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OP
OP
MoldaviteGreen
The world’s upside down here…
- Joined
- Dec 7, 2018
Eishrin dreamt only darkness. An ever-consuming, forever-reaching abyss. It gripped him with the same fervour as the tendrils of that Keeper, dragging him down into the cold nothingness. He was aware of nothing, only that he was still falling, nothing ever catching him. And where his soul would usually reside, would pull him from such terror, its home lay empty; now caged beyond Eishrin's own understanding. Out of reach. Out of safety. Out of his hands, entirely.
He wasn't aware of the hours that slipped by, nor of the rats that scurried by and gave the unconscious titan of a man a wide birth. He wasn't aware of the blade having been returned to him, laid by his shoulder as the Keeper's final parting gift. The sky above him had begun to shift from deep midnight black to early morning navy; not quite colourful, and dawn not quite ready to break. Still, Eishrin's mind kept falling.
From the shadows, a watcher crept quietly. A young man edged close to the fallen form of Eishrin, having observed carefully for the better part of the last hour. The Adonis' breaths were shallow, though regular, but there came no movement from the rest of him. He was deeply unconscious, deeply vulnerable, and that glittering knife must be worth some pretty price.
With stolen sneakers and baggy jeans, the youth crept closer still; confident in his thievery. It would be as easy as stealing candy from a kid. Take it, and leave. Olive fingers wrapped around the dagger's hilt, the youth's greedy eyes going wide at the strange carvings along the blade. Perhaps it would be more than just a pretty penny. Maybe it would be worth even a grand. There was a market for weird things like this, with symbols and meanings unknown to him and the rest of his gang of urchins. Maybe this would be his winning ticket.
But thick, ebony fingers caught a tan wrist, and the youth nearly screamed. Eishrin's grip nearly crushed bone, torn from his endless mental fall and lurched back into the alley. He'd reacted to the warmth of a body, the sense of another, and he'd caught the thief red handed. His eyes snapped open, glaring up at the youth's still-round face as he snarled; "Drop it."
The blade clattered unceremoniously to the cobblestones, the youth flexing open his fingers in the wake of the command, as he tried to struggle free. The teen's panic began to rise, a scent sharp like lemon against Eishrin's nose. It went ignored.
"What day is it?" Eishrin's voice, rugged and hoarse, demanded an answer. His grip still upon the narrow of the youth's wrist tightened until the bones began to grind. "What day is it?"
"Friday." It came more as a yelp than the teen would care to admit. "Please. Let me go."
Please.
Please.
The same word Eishrin had begged, down on his knees. The same word pleaded by his lips, Eishrin willing to do almost anything to have his spirit back. It did not come from the youth in the same desperation, the same soul-yearning ache, but the word spoken aloud was enough to have Eishrin's hand wrenching free of that olive wrist, disgusted in himself at how cruelly he'd snatched the teen.
Free, the youth fled the alley, leaving Eishrin alone under the moon's gaze; judged.
~~*~~
~~*~~
"Eishrin Wahd."
His name spoken as it was truly meant, a pair, elicited a low snarl from the Wendigo as he slipped down the wide corridor of the Compound. It lay buried beneath the outskirts of the city, beneath poor suburbs that held no ties to the enemy; a series of rabbit-warren like corridors, wide bunkers and concealed compartments. It lay as an underground network that fed the uprising against the Keeper influence and control, the Sect's base of operations.
"Eishrin Wahd," that voice came again; gravelly and masculine. A young man, no older than thirty, stepped out from a dark-windowed room; his brown hair chestnut under the too-white lights of the corridor. Oliver had an awful way of sensing Eishrin's lies. "We expected you to report for the East assignment. Where were you?"
"Hunting."
Eishrin had done the best that he could given the circumstance. To return to the Sect as a bonded Guardian would be signing his own execution order. By right, they attained firm understanding that a bonded Guardian could never truly serve their own purpose. By extension, it made Eishrin an enemy. The waters of the sea had been enough to scrub his neck and shoulder free of the dried blood that caked his skin. The rest didn't matter. Eishrin had returned home in far worse states than tattered clothes and a few gashes. He'd only had to flick up the collar of his jacket.
"We've spoken about this, Eishrin Wahd," Oliver sighed, and Eishrin knew he was rolling those obnoxious green eyes. "So long as—"
"So long as I'm under this roof, and in this family, I must obey the rules." Eishrin's lip twitched as he spoke 'family'. He knew that to be a farce, a façade that had proven valuable in luring people to their cause. It was easy to tempt the forgotten, the broken, the deranged to your cause when you promised a sense of belonging, a family. "Yes, yes," Eishrin waved a hand, still marching onwards and uncaring if Oliver followed. "Would you honestly rather have me stake out and watch a building, than go hunt and actively reduce them?"
Silence came from Oliver, and Eishrin knew he'd won the argument.
Shoving the pad of his thumb onto the sensor pad, Eishrin unlocked the heavy door to his allocated bunk room. Without looking to the other man, Eishrin said flatly; "Goodnight, Oliver."
To which the human grumbled dejectedly; "It's morning."
The slammed door came as his only response.
Hunched against the door, Eishrin's hand came to press into the meat of his shoulder. It throbbed. The marks from the Keeper's bites, the first far deeper than the other, were still trying to heal. Was it the venom that slowed the process? Or was this just another extension of the Keeper's control, now able to limit Eishrin's own healing?
He shoved away from the door, locking it quickly with a flick of the deadbolt, before moving to his mirror hung on the far wall. The satin of his shirt was drawn overhead, his muscles aching as they flexed. In the dark of the room, his eyes glowed softly, his gaze falling to the slope of his sculpted shoulder. Against his skin, the bites appeared toxic; black webs creeping out from under his skin. The edges of the puncture wounds still wept slowly, the bites relatively neat, but remained open. The rich red of his blood trickled free, falling to pool into the groove of his collarbone in a thin, slow river. This should have been healed by now. Just how much control did this fucking Keeper exert over him now?
The muscle at the corner of Eishrin's jaw pulsed as he grit his teeth. One slip up, one stupid manoeuvre, had cost him more than his freedom. This Keeper had stolen his life, his soul, his very sense of being. For Eishrin, there really was nothing worse.
The first aid kit Oliver had given him years ago, to which Eishrin had laughed in his face for, was retrieved from where it had been shoved deep under his simple steel-framed bed. As he stood before the mirror, the medical supplies set out on the ledge beneath, Eishrin began to clumsily stitch the wounds' edges together, knotting them off and then stitching another.
How long did wounds like this even take to heal?
~~*~~
~~*~~
The answer, as Eishrin would soon discover, was never.
For the few days after, he'd been careful enough to wear shirts with collars or high necks. Not that it mattered much, since the Wendigo had all but holed himself up within his small bunker of a bedroom. The soft brush of fabrics drove him wild. The draught beneath the door against his skin was even enough to elicit goosebumps and a shiver that coiled low in his loins. The sheets that tangled about his body as he tried to sleep—tried, because he never truly did the past few nights—were too much. He'd taken to sleeping upon the floor, curled up against the concrete as it wicked away the ever-growing heat of his feverish flesh.
Eishrin half wondered if this was what infection felt like. If this fever, this sensitivity of his skin, was because those wounds deep in his shoulder still hadn't healed. The black webbing had not changed, and remained weaving just beneath the surface of his flesh; so dark that they could be seen even against the rich ebony of Eishrin's colouring.
But Eishrin knew better.
In all the times he'd stitched up humans, that he'd been witness to them falling ill, none of them had ever harboured an intense need to fuck. Yet, this very desire burned through Eishrin like he were starved.
He lay now, the muscled landscape of his back pressed down into the cool reprieve of the concrete, with his hand about the thick girth of his shaft. It ached against his own palm, swollen and hot, and a single upward stroke from thick root to pink tip had a bead of glistening cream well from the slit, drooling down along a throbbing, fat vein. Eishrin caught it with the pad of his thumb, sweeping it over his cock to smear and soak into his flesh, as his fist smoothed back down.
His pinky finger struck something cool, and it made Eishrin snarl.
That damned gold ring sat nestled against the root of him, cold against his skin and yet burning. It served as a reminder more painful than the un-healed bites, themselves. It had grown ever-so-slightly tight with the swell of him, nestled down between the juncture of his swollen, heavy sack and the fat base of his ebony cock. It ashamed him, it humiliated him, for this reminder had its way of degrading him even in the absence of the Keeper, himself—it made Eishrin come quicker, and it made him feral for it.
The strokes of his fist grew quicker in tempo, until the heavy sound of his wrist striking against his belly begun to echo gently about the room. Eishrin didn't care. He didn't care if someone was listening out in the hall, wondering why this sound had been coming incessantly from Eishrin's room for the last two days. Eishrin needed release, his body begged for it, but it was never enough.
One final downward stroke and Eishrin came, spilling himself over the hard grooves of his tensed abdomen. The cream of him lay white against his skin, shimmering, that same pristine white as the Keeper's smooth skin. Eishrin's eyes glowered up at the ceiling, the peak of his climax having faded the very same second that it came. It was fruitless, doing this. It gave him nothing but sticky skin and an ache in his balls for more.
"Fuck."
And fuck Eishrin did.
~~*~~
~~*~~
The girl beneath him buried her face in her black-satin pillow, moaning whorishly as she was rutted down into the mattress. She'd been promised a night without breaks and had, in turn, promised that she could take it. But after Eishrin had tossed aside his eleventh condom to replace it with another, all full and flooded with his seed, he'd seen how her eyelids had begun to grow heavy with sleep.
"Oh, fuck, yeah, Daddy," she whimpered.
Eishrin winced, the pet name sounding wrong spoken with such feminine high-notes. A hole was a hole, he reminded himself, his hips slamming hard into the fleshy orbs of her rear; jerking her inch by inch across the bed until she was nearly at the headboard. He'd fucked her standing. He'd fucked her bent over. He'd fucked her on her back, on her side, on her belly, and on her knees. He was fucking her ass now, his need for something tighter outweighing the smooth glide of her pussy.
"I don't think…" the redhead began, turning her face to the side. She blinked slowly, tired and worn out like her holes. "I don't think I can come again. I'm so tired."
Eishrin withdrew from her, the pucker of her ass struggling to close quickly after the thick of him. The glint of his gold ring caught his eye, but Eishrin refused to acknowledge it. Refused to give it any of his attention, even if it kept the last inch of his cock from burying within a warm body.
"It's okay," Eishrin shuffled away, standing out of her reach. He gathered her crumpled blankets, drawing them over her prone body, and brushed a lock of copper hair behind her ear. "Sleep. I'll show myself out."
Eishrin left, his only souvenir being well-fucked holes and eleven filled condoms, as he went in search of another.
~~*~~
~~*~~
By the fourteenth day, everything had changed.
Eishrin's need to fill, to fuck, to breed, became something else entirely. It had become its own entity, forcing him to seek out warm, supple flesh to bury himself within each hour of each day. He'd hardly been back to his bunker, hardly slept a wink, and it showed in the dark purple beneath his eyes. Each time he came, that warm, liquid sensation of pleasure just evaporated. Gone to the wind as if it'd never happened. But each time, it was enough to dampen the emotions running through him that weren't his own—cruel satisfaction, bitter anger, feverish irritability, and smooth pride. Pride for what reason, Eishrin was unsure. It didn't matter, because it all changed.
His skin was on fire, a hellscape torture from within. With each shift of a muscle, it felt as if it were tearing from the bone. Each roll of a bone felt like it might wrench free of its socket. A few times, it did, Eishrin becoming reckless in his own body; and he'd had to take his own wrist and force his shoulder back into place. Worse than this, worse even than the never-ending arousal that held his cock jutting and hard at all times, was the headache that pounded through his skull and dampened his vision.
It felt like his head was going to split. Like someone had taken an axe to his skull and was taking all anger out on his brain. It left Eishrin a shivering, tormented mess upon his familiar concrete floor; his hands no longer reaching for his groin.
He couldn't eat.
He couldn't move.
He couldn't sleep.
Oliver had knocked on his door more than once, and it had sent a stabbing hot-iron poker behind Eishrin's eyes. The human had earned one-worded responses, and then only grunts. Still, Oliver didn't dare enter. That had been their agreement, typed out into Eishrin's contract with the Sect—that this space was his, and no one would enter, not even if they needed him desperately.
If Eishrin could feel anything besides agony, he would have felt thankful for that condition.
~~*~~
~~*~~
The days and nights bled together, and Eishrin quickly lost track of time. He'd managed to move himself up onto his bed, where the brush of the sheets stung his skin like nettles. More than once, Eishrin had tried to bring himself release, hoping for a reprieve from this torment; but no matter how hard his shaft remained, how hotly his balls ached, nothing he did could help him reach it. He yearned for it, craved it, but even his own fist could not deliver and that door, only twelve feet away, felt like too far to reach.
His sheets were soaked in sweat by the time the hallucinations came, and Eishrin wasn't sure what was real any longer. He saw faces of his past, faces of his present, and warped distorted features that he wondered could be his future. One face stood out above all others, sharper, even, than his old loves.
High cheekbones. Cream skin. Silvery hair. Black sclera and blue irises. Dark talons. Pretty mouth. Angry sneer. Hatred. Greed. Godliness.
Eishrin screamed, tormented, but still no one entered. He became lost to this waking dreamscape, consumed by vivid and nonsense imagery. His thoughts became blurry, nothing but agonised moans and snarls ripping free of him.
Please.
No answer came.
~~*~~
~~*~~
As Eishrin would learn from Oliver, whom caught him yet again within the corridor, he'd lasted twenty-seven days. Twenty-seven agonising days that left him but a husk of a man. Eishrin should have caved at four if he were like the rest of his kin. The longest known to have lasted all but eight. Twenty-seven, and he could last no more.
Beside him, Oliver was trying to keep step, peppering him with questions Eishrin's one-track mind heard but didn't comprehend. Where are you going? What's going on? You look like shit, have you been taking drugs? Why haven't you been answering me? Talk to me!
But Eishrin stalked on, bursting free of the Sect's underground compound and hissing through grit teeth as the frigid night air bit at his too-sensitive skin. He didn't know when Oliver stopped following him, or when he was free of the Sect's security cameras, but he stalked deeper into the city, following that pull within the centre of his chest. A draw, a connection, an invisible thread that led the man to the base of glistening, glass buildings.
The Elysium Bridge Towers.
Eishrin, dressed in nothing but loose fitting, cotton gypsy pants, shoved through the spinning doors, the glass cracking under the force of his palm. If anyone stopped him, they were met with a blood-curdling snarl. Eishrin, in his agony, had descended into beast in all but form. He'd caught the front of the concierge's shirt, drawing the scrawny fucker over the counter until he answered Eishrin's growled demand.
"The Ghost."
The Wendigo didn't accept 'I don't know what you're talking about' as an answer; the man's head left metres from his body.
The ebony of his skin bloodied, his pants stained, Eishrin tore open the locked lift's doors and wedged himself inside, pressing every damned button that would illuminate. When it didn't move, he shoved his dagger into the key hole and wrenched it sideways. The lift groaned, grinding upwards at Eishrin's forceful command, until it lurched to a stop and the doors slid open with a too-enthusiastic trill of a sound.
Eishrin, his lip curled back to reveal thick canines, his hand still wrapped around the dagger jammed into the elevator's console, his skin bloodied and glimmering, snarled; "Where? Where is Ghost?"
The dagger pulled free of the electronics, sparks flying and the elevator powering down, as Eishrin stalked into the glimmering, grand space. His mind was too far gone to admire the elegance, the decadence of the gallery surrounding him. Too far gone, even, to take in any faces that looked upon him. If any approached, they’d be met with a blood-thirsty snarl, and a well-aimed slash of the dagger.
He looked less than he’d been twenty seven days ago. Those bites upon his shoulder abyssal black, jagged and still un-healed. His eyes were blood-shot, his pupils dilated and unfocused, his steps slightly haphazard. Despite it all, there was still defiance in him. A refusal to allow any Keeper close.
The shining gold of his gaze searched for one face and one face alone, and when he did not find it, Eishrin unleashed the most unholy of roars that reverberated throughout the tower; "Ghost!"
He wasn't aware of the hours that slipped by, nor of the rats that scurried by and gave the unconscious titan of a man a wide birth. He wasn't aware of the blade having been returned to him, laid by his shoulder as the Keeper's final parting gift. The sky above him had begun to shift from deep midnight black to early morning navy; not quite colourful, and dawn not quite ready to break. Still, Eishrin's mind kept falling.
From the shadows, a watcher crept quietly. A young man edged close to the fallen form of Eishrin, having observed carefully for the better part of the last hour. The Adonis' breaths were shallow, though regular, but there came no movement from the rest of him. He was deeply unconscious, deeply vulnerable, and that glittering knife must be worth some pretty price.
With stolen sneakers and baggy jeans, the youth crept closer still; confident in his thievery. It would be as easy as stealing candy from a kid. Take it, and leave. Olive fingers wrapped around the dagger's hilt, the youth's greedy eyes going wide at the strange carvings along the blade. Perhaps it would be more than just a pretty penny. Maybe it would be worth even a grand. There was a market for weird things like this, with symbols and meanings unknown to him and the rest of his gang of urchins. Maybe this would be his winning ticket.
But thick, ebony fingers caught a tan wrist, and the youth nearly screamed. Eishrin's grip nearly crushed bone, torn from his endless mental fall and lurched back into the alley. He'd reacted to the warmth of a body, the sense of another, and he'd caught the thief red handed. His eyes snapped open, glaring up at the youth's still-round face as he snarled; "Drop it."
The blade clattered unceremoniously to the cobblestones, the youth flexing open his fingers in the wake of the command, as he tried to struggle free. The teen's panic began to rise, a scent sharp like lemon against Eishrin's nose. It went ignored.
"What day is it?" Eishrin's voice, rugged and hoarse, demanded an answer. His grip still upon the narrow of the youth's wrist tightened until the bones began to grind. "What day is it?"
"Friday." It came more as a yelp than the teen would care to admit. "Please. Let me go."
Please.
Please.
The same word Eishrin had begged, down on his knees. The same word pleaded by his lips, Eishrin willing to do almost anything to have his spirit back. It did not come from the youth in the same desperation, the same soul-yearning ache, but the word spoken aloud was enough to have Eishrin's hand wrenching free of that olive wrist, disgusted in himself at how cruelly he'd snatched the teen.
Free, the youth fled the alley, leaving Eishrin alone under the moon's gaze; judged.
~~*~~
~~*~~
"Eishrin Wahd."
His name spoken as it was truly meant, a pair, elicited a low snarl from the Wendigo as he slipped down the wide corridor of the Compound. It lay buried beneath the outskirts of the city, beneath poor suburbs that held no ties to the enemy; a series of rabbit-warren like corridors, wide bunkers and concealed compartments. It lay as an underground network that fed the uprising against the Keeper influence and control, the Sect's base of operations.
"Eishrin Wahd," that voice came again; gravelly and masculine. A young man, no older than thirty, stepped out from a dark-windowed room; his brown hair chestnut under the too-white lights of the corridor. Oliver had an awful way of sensing Eishrin's lies. "We expected you to report for the East assignment. Where were you?"
"Hunting."
Eishrin had done the best that he could given the circumstance. To return to the Sect as a bonded Guardian would be signing his own execution order. By right, they attained firm understanding that a bonded Guardian could never truly serve their own purpose. By extension, it made Eishrin an enemy. The waters of the sea had been enough to scrub his neck and shoulder free of the dried blood that caked his skin. The rest didn't matter. Eishrin had returned home in far worse states than tattered clothes and a few gashes. He'd only had to flick up the collar of his jacket.
"We've spoken about this, Eishrin Wahd," Oliver sighed, and Eishrin knew he was rolling those obnoxious green eyes. "So long as—"
"So long as I'm under this roof, and in this family, I must obey the rules." Eishrin's lip twitched as he spoke 'family'. He knew that to be a farce, a façade that had proven valuable in luring people to their cause. It was easy to tempt the forgotten, the broken, the deranged to your cause when you promised a sense of belonging, a family. "Yes, yes," Eishrin waved a hand, still marching onwards and uncaring if Oliver followed. "Would you honestly rather have me stake out and watch a building, than go hunt and actively reduce them?"
Silence came from Oliver, and Eishrin knew he'd won the argument.
Shoving the pad of his thumb onto the sensor pad, Eishrin unlocked the heavy door to his allocated bunk room. Without looking to the other man, Eishrin said flatly; "Goodnight, Oliver."
To which the human grumbled dejectedly; "It's morning."
The slammed door came as his only response.
Hunched against the door, Eishrin's hand came to press into the meat of his shoulder. It throbbed. The marks from the Keeper's bites, the first far deeper than the other, were still trying to heal. Was it the venom that slowed the process? Or was this just another extension of the Keeper's control, now able to limit Eishrin's own healing?
He shoved away from the door, locking it quickly with a flick of the deadbolt, before moving to his mirror hung on the far wall. The satin of his shirt was drawn overhead, his muscles aching as they flexed. In the dark of the room, his eyes glowed softly, his gaze falling to the slope of his sculpted shoulder. Against his skin, the bites appeared toxic; black webs creeping out from under his skin. The edges of the puncture wounds still wept slowly, the bites relatively neat, but remained open. The rich red of his blood trickled free, falling to pool into the groove of his collarbone in a thin, slow river. This should have been healed by now. Just how much control did this fucking Keeper exert over him now?
The muscle at the corner of Eishrin's jaw pulsed as he grit his teeth. One slip up, one stupid manoeuvre, had cost him more than his freedom. This Keeper had stolen his life, his soul, his very sense of being. For Eishrin, there really was nothing worse.
The first aid kit Oliver had given him years ago, to which Eishrin had laughed in his face for, was retrieved from where it had been shoved deep under his simple steel-framed bed. As he stood before the mirror, the medical supplies set out on the ledge beneath, Eishrin began to clumsily stitch the wounds' edges together, knotting them off and then stitching another.
How long did wounds like this even take to heal?
~~*~~
~~*~~
The answer, as Eishrin would soon discover, was never.
For the few days after, he'd been careful enough to wear shirts with collars or high necks. Not that it mattered much, since the Wendigo had all but holed himself up within his small bunker of a bedroom. The soft brush of fabrics drove him wild. The draught beneath the door against his skin was even enough to elicit goosebumps and a shiver that coiled low in his loins. The sheets that tangled about his body as he tried to sleep—tried, because he never truly did the past few nights—were too much. He'd taken to sleeping upon the floor, curled up against the concrete as it wicked away the ever-growing heat of his feverish flesh.
Eishrin half wondered if this was what infection felt like. If this fever, this sensitivity of his skin, was because those wounds deep in his shoulder still hadn't healed. The black webbing had not changed, and remained weaving just beneath the surface of his flesh; so dark that they could be seen even against the rich ebony of Eishrin's colouring.
But Eishrin knew better.
In all the times he'd stitched up humans, that he'd been witness to them falling ill, none of them had ever harboured an intense need to fuck. Yet, this very desire burned through Eishrin like he were starved.
He lay now, the muscled landscape of his back pressed down into the cool reprieve of the concrete, with his hand about the thick girth of his shaft. It ached against his own palm, swollen and hot, and a single upward stroke from thick root to pink tip had a bead of glistening cream well from the slit, drooling down along a throbbing, fat vein. Eishrin caught it with the pad of his thumb, sweeping it over his cock to smear and soak into his flesh, as his fist smoothed back down.
His pinky finger struck something cool, and it made Eishrin snarl.
That damned gold ring sat nestled against the root of him, cold against his skin and yet burning. It served as a reminder more painful than the un-healed bites, themselves. It had grown ever-so-slightly tight with the swell of him, nestled down between the juncture of his swollen, heavy sack and the fat base of his ebony cock. It ashamed him, it humiliated him, for this reminder had its way of degrading him even in the absence of the Keeper, himself—it made Eishrin come quicker, and it made him feral for it.
The strokes of his fist grew quicker in tempo, until the heavy sound of his wrist striking against his belly begun to echo gently about the room. Eishrin didn't care. He didn't care if someone was listening out in the hall, wondering why this sound had been coming incessantly from Eishrin's room for the last two days. Eishrin needed release, his body begged for it, but it was never enough.
One final downward stroke and Eishrin came, spilling himself over the hard grooves of his tensed abdomen. The cream of him lay white against his skin, shimmering, that same pristine white as the Keeper's smooth skin. Eishrin's eyes glowered up at the ceiling, the peak of his climax having faded the very same second that it came. It was fruitless, doing this. It gave him nothing but sticky skin and an ache in his balls for more.
"Fuck."
And fuck Eishrin did.
~~*~~
~~*~~
The girl beneath him buried her face in her black-satin pillow, moaning whorishly as she was rutted down into the mattress. She'd been promised a night without breaks and had, in turn, promised that she could take it. But after Eishrin had tossed aside his eleventh condom to replace it with another, all full and flooded with his seed, he'd seen how her eyelids had begun to grow heavy with sleep.
"Oh, fuck, yeah, Daddy," she whimpered.
Eishrin winced, the pet name sounding wrong spoken with such feminine high-notes. A hole was a hole, he reminded himself, his hips slamming hard into the fleshy orbs of her rear; jerking her inch by inch across the bed until she was nearly at the headboard. He'd fucked her standing. He'd fucked her bent over. He'd fucked her on her back, on her side, on her belly, and on her knees. He was fucking her ass now, his need for something tighter outweighing the smooth glide of her pussy.
"I don't think…" the redhead began, turning her face to the side. She blinked slowly, tired and worn out like her holes. "I don't think I can come again. I'm so tired."
Eishrin withdrew from her, the pucker of her ass struggling to close quickly after the thick of him. The glint of his gold ring caught his eye, but Eishrin refused to acknowledge it. Refused to give it any of his attention, even if it kept the last inch of his cock from burying within a warm body.
"It's okay," Eishrin shuffled away, standing out of her reach. He gathered her crumpled blankets, drawing them over her prone body, and brushed a lock of copper hair behind her ear. "Sleep. I'll show myself out."
Eishrin left, his only souvenir being well-fucked holes and eleven filled condoms, as he went in search of another.
~~*~~
~~*~~
By the fourteenth day, everything had changed.
Eishrin's need to fill, to fuck, to breed, became something else entirely. It had become its own entity, forcing him to seek out warm, supple flesh to bury himself within each hour of each day. He'd hardly been back to his bunker, hardly slept a wink, and it showed in the dark purple beneath his eyes. Each time he came, that warm, liquid sensation of pleasure just evaporated. Gone to the wind as if it'd never happened. But each time, it was enough to dampen the emotions running through him that weren't his own—cruel satisfaction, bitter anger, feverish irritability, and smooth pride. Pride for what reason, Eishrin was unsure. It didn't matter, because it all changed.
His skin was on fire, a hellscape torture from within. With each shift of a muscle, it felt as if it were tearing from the bone. Each roll of a bone felt like it might wrench free of its socket. A few times, it did, Eishrin becoming reckless in his own body; and he'd had to take his own wrist and force his shoulder back into place. Worse than this, worse even than the never-ending arousal that held his cock jutting and hard at all times, was the headache that pounded through his skull and dampened his vision.
It felt like his head was going to split. Like someone had taken an axe to his skull and was taking all anger out on his brain. It left Eishrin a shivering, tormented mess upon his familiar concrete floor; his hands no longer reaching for his groin.
He couldn't eat.
He couldn't move.
He couldn't sleep.
Oliver had knocked on his door more than once, and it had sent a stabbing hot-iron poker behind Eishrin's eyes. The human had earned one-worded responses, and then only grunts. Still, Oliver didn't dare enter. That had been their agreement, typed out into Eishrin's contract with the Sect—that this space was his, and no one would enter, not even if they needed him desperately.
If Eishrin could feel anything besides agony, he would have felt thankful for that condition.
~~*~~
~~*~~
The days and nights bled together, and Eishrin quickly lost track of time. He'd managed to move himself up onto his bed, where the brush of the sheets stung his skin like nettles. More than once, Eishrin had tried to bring himself release, hoping for a reprieve from this torment; but no matter how hard his shaft remained, how hotly his balls ached, nothing he did could help him reach it. He yearned for it, craved it, but even his own fist could not deliver and that door, only twelve feet away, felt like too far to reach.
His sheets were soaked in sweat by the time the hallucinations came, and Eishrin wasn't sure what was real any longer. He saw faces of his past, faces of his present, and warped distorted features that he wondered could be his future. One face stood out above all others, sharper, even, than his old loves.
High cheekbones. Cream skin. Silvery hair. Black sclera and blue irises. Dark talons. Pretty mouth. Angry sneer. Hatred. Greed. Godliness.
Eishrin screamed, tormented, but still no one entered. He became lost to this waking dreamscape, consumed by vivid and nonsense imagery. His thoughts became blurry, nothing but agonised moans and snarls ripping free of him.
Please.
No answer came.
~~*~~
~~*~~
As Eishrin would learn from Oliver, whom caught him yet again within the corridor, he'd lasted twenty-seven days. Twenty-seven agonising days that left him but a husk of a man. Eishrin should have caved at four if he were like the rest of his kin. The longest known to have lasted all but eight. Twenty-seven, and he could last no more.
Beside him, Oliver was trying to keep step, peppering him with questions Eishrin's one-track mind heard but didn't comprehend. Where are you going? What's going on? You look like shit, have you been taking drugs? Why haven't you been answering me? Talk to me!
But Eishrin stalked on, bursting free of the Sect's underground compound and hissing through grit teeth as the frigid night air bit at his too-sensitive skin. He didn't know when Oliver stopped following him, or when he was free of the Sect's security cameras, but he stalked deeper into the city, following that pull within the centre of his chest. A draw, a connection, an invisible thread that led the man to the base of glistening, glass buildings.
The Elysium Bridge Towers.
Eishrin, dressed in nothing but loose fitting, cotton gypsy pants, shoved through the spinning doors, the glass cracking under the force of his palm. If anyone stopped him, they were met with a blood-curdling snarl. Eishrin, in his agony, had descended into beast in all but form. He'd caught the front of the concierge's shirt, drawing the scrawny fucker over the counter until he answered Eishrin's growled demand.
"The Ghost."
The Wendigo didn't accept 'I don't know what you're talking about' as an answer; the man's head left metres from his body.
The ebony of his skin bloodied, his pants stained, Eishrin tore open the locked lift's doors and wedged himself inside, pressing every damned button that would illuminate. When it didn't move, he shoved his dagger into the key hole and wrenched it sideways. The lift groaned, grinding upwards at Eishrin's forceful command, until it lurched to a stop and the doors slid open with a too-enthusiastic trill of a sound.
Eishrin, his lip curled back to reveal thick canines, his hand still wrapped around the dagger jammed into the elevator's console, his skin bloodied and glimmering, snarled; "Where? Where is Ghost?"
The dagger pulled free of the electronics, sparks flying and the elevator powering down, as Eishrin stalked into the glimmering, grand space. His mind was too far gone to admire the elegance, the decadence of the gallery surrounding him. Too far gone, even, to take in any faces that looked upon him. If any approached, they’d be met with a blood-thirsty snarl, and a well-aimed slash of the dagger.
He looked less than he’d been twenty seven days ago. Those bites upon his shoulder abyssal black, jagged and still un-healed. His eyes were blood-shot, his pupils dilated and unfocused, his steps slightly haphazard. Despite it all, there was still defiance in him. A refusal to allow any Keeper close.
The shining gold of his gaze searched for one face and one face alone, and when he did not find it, Eishrin unleashed the most unholy of roars that reverberated throughout the tower; "Ghost!"
