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Renegade [NSFW] (ThenThereWereNone & MoldaviteGreen)

So close, was his Ghost. So very, beautifully close. Eishrin should not have been as ensorcelled as he was. Shouldn't have been so very keen to subdue the tight of his throat, to train away the gag of it, as he took his Ghost deep beyond his mouth. But he was, and he did, because Ghost was angelic in his half-slumbered pleasure as pale toes curled and pink lips parted. The threads of pale hair were like spun silver over the sheets, and Eishrin's large hand moved to tangle deep. The crescents of his nails raked gentle over scalp; tender.

The flutter of his tongue quickened with the hitch of Ghost's breath. Eishrin watched with dark, smouldering eyes as the Keeper tensed, trembled, and eased. He learned what Ghost preferred—the flick of a tongue over the eyelet and the gentle webbing, the circle of the flat of his tongue over the plush head before it was plunged deep and plentiful. It was these things that Eishrin continued, wishing to work his Ghost into a stage of warm, molten ecstasy.

This was the gentlest he'd been, Ghost. This was the closest thing to human and tender that he'd seemed. Sleep was like that, Eishrin supposed. It left people vulnerable, left them open, left them kinder than their true wakeful selves. Eishrin didn't linger on how long this would last, nor how long Ghost would seem gentle. He simply sucked, swallowed, pressed his nose into Ghost's hip until his body learned better than to gag. The scruff of his beard at his chin was wet with the slick weeping from Ghost's cock and the shimmer of Eishrin's own spit.

Encouragement came to him across the bond, and Eishrin was careful with it. He knew better than to try something different as bliss approached. Instead, he kept the thrust of his mouth consistent, the swirl that same pattern. What had edged Ghost so very close was what would tip him over the edge.

And when the warm of his spill struck the back of Eishrin's throat, a name came between them. Eishrin had little time to react, Ghost spilling over his tongue in his climax, as Eishrin's hand tightened within the silvery threads of hair and upon the back of a thigh. He swallowed, but it was done so not with the same warm tenderness as how this had begun. It was done with a bitter cold, as Eishrin tore himself free of their tangle.

Ghost had wanted his heat. He'd wanted more. Eishrin had granted the Keeper both, and some. Why was it that another's name cried out in Ghost's climax left him feeling so cold, so acidic, so venomous? Ghost's words, hanging between them, only added to that sour.

"You wanted this," Eishrin hissed through grit teeth. He stood over the bed, bare, the slopes of his shoulders tense as they rose and fell with heavy, ragged breaths. Rage was filling him, and he had no place to put it safely. "You wanted more. You wanted me close. You wanted me to stay. You begged me for more." A flash of fangs, white against the ebony of him. "You said another's name."

Footsteps heavy, Eishrin tore himself away. He could not stand over the bed, the tangled sheets, the lingering warmth and the image of Ghost in his subdued gentleness. So beautiful, he'd been, and it was gone in an instant to be replaced with something so very foul. "I gave you what you asked for, and you have the audacity to cast me as a rapist. The fucking irony."

Eishrin wrenched open doors he assumed to be a wardrobe, and did not care if it was rude to help himself to what lay within. He'd take whatever cruel punishment Ghost would throw at him. How much worse could it possibly be than what he'd already suffered through?

"Who is he?" Eishrin pulled a black robe from a hanger. Shrugged it on despite the bulky size of him and how it strained at the seams. He crossed it over his chest, knotted the belt, and turned to look at Ghost. The dark of his eyes were stern, furious, but not cruel. "Is he the man that I saw in your memory?"
 
The change was instantaneous. Sharp and arctic frigid, a dramatic drop in temperature filled the room as Eishrin all but threw himself off the bed. At least Bellamy now had that space he so desperately needed. Was it any better to have the larger man, seething, a slight tremor beneath his skin from rage threatening to spill forth? Bellamy rubbed at his eyes, ignoring the presence of moisture against the soft pads of his fingers. He stretched, slow, unbothered, loosening sleep-heavy muscles as his Guardian snarled above him. The man was all shadowed, sharp angles and restraint. Barely.

Bellamy laughed, sharp and sudden, shaking his head as Eishrin stormed away from his post at the side of the bed. His words had cut deeper than even he'd expected. With a mirthful sigh, he pushed himself up, scooting back to settle against the headboard, one leg outstretched, the other he drew up, draping his arm over his knee as he watched the other man rummage through his closet.

His dream was fading, the edges soft and blurry. But he could still feel the thorned stalks of something lost piercing the tender places in his chest. He'd said his name.

He'd said his name aloud.

It wasn't something Bellamy wanted to dwell upon. Not then. Not ever.

It was a careless slip of the tongue in a most vulnerable moment. This was why he slept alone.

Still as a statue carved from marble, Bellamy's expression was impassive, a deliberate blank of any emotion or thought. The questions were needle pricks beneath his skin. Sharp, pointed stipples of pain. He cocked his head, gaze steady upon his Guardian, "Are you jealous?" Where Eishrin's dark gaze lacked cruelty in spite of his fury, Bellamy's held a glint of something less than kind. A cold searching patience. Forever stalking the darkness, seeking the vulnerable places to sink his teeth.

He patted the bed. The vacant space Eishrin had abandoned. He smiled; a slow, placating tilt at the corner of his mouth, "Come back to bed. Redirect your fury." His tongue dragged across the sharp points of his teeth, pale gaze tracing the strain of the black robe against the bulk of his Guardian's body. How he longed to drag his claws through the fabric, catching against the man's skin beneath and licking at the pearlscent drops of crimson that would form against ebony skin, "I can make it worth your while."
 
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"Are you jealous?"

Could the bitterness Eishrin felt be wrapped up neatly into a single word? Was the anger that he felt, hot and lashing, be defined as such? Eishrin wasn't familiar with the emotion that was envy, for he'd had very little that was ever his. He'd been denied so much in his search for freedom, and what he did have was spent like currency. Eishrin had never had the space nor opportunity for envy to simmer. Was this what it felt like; sour and vicious? And was it so inherently wrong to be jealous of a thing such as a name or a memory?

Eishrin didn't answer. Not verbally. He took the softness of Ghost, the way that he'd been so malleable in his restful pleasure, and slipped that silken memory across into the ether of Ghost's cold mind. It wasn't for any other reason than for Ghost to see the vision that he'd been—all breathless soft mewls, all gentle hands and angelic face, and all languidly tired limbs. He'd been beautiful, and so ethereal in the morning streams of light, and so otherworldly gentle. A contrast to the sharp, hawk-like gaze that was surveying Eishrin now, an edge of something assessing within those silvery pale eyes.

See? Eishrin almost seemed to say as he stood, unmoving, by the open wardrobe. There is gentleness to you, on occasion. Even if it is another whom manifests in it. It would have been pathetic for Eishrin to confess that he was grateful someone had earned Ghost's unwavering want within that softness. A person within a place of Ghost's mind that slipped forward in moments of gentle, sleep-warmed ecstasy. It also wouldn't have been the entire truth. For as much as Eishrin had revelled in this other, milk-drunk side of Ghost, there did exist jealousy in its most primal form. An ache for praise, for it to have been his name in Ghost's mouth and mind when he'd came. But he wouldn't say that. Just as much as he wouldn't deny it, either. For he knew Ghost was a most wicked creature, and take either confession to twist into something nasty and double-edged.

"That's what you said to me," Eishrin's deep voice was calm and even. "At the start." He remained still and unmoving by the wardrobe; not to be drawn forth by the lure of Ghost's inferred promise and invitation. Eishrin wanted nothing now, no matter the hardness that still hung heavy and swollen between his thighs, a bead of want drooling to stain the robe's satin.

The fury, indeed, needed redirection. Much of Eishrin's uneasiness came from a place of detachment. In his craze, his trial of burning Ghost from his mind with body and cock and mouth, Eishrin had foregone a shift. He'd felt it calling to him, that monstrous piece of himself, but it had been drowned out by the agonising want. The need. And now, because of the damned ring of gold nestled at the root of his cock, Eishrin was denied it still.

"I need to shift," Eishrin said, stern. In truth, it was more than that. The crunch of his bones, the pain that came with the reshaping of them, would mellow this festering feeling within him. He knew the ache as tendons stretched and muscles reformed would make everything else fade. More than that, he felt the pull of it, the need for it, as if it promised to solidify the new manifestation of this tether between them. Maybe then I'll be rid of his voice within my head. Eishrin doubted it, but hoped for it still. With a shift, perhaps everything would become even and calm again; just as it had always been before Ghost's rushing madness.

"You want for me to redirect my fury," Eishrin said calmly as he drew just a step away from the bed's edge. "Then let me shift, Ghost. Let me run."
 
The room sat in silence, thick and sticky, and yet beyond the nonverbal lay a loud cacophony of chaos; images, downy soft, memory, sharp and vivid. A muscle twitched in Bellamy's cheek as he sidestepped the intensity of the memory. He observed from a detached distance. Dark, barbed coils of emotions curled in on themselves, demanding to be acknowledged. But he shoved it away. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever. Never again. Perhaps there were wraiths of what he once was; could've been. But life's lessons were cruel. And if one failed to learn, they were doomed to make the same mistakes.

Bellamy had made that mistake once, allowing himself to want. To need another. Allowed himself to fall. In the end, he'd paid with his heart. And what remained in the wake of that destruction was a void. A thorned reticence. Apathy in place of love. Serrated viciousness in place of kindness. Whatever it took to not simply survive, but to thrive in the viper’s den.

He hummed out a low sound of agreement, "I'm aware of what was said." His eyes drifted low to linger on the evidence of Eishrin's desire. "And you were more than willing. Why deny yourself now?"

Bellamy gave a ‘maybe-maybe not’ bob of his head. "It will not kill you, being unable to shift." Between his fingers, liquid dark trickled with the lazy sway of ocean waves, "It may present discomfort. Pain. But it will not kill you. And you have proven yourself a most resilient creature. You will survive this, too."

Perhaps it was the residual echoes of what had just transpired between them, of desire given, felt, taken, of their bond finally consummated, but his spine straightened ever so slightly at the other man's approach.

You just need to feed, it's not him.

The darkness between his fingers rose, writhing twin tendrils reaching across the distance between them, caressing over Eishrin’s hip, drawing lower to where the black robe stood damp with want, ignored. “Do you really believe you’ve earned the privilege to shift?”

At the door, someone knocked. A quick double rap of knuckles against heavy wood, followed by a soft but determined voice, “I apologise for the disturbance, but your sister demanded I bring your Guardian breakfast.” A pause, “And she wants to run tests as soon as possible. Today.”

Bellamy raised a pale brow, a silent question in his gaze as he looked from the door to Eishrin. Aren’t you going to get that?
 
Eishrin wasn't denying himself. Not truly when the softness between them had manifested with his desire to please. Eishrin had nuzzled close into Ghost's quiet warmth, had reaped the opportunity for tenderness in their lazy morning. He hadn't been seeking something for himself. He hadn't been seeking bodily pleasure, at the beginning. Eishrin had sought a comfort he hadn't ever realised he'd craved, let alone had been denied.

It had been Ghost that had twisted and transformed it into something else. His mouth was sticky and salty with it. Eishrin wasn't denying himself, now, because he'd never wanted for something to begin with.

His request to shift was denied and that should not have surprised him. Eishrin watched Ghost with narrowed eyes. Would the pain that he'd felt after Ghost's venom be the same that would tear through him in the absence of his soul? Would he melt away, his mind becoming a soup?

"You remember that agony," Eishrin said lowly. The threat remained unspoken, but there all the same. It hadn't taken Eishrin long to master opening the channel between them to stuff his hellfire pain down into the other. It wouldn't take him long to do it again.

Eishrin watched the darkness manifest at Ghost's fingertips. He held still against the reach of those tendrils before he grit his teeth and gripped one in a fist.

But before he could say anything, there was a rap at the door. A welcome and unwelcome interruption. Eishrin had been raised under the scrutiny of medical tests. He'd been poked, probed, injected, cut open. He'd been carved open, his organs pulled out into dishes and inspected. He'd been awake for it all. He knew the colour of his own viscera.

The cold steel of the medical table, more fit for an autopsy than anything else, was vivid in his memory. It was that same cold that had Eishrin shivering and pressing back a step, slipping out from Ghost's touch.

The Wendigo said nothing as he moved to the door. Obedience at face value as he opened it and accepted the tray of breakfast. The swell of repressed trauma in truth. Eishrin was moving like a carefully wound mechanism. His footsteps like clockwork bringing him back to the edge of the bed. He'd held out the tray to Ghost before he'd realised what he was doing, and then set it aside on the mattress with a snarl.

"What fucking tests is it that your sister wants to subjugate me to?"

He'd forgotten to close the door.
 
The threat, spoken in the negative space of silence, crashed with the wild brutality of a raging sea storm. Rage was a spiked shard of ice twisted deep in the centre of his chest. It manifested in the deep flush that crept across his chest and up his neck; in the howl of his blood in his ears. He saw the liquid writhing of darkness that Eishrin took in hand solidify, saw it morph into a serrated point that punched through the Guardian’s chest. His vision blurred with the sort of soul-deep fury that made eyes glitter with tears unshed. A fucking threat. Hysteria, itchy, bubbled up in his chest.

The knock at the door came like a clap of thunder. Bellamy blinked slowly, his mind rising from the void of no thought. The room sat heavy, choked in a twin fury denied a target. It seeped, festering in the walls. Pale eyes looked away from the retreating figure of his guardian, a momentary reprieve. He looked down at his hand, turning that darkness inwards, the tendrils shrinking, coiling like writhing snakes into the palm of his hand. Thorned vines, perhaps a more apt description that dug into the soft of his palm, parting skin with a cold, spreading sting that caused blood to well to the surface.

The pain was temporary, but it lingered even as his skin sealed itself closed, the barest pale of a line beneath the crimson in his palm. A snarl drew his eyes up, as the darkness dissipated into smoke, and his fingers curled into a loose fist. “Whatever tests she deems necessary.” The cruel edge was gone from his voice, replaced with an apathetic coolness as he slid off the bed without so much as jostling the mattress, and the covered tray of food sat there. “Eat.” Bypassing the closet doors, he pushed open the door to the en-suite, pausing on the threshold, “Or don’t. It makes little difference to me.” The door shut with a soft click behind him.

The guardian who’d brought breakfast still stood outside the room, hands clasped loosely in front of them. Large brown eyes, partially hidden behind the curtain of unruly curls, stared out. They shifted quietly from foot to foot. “It’d probably be best if you ate after, especially if you’re squeamish with needles or bodily fluids.” Their voice, mousy soft, was as small as they were, barely five feet even. “The tests aren’t intrusive or anything like that. Just a general checkup, make sure you’re healthy, you know. In your case, they’ll probably want to see if you’re a good fit for the Farm. Your pups would practically be royalty!”
 
Eishrin almost preferred the cruelty of Ghost than this coldness. It lashed at him far worse, and left him chilled to the bone. Apathetic. Distant. Dissociative, almost. He stepped aside and watched as Ghost slipped from the bed without so much as a glance. The fire of before was gone. So, too, was the softness they'd shared. Instead, in its place, was nothingness.

He was rooted in place by the bed as he turned to watch Ghost over his shoulder. The blonde lingered upon the threshold, spoke words that carved at Eishrin more than they should have, and then disappeared. It was only in his absence that Eishrin smelt the copper of blood, faint but entirely there in the wake of his Ghost. The dark of his eyes swept down to the tray cast aside as the Guardian by the door shared a warning.

Eishrin would eat later, and not because he feared the aftermath of whatever awaited him. It was punishment, of sorts, for the threat he'd thrown at Ghost of the agony he knew the both of them remembered. It hadn't been fair, but none of this was.

Footsteps heavy over the floor, Eishrin moved to the door but lingered by that which separated himself from Ghost. He reached between them, a brush of warmth.

I'll come back for you.

It was a promise.

And it was sealed inside Ghost's room by the door as Eishrin left.

He followed, silent and brooding, and did not give in to the expected curiosity. The mention of pups would not get a rise. The mention of a farm, of inferred breeding, would not elicit a reaction. Eishrin's mind was stretched thin, tethered there within Ghost's room. Had he gone too far? Did Ghost remember that pain and fear it? Why had he smelt blood among the sharpness of Ghost's scent left in his wake? And why could he still feel the tight grip of the black tendril curled about his fist?

Eishrin rubbed at his knuckles as he followed the meek Guardian to the elevator. He said nothing as the doors closed and they descended. He would say nothing, still, as he was brought before a woman who looked so very much like his Ghost and yet also not. The only time Eishrin would speak was when his gaze fell to the table of glinting instruments.

"You'll need blades sharper than that."
 
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