte davvero – non può costringersi a fare in una serata come questa. Tutto quello che può permettersi ora è di trascinare fuori un libro dall’interno della giacca logora e immergersi nelle sue parole, lasciarsi portare altrove, svuotare la mente di tutto quello che è successo e riempirla di pensieri che non possono e non devono perseguitarlo – cancellare le fiamme e la cenere e sostituirla con gli insegnamenti rassicuranti dei suoi studi arcani.

O questo sarebbe il suo piano, almeno.

«Siamo ancora poco inclini ad abbandonarci ai festeggiamenti, vedo.»

Gli ci vuole un istante di troppo a riconoscere la voce, assorto com’è nella lettura, ma non appena solleva gli occhi dal libro e li sposta sul posto non più vuoto accanto a sé sulla panchina, il suo suono ormai divenuto familiare si allinea con l’immagine di Mollymauk, e gli occhi di Caleb incontrano le pupille cremisi del tiefling, il suo busto ruotato per metà verso di lui, un gomito appoggiato sullo schienale e il suo sorriso ambiguo piegato da un lato.

Caleb si concede un attimo di pausa, lasciando che il suo silenzio sia il primo a parlare per lui, e solo dopo decide di degnarlo di una risposta.

«Dubito di aver mai dato l’impressione di una persona a cui piacciono le feste. Se così è stato, me ne rammarico e cercherò di essere più trasparente la prossima volta.»

Al suo fianco, per quanto non fosse affatto questa l’intenzione di Caleb, Molly si lascia sfuggire una risata leggera, così come leggera sembra essere sempre ogni questione che lo riguarda. Eppure Caleb sa bene, forse meglio di chiunque altro, che non esiste nulla di più ingannevole dell’apparenza.

«Trasparente, dici» ripete Molly, pensieroso, mentre Caleb lo osserva in silenzio accavallare le gambe e ciondolare il piede seguendo il ritmo della musica. Sembrava tutto così lontano fino a qualche attimo fa – le danze, la presenza dei suoi compagni, il ricordo di morte e fuoco ancora fin troppo vivido – eppure la presenza imprevista del tiefling pare aver riportato la realtà ad una distanza pericolosamente tangibile. Caleb non è del tutto sicuro di come sentirsi a riguardo. «Non è il primo aggettivo che mi viene in mente quando penso a te, se posso essere onesto» conclude Molly qualche attimo più tardi.

Caleb si volta e lo osserva con le sopracciglia alzate, giusto un poco più attento di poco fa, ed è una di quelle rare volte in cui il suo silenzio non riflette una specifica intenzione di ritardare la risposta, bensì è semplicemente sintono di mancanza di parole.

«Puoi esserlo» gli concede, ma solo per prendere tempo, e quasi si sorprende ad arrovellarsi sulla sua curiosa scelta di parole – quando penso a te, e non se. Si costringe in fretta ad allontanare il pensiero, come fosse un prurito fastidioso, e decide che forse è meglio lasciar morire qualsiasi discorso sul nascere – eppure, quando con la coda dell’occhio scorge Mollymauk distendersi contro lo schienale per rimanere più comodo, ha come l’impressione che il silenzio non durerà a lungo.

E infatti.

«Hai l'aria di essere uno che ha parecchi demoni che gli corrono piuttosto vicino alle calcagna» dice, ma senza guardarlo davvero, con lo sguardo un po’ perso sui corpi che ballano attorno ai fuochi.

«E' un'immagine piuttosto specifica» ribatte Caleb.

«Lo è» Molly si volta verso di lui e le sue labbra s’inarcano in un ghigno che Caleb fatica a decifrare. «E’ anche accurata?»

Non è facile evadere una risposta tanto scomoda quando la domanda è così sfacciata, quindi Caleb opta per il silenzio. Anche quello sa parlare per chi ha la pazienza di ascoltare, dopotutto.

Molly sospira. E’ uno sbuffo leggero, come l’accenno di sorriso che gli piega appena le labbra. «Non ti preoccupare troppo» gli dice, e Caleb sposta impercettibilmente lo sguardo verso di lui. «Hai degli amici adesso – o compagni, se preferisci» si corregge. «Puoi lasciare che ti guardino le spalle loro, no? Giusto qualche volta, per cambiare. Senza esagerare.»

Caleb stringe le dita attorno alle pagine del libro, gli occhi che per attimi interi sfuggono via, lontano, come lontano vorrebbe scivolare anche lui. Questa – questo sentirsi così nudo di fronte ad occhi di cui non si fida ciecamente – è una sensazione che non riesce a sopportare. Stringe le labbra ed ingoia a vuoto, respira piano come ha imparato a fare per non tradire il disagio che gli si agita nel petto e che gli incastra il fiato in gola.

Poi, senza fretta, mette insieme le parole.

«Non mi sembri la persona più incline a fidarsi del prossimo, non vedo perché dovrei accettare un simile consiglio da te.»

Non c’è astio né giudizio ad inquinare il tono della sua voce, solamente questo muro di freddo, razionale distacco di cui ha bisogno per tenersi stretti i propri spazi, per tenere le giuste distanze.

Molly si limita a ridere piano prima di tornare a guardare avanti a sé. «Touché» dice solamente, e per un po’ il silenzio torna a posarsi placido fra di loro – eppure è perso, ormai, e la mente di Caleb non vuole saperne di rimanere a tacere.

E’ lui ad interrompere la quiete.

«Qualsiasi cosa tu stia cercando di fare, ti chiedo per favore di smetterla. Sto bene, non ho bisogno di compagnia, a dirla tutta preferirei continuare a rimanere da solo» snocciola senza lasciargli il tempo di interromperlo, quindi si volta appena verso di lui. Non è facile cercare i suoi occhi, ma si sforza di farlo comunque. «Quello che sto cercando di dire è: non ti preoccupare, va tutto bene» stringe le labbra. Questa è una menzogna troppo grande persino per lui. «Starò bene» si corregge. E’ il massimo che può concedergli.

Molly distende le labbra sorridendo piano. Aspetta uno, due, tre secondi, quindi torna a guardare avanti. Quando schiude le labbra, lo fa per lasciarsi sfuggire un sospiro lungo e vocale, con quel suo sorriso sospeso ancora aggrappato alle labbra.

«Come vuoi» dice. «Non ti disturberò oltre» si volta, lo guarda. «Per questa sera.»

Caleb sospira a sua volta. «Apprezzerò lo sforzo, immagino.»

Molly annuisce, e fra le sue labbra torna a guizzare quel suo ghigno enigmatico.

«Non andare troppo lontano, Caleb» soffia, e quando Caleb si volta, appena sorpreso dalle sue parole, non lo trova più accanto a sé, sulla panchina, bensì già in piedi e pronto a congedarsi. Fa appena in tempo a dirottare lo sguardo in avanti, che si ritrova il suo viso pericolosamente vicino al proprio, il suo busto piegato in avanti, le mani impuntate ai fianchi.

Gli esplode il cuore in petto, e quando schiude le labbra non ha davvero idea di quali parole farvi uscire.

«Abbiamo tutti i nostri demoni, per quello che vale. Quando i tuoi saranno ancora così vicini, stai sicuro che sarò ancora lì per riportarti indietro.»

E’ sparita ogni traccia di sorriso quando Molly si sporge ancora di più in avanti, e Caleb trattiene il respiro, pietrificato, mentre le labbra morbide del tiefling si posano delicate contro la sua fronte, e poi, un istante più tardi, poco più giù, sulla sua guancia. Per qualche motivo gli torna in mente adesso che questo – labbra, un bacio, la sua voce di velluto – è il primo ricordo che ha dopo essersi risvegliato dalla trance. Questo, ed uno schiaffo. Ma pur sempre Molly.

«Ti lascio ai tuoi libri.»

La sua voce lo raggiunge a fatica, facendosi strada nel groviglio caotico di pensieri ed emozioni e sensazioni che iniziano ad affollargli la mente. Rimane con le labbra schiuse, le mani poggiate sulle pagine del libro, rigide e tremanti, e gli occhi persi su figure che non ha la testa né l’intenzione di decifrare.

Sente il petto agitarsi contro battiti insistenti quanto un tamburo da guerra, e non è una sensazione del tutto sconosciuta, eppure allo stesso tempo è diversa da qualsiasi altra sensazione simile gli sia capitato di provare fino ad ora. Non è come quando le fiamme hanno divorato il sacerdote nella tana della manticora, e nemmeno come quando si sente gli occhi della gente sgradevolmente puntati addosso, come se fosse lui il centro del mondo.

«Buona nottata, Molly» riesce solamente a sibilare, interi istanti più tardi, allo spazio ormai vuoto che è rimasto accanto a lui sulla panchina.

E si ritrova lontano, per qualche motivo – lontano da quest’aria di festa, ma soprattutto lontano dal fuoco e dalla cenere, lontano dai pensieri oscuri, lontano dalla morte. Da solo in compagnia dei propri pensieri, si domanda se quelle labbra lo perseguiteranno per il resto della notte, e nel domandarselo sente già di conoscere la risposta.

E per una volta, si dice, potrebbe quasi farsela andare bene.

Fandom: Critical Role (Campagna 2)
Personaggio: Nott
Parole: 545
Rating: safe
Note: scritta per il cow-t 8, ultima settimana

( Di tutte le cose che Nott preferisce, la mano di Caleb che stringe la sua � una delle pi� importanti. )

Ci sono tante cose che adora, a dirla tutta, e ognuna di esse è importante a modo suo, come le pietre colorate e brillanti alle dita dei passanti che in un attimo riesce a far scivolare sotto le maniche, oppure la fiaschetta di liquore che nasconde gelosamente sotto la tunica scura, contro il cuore. La fa impazzire, ad esempio, rigirarsi le monete fra le dita, di rame, d'argento o d'oro, non importa, perché quello che le piace in realtà è saggiarne il peso inconsistente e pensare al valore esagerato che degli oggetti così piccoli e graziosi possano avere, o ancora ascoltare il tintinnio che fanno quando sbatacchiano una contro l'altra dentro alla saccoccia di pelle mentre cammina. Le piacciono i fiori da quando Jester gliene ha regalato un mazzetto in nome della loro amicizia, e le piacciono anche le ciambelle che ogni tanto tira fuori dalla borsa, che anche se tutti gli altri si lamentano di quanto siano vecchie e stantie, Nott non ha mai nemmeno avuto il lusso di vederli così da vicino, prima, dei dolcetti tanto deliziosi. Le piace la voce profonda e calma di Fjord, tanto che la ascolterebbe ogni sera per addormentarsi, e adora sbirciare le figure stravaganti disegnate sul mazzo di carte che Molly ogni tanto sfodera per abbindolare passanti e curiosi. Si è affezionata persino a Frumpkin, col tempo, nonostante tutti gli spaventi che le ha fatto prendere quando le si appollaiava silenzioso sulle spalle solleticandole il collo con quei suoi baffi lunghissimi e sottili.

Sono questi, e tanti altri, i motivi per cui nonostante tutte le sfortune Nott non riesce davvero a ritenersi una goblin infelice, eppure ognuna di queste cose perde importanza se non può condividerla con Caleb, perché, fra tutte, quella più preziosa è lui. Caleb con il suo giubbotto sgualcito, con la sua barba incolta, con il suo odore di fango e sudore e di un viaggio iniziato tanto tempo fa e che non si sa se finirà mai – ma non importa nemmeno questo: è un viaggio che hanno iniziato assieme, e assieme, se così dovrà andare, lo finiranno.

Non ricorda più se è esistito davvero un momento in cui si è accorta che tutto ciò di cui non potrebbe mai fare a meno si concentra su di lui, ma in fondo ormai le basta sapere che è così. Che non potrebbe mai rinunciare ai suoi silenzi assorti, alle notti stretti uno contro l'altro sotto il cielo stellato per non lasciarsi prendere dai morsi del freddo, al suo sorriso piccolo e orgoglioso ogni volta che lei ripete senza errori la sequenza di gesti per un trucchetto di magia che ha deciso di insegnarle.

La verità è che Caleb è il motivo per cui Nott può finalmente camminare libera – o meglio, la verità è che Nott oggi non sarebbe viva senza Caleb, e Caleb non sarebbe vivo senza Nott, e per questo i loro destini si appartengono, così come si appartengono le loro mani, strette una piccina e verde nell'altra grossa e callosa. Che anche se dovesse perdere tutto quanto di nuovo, le dita di Caleb sarebbero l'unico tesoro che non lascerebbe mai andare.

Fandom: Final Fantasy XV
Pairing: promptis
Rating: safe
Parole: 300
Riassunto: Prompto non riesce a smettere di trovare motivi per odiarsi, Noctis è il suo unico modo per non farlo
Note: scritta per il cowt 8, sesta settimana, prompt “You canʼt love someone unless you love yourself first — bullshit. I have never loved myself. But you — Oh god, I loved you so much I forgot what hating myself felt like.”

A volte Prompto si odia più di quanto si possa umanamente odiare una persona.

Si odia per mille motivi diversi e per nessuno in particolare. Ad esempio, stupidamente, non riesce a perdonarsi di essere nato fuori dai confini di Lucis, o peggio, prova un insopportabile disgusto verso la provetta in cui è stato probabilmente concepito. Odia i propri geni clonati, il proprio viso così inquietantemente simile ad altre centinaia, ogni insicurezza mascherata da sorrisi che ormai stanno diventando impossibili da sostenere. Si odia per non essere mai abbastanza, mai forte quanto vorrebbe. Perché non è intelligente come Ignis né coraggioso quanto Gladio, e non c'è davvero niente che potrebbe renderlo speciale agli occhi di nessuno, figurarsi a quelli del suo Principe.

Noctis, invece - Noctis è tutt'altra questione. Prompto ha passato così tanto tempo a considerarsi meno di nulla da dimenticarsi qualsiasi altra ragione per vivere che non sia Noctis.

Sua Eccellenza Noctis, gli dice di tanto in tanto soffocando risate di scherno, eppure gli trema sempre un po' il petto quando lo fa.

Amico mio, gli dice altre volte, oppure Fratello, e questo fa più male di tutto il resto, perché chi è lui, in fondo, per rivolgersi così al futuro re di Lucis?

Noctis però non l'ha mai ammonito, né allontanato, né rifiutato. Al contrario, quando la tristezza si fa un po' troppo pesante da sopportare, quando anche il cuore gli traballa in petto e le certezze vacillano, quando sente di voler solo piangere piangere piangere per lavare via il dolore di un'anima consumata e difettosa, Noctis è sempre il primo ad accorgersene ed il primo ad esserci.

"Appoggiati a me, se devi," gli dice lui, e ricordarsi di quanto lo ama basta a Prompto per dimenticare tutto il resto e farsi forza. Solo per il suo Re.

Fandom: Final Fantasy XV
Pairing: gladnis
Rating: safe
Parole: 300
Riassunto: Ignis scopre nuove cicatrici sul corpo di Gladio
Note: scritta per il cowt 8, sesta settimana, prompt "Rimpianto"

"Questa non c'era prima."

Ignis passa un tocco leggerissimo di dita lungo il rilievo di una cicatrice che non riconosce. Raramente si sbaglia quando si tratta di riconoscere le imperfezioni sul corpo di Gladio. L'ha esplorato così a fondo che potrebbe quasi considerarlo un'estensione del proprio, in fondo.

Gladio si muove sul materasso, e senza doverci pensare Ignis traduce il suo gesto in immagine, e lo vede sollevarsi placidamente sui gomiti per dare un'occhiata alla porzione di pelle accarezzata dalle sue dita.

"E' nuova," conferma. "Un Ganymede che ci ha colto di sorpresa il mese scorso."

Il mese scorso, si ripete Ignis. E' da così tanto che non si vedono? Passa così in fretta il tempo da quando i giorni non esistono più?

Gladio gli afferra la mano. Lo fa dolcemente, come sempre, e dolcemente la sposta poco più in alto, adagiando il suo indice su un'altra porzione di pelle, terreno da troppo inesplorato.

"Un'orda di goblin," soffia, mentre Ignis traccia altri segni sconosciuti. Lo sposta di nuovo. "Un Mindflayer. Questa ha fatto piuttosto male," continua. "Un Necromante," e poi, "L'esplosione di un Pyros," gli lascia sfiorare una bruciatura. "Un paio di Alv che mi hanno preso alle spalle. Non ne è rimasto niente dopo che Cor si è occupato di loro." Ignis stringe le labbra e trattiene il respiro quando Gladio lo guida verso la prossima cicatrice, l'ennesima di cui ha ormai perso il conto.

"Gladio," soffia con la voce piccola, opponendo resistenza. Gladio si ferma e poi, dopo qualche istante, apre le dita e lascia andare la sua mano. "Mi spiace non poter più combattere al tuo fianco come un tempo," è il suo unico rimpianto.

"E' meglio così."

Ignis non sa se ci crede, ma quando Gladio lo abbraccia scompaiono tutte le cicatrici. E va bene così.

Fandom: originale

Personaggi: Elior

Rating: safe

Parole: 735

Warning: //

Note: scritta per il cow-t, quinta settimana, prompt "Circo"

( L'interno del carretto � piccolo e umido, puzza di muffa e di alcool e altri odori che Elior non � capace di riconoscere )

La prima cosa che fa è rannicchiarsi in un angolo. C'è spazio in abbondanza per una mezza dozzina di persone strette l'una all'altra, ma a lui non importa: è cresciuto così, imparando a riempire i piccoli vuoti indispensabili e a non oltrepassare confini che non avrebbe dovuto, e solo così si è potuto evitare un mucchio di calci e botte e sputi in faccia che erano fin troppo frequenti quando ancora non aveva capito come stare al mondo. Nel suo angolo buio e stretto, invece, è quasi facile sentirsi al sicuro, cullato dall'ondeggiare instabile del carro che ha preso a muoversi in coda alla carovana.

Una nuova partenza, l'ennesima, solo che questa volta non ha idea di dove lo porterà il viaggio, e nessuno si è preso la briga di dirglielo. Nemmeno questo gli importa, in fondo, perché Elior sa che non c'è stato né mai ci sarà un posto per uno come lui, nel mondo, e quindi tanto vale accettare questi angoli bui e stretti offerti dalla bontà di visi sconosciuti, mani, volti duri, occhi che nemmeno si accorgono di lui, quando gli dicono: "Sali, da oggi questa è casa tua."

Elior non ce l'ha mai avuta, una casa – o meglio, l'aveva un tempo, quando c'era ancora la mamma, ma quello è stato una vita fa, prima che spuntassero le ali sulla schiena come un cattivo presagio e che i suoi vicini lo chiamassero maledetto, portatore di sciagure, demone, e che trascinassero la mamma al centro del villaggio per pestarla con i bastoni, prima, e poi a mani nude e a calci, fino a quando lei non aveva smesso di piangere, e allora l'avevano caricata contro un grosso tronco d'albero, le avevano legato il corpo e l'avevano lasciata a bruciare con la testa penzolante e gli occhi già chiusi, l'anima già persa. Se pensa a casa, Elior ricorda solo questo, e non vuole ricordare.

Allunga una mano e stringe le dita piccole e sottili attorno ad un panno abbandonato sul fondo del carro. Se lo trascina addosso e ci si avvolge dentro, stringendosi le ali piumate contro la schiena. È umido e sporco e puzza come tutto il resto, quindi presto puzzerà anche lui, ma nessuno gli ha ordinato di non puzzare, quindi non se ne preoccupa.

Stai buono qui finché qualcuno non ti dice cosa fare, è stata l'unica cosa che gli hanno detto, e lui ha obbedito. Ha chiesto dove fosse diretta la carovana ma nessuno gli ha risposto, quindi ha domandato cosa volesse dire la grossa scritta dipinta sul carro variopinto in testa al gruppo, e una ragazza giovane, con il seno abbondante e due grosse zanne che spuntavano dalle labbra, gli ha risposto di fretta, senza nemmeno guardarlo: "C'è scritto 'circo', no? Non sai leggere?". Elio, effettivamente, non sa né leggere né scrivere, ma questo non ha fatto in tempo a dirglielo. Non sa nemmeno cos'è un circo, anche se è una parola che ha già sentito pronunciare in qualche taverna durante il suo vagabondare. C'era sempre una risata ad accompagnare i discorsi su questo circo, e della birra nei boccali degli uomini che ne parlavano, quindi Elior immagina che non possa essere un destino tanto tremendo, quello di esserci finito in mezzo.

Una cosa è certa, almeno, e cioè che nessuna di queste persone del circo l'ha preso a bastonate né gli ha urlato di morire quando ha visto le sue ali – nessuno, effettivamente, è sembrato nemmeno farci caso, e ad Elior una cosa del genere non era mai capitata prima. Potrebbe persino essere stato fortunato, si dice mentre le palpebre, pesanti, iniziano a calare sugli occhi stanchi. Potrebbe piacergli questa nuova casa, questo nuovo branco – no, si corregge, a pensarci bene già gli piace. Se ne starà buono e zitto nel suo spazio indispensabile, nascosto sotto il suo panno sporco, e quando qualcuno gli dirà finalmente cosa fare, lui obbedirà come un soldatino e con il sorriso sulle labbra. Perché è un bravo bambino, e questo glielo diceva sempre la mamma. Ed Elior farebbe di tutto per un pezzo di pane e per sentirselo dire di nuovo.

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[ORIGINAL] Talk is always cheap so I go where I go

[TMA] Kiss your neck with no emotion

[TMA] If you're scared I'm on my way

[D&D OC] Una famiglia di spie

[CRITICAL ROLE] Un tipo sincero

[CRITICAL ROLE] Da dove vieni, chi sei, da cosa scappi

[D&D OC] Per mano, qualunque cosa accada

[STAR TREK] (In)subordinance

[D&D OC] Guarderemo questo mondo bruciare

[D&D OC] Neve nel palmo di una mano

[D&D OC] La notte prima

[CRITICAL ROLE] E' stata giustizia

[CRITICAL ROLE] Panchina

[CRITICAL ROLE] Labbra, un bacio, la voce di velluto

[CRITICAL ROLE] Mano nella mano

[FINAL FANTASY XV] I loved you so much I forgot what hating myself felt like

[FINAL FANTASY XV] Cicatrici

[ORIGINALE] Lo spazio indispensabile

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February 2021

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