[OOC][FIC] because I love my castmates
ALL THE EXPLANATION YOU NEED:
Sharon
... yes Gil
write the Raven/Gil fic :<
...
k
+++++
The thing is that he's never actually seen the full face of his chain.
Raven lurks in dark places and narrow corners -- in reality, in the Abyss, and in his own mind; no matter how fast he turns, all he sees are wide dark wings and feathers drifting past his face, and cold fingers pressed to his lips. It kissed him once: cold hard inhuman lips as the contract sealed itself upon him, and it had hurt (it had hurt): fire in a jagged line across his chest as ice filled his throat and stole his breath. His eyes had been open -- he knows they had been -- but he'd seen nothing but darkness.
(minemineMineMIneMINeMINE), it had whispered to him, and he'd done nothing but shiver as it poured over him and wrapped round him, close as a lover. He'd reached out to find cold smooth skin against his palm, but even that slipped away before he could properly grasp it.
(like so many other things)
And sometimes, when he's tired and he's tired and the taste of cigarettes does nothing to soothe the headache pounding steadily behind his eyes, he's glad. Raven sings to him, his second skin and sunken into him and he doesn't think he'll ever get it out. At this point, the voice is familiar as his own -- as one a thousand times more dear, whose memory has been tarnished by the years and by constant handling, and when he lets himself wander, Raven's eyes are bright emerald green.
ALL THE EXPLANATION YOU NEED PART 2:
CAN I GET PORN TOO o/
I'm in a literal mood tonight, Alice. :Db
SURE OZ
Uh
WHAT KIND
UH
...gee, I dunno, I want to be terrible and request Vince/Oz
...
..............
...
... y
...
k
+++++
"You are terribly unfair," Vincent says. He's found himself a comfortable perch on the chair's arm, leaning forward so that he brackets the boy in with his arms and his body. "Ten years -- ten years! -- and you were always first in my brother's eyes." He slides a finger under the boy's chin and tips it up and effects a pout. "Then you come back, and you don't even have the decency to let him go."
The boy just grins at him, all teeth and hard green eyes. Vincent doesn't think he likes them very much: they remind him of glass-pieces, and glass is terribly breakable, but it's much harder when the pieces are so small. "Well," he says, and shows his nice white teeth. "It's not just my choice, here. Gil makes his own."
Vincent tsks. He reaches out, tugging on some of the loose hair that lies against the boy's cheek. "Can't you even share?" he wonders idly. His fingers move to skin, pressing against the soft juncture between ear and jaw. He can feel a brief flutter of pulse. "After all, Gilbert is my dearest older brother ..." He leans in as he speaks, until he can feel warmth against his lips with each shaped word. "It's so lonely, hoping every day my brother will come home -- and then he doesn't, well ..."
The boy swallows. It's terribly loud. Vince finds himself intrigued, and so he presses his fingers lower, searching until he finds the rapidfire beat of the boy's pulse. It's a good strong beat. He would approve, with nearly anyone else.
"Mister Nightlay," the boy says. The words make his throat vibrate against Vincent's fingertips. "Please let go."
Vincent hums low in his throat. He bends further, touching his mouth to the line of the boy's jaw. It's still rounded and soft; this is a boy's chin, not a man's. He shifts a hand for balance and lets it find a home just above the boy's knee. He squeezes, and feels another quick breath against his mouth.
"And what would you do," the boy says finally, and rather breathlessly, "if he came back to you?"
Vincent licks his lips; his tongue brushes the boy's neck in the process and earns him a strangled gasp. "Sleep with him, of course."
The boy makes a startled noise; he jerks away as far as the chair back will allow him. "Y-you--!"
"Gilbert's very warm," Vincent sighs. He trails his hand up, idly; the boy's skin is almost -- almost -- as soft as Echo's in the same place. "And he doesn't squirm. He's a lovely pillow."
"P-- pillow?" the boy gasps. He squirms again and tries to draw his knees together. "What--"
Vincent laughs briefly, then tilts his head enough to bite, hard, on the boy's ear. He holds his teeth there as the boy cries out and jerks away, and there is blood on his tongue.
"Not like that," he says and pulls away, licking the taste from his lips. "No, not like that at all."
AND THEN IT ALL WENT TO HELL AND I SAID WELL WHY NOT I'LL WRITE ONE FOR MYSELF, TOO Break I'm sorry.
+++++
Black is a terrible color on the young lady: it makes her look washed-out and her lovely hair turns to the color of pale ash in comparison. The contrast with her reddened eyes and the spots of color in her cheeks is ugly.
Break opens the door for her and bows his head as she passes. From under lowered lashes he watches her, and even though she is raw and clumsy, there are occasional moments of true grace in the tilt of her head or the line of her neck. A few more years, and she might--
She turns to him, surprised; he realizes his hand is already upon her shoulder. It's so thin and tiny under his palm; he feels that if he just applies a little more pressure, she'll just--
"Break?" she asks. Her voice is husky from grief, and even the voice stirs something in him. And this is not fair to her, his tiny lady; it's not fair in the slightest to see her mother in a girl who's just lost that.
(but it's hardly fair either, with Lady Sheri just tucked into her new earthen bed; it's not fair to any of them)
He swallows; he makes himself loosen his grip -- but not before he draws her in a few steps. He bends low and wraps his fingers around the long fall of her hair, lifting it up and away from the ugly muting black. He presses it to his lips, and the smell is nothing like the Lady Sheri (lilac), just of Sharon herself (lavender and rose). If he reaches out, it would be no effort to rest his palm against the bony little-girl jut of her hip.
She makes a brief noise. It's not his name, but he steps back anyway, letting her hair slide from his fingers. As she stares, he sweeps into a low bow, one hand to his chest and the other arm folded against his back.
"My lady," he says, and smiles.
Sharon
... yes Gil
write the Raven/Gil fic :<
...
k
+++++
The thing is that he's never actually seen the full face of his chain.
Raven lurks in dark places and narrow corners -- in reality, in the Abyss, and in his own mind; no matter how fast he turns, all he sees are wide dark wings and feathers drifting past his face, and cold fingers pressed to his lips. It kissed him once: cold hard inhuman lips as the contract sealed itself upon him, and it had hurt (it had hurt): fire in a jagged line across his chest as ice filled his throat and stole his breath. His eyes had been open -- he knows they had been -- but he'd seen nothing but darkness.
(minemineMineMIneMINeMINE), it had whispered to him, and he'd done nothing but shiver as it poured over him and wrapped round him, close as a lover. He'd reached out to find cold smooth skin against his palm, but even that slipped away before he could properly grasp it.
(like so many other things)
And sometimes, when he's tired and he's tired and the taste of cigarettes does nothing to soothe the headache pounding steadily behind his eyes, he's glad. Raven sings to him, his second skin and sunken into him and he doesn't think he'll ever get it out. At this point, the voice is familiar as his own -- as one a thousand times more dear, whose memory has been tarnished by the years and by constant handling, and when he lets himself wander, Raven's eyes are bright emerald green.
ALL THE EXPLANATION YOU NEED PART 2:
CAN I GET PORN TOO o/
I'm in a literal mood tonight, Alice. :Db
SURE OZ
Uh
WHAT KIND
UH
...gee, I dunno, I want to be terrible and request Vince/Oz
...
..............
...
... y
...
k
+++++
"You are terribly unfair," Vincent says. He's found himself a comfortable perch on the chair's arm, leaning forward so that he brackets the boy in with his arms and his body. "Ten years -- ten years! -- and you were always first in my brother's eyes." He slides a finger under the boy's chin and tips it up and effects a pout. "Then you come back, and you don't even have the decency to let him go."
The boy just grins at him, all teeth and hard green eyes. Vincent doesn't think he likes them very much: they remind him of glass-pieces, and glass is terribly breakable, but it's much harder when the pieces are so small. "Well," he says, and shows his nice white teeth. "It's not just my choice, here. Gil makes his own."
Vincent tsks. He reaches out, tugging on some of the loose hair that lies against the boy's cheek. "Can't you even share?" he wonders idly. His fingers move to skin, pressing against the soft juncture between ear and jaw. He can feel a brief flutter of pulse. "After all, Gilbert is my dearest older brother ..." He leans in as he speaks, until he can feel warmth against his lips with each shaped word. "It's so lonely, hoping every day my brother will come home -- and then he doesn't, well ..."
The boy swallows. It's terribly loud. Vince finds himself intrigued, and so he presses his fingers lower, searching until he finds the rapidfire beat of the boy's pulse. It's a good strong beat. He would approve, with nearly anyone else.
"Mister Nightlay," the boy says. The words make his throat vibrate against Vincent's fingertips. "Please let go."
Vincent hums low in his throat. He bends further, touching his mouth to the line of the boy's jaw. It's still rounded and soft; this is a boy's chin, not a man's. He shifts a hand for balance and lets it find a home just above the boy's knee. He squeezes, and feels another quick breath against his mouth.
"And what would you do," the boy says finally, and rather breathlessly, "if he came back to you?"
Vincent licks his lips; his tongue brushes the boy's neck in the process and earns him a strangled gasp. "Sleep with him, of course."
The boy makes a startled noise; he jerks away as far as the chair back will allow him. "Y-you--!"
"Gilbert's very warm," Vincent sighs. He trails his hand up, idly; the boy's skin is almost -- almost -- as soft as Echo's in the same place. "And he doesn't squirm. He's a lovely pillow."
"P-- pillow?" the boy gasps. He squirms again and tries to draw his knees together. "What--"
Vincent laughs briefly, then tilts his head enough to bite, hard, on the boy's ear. He holds his teeth there as the boy cries out and jerks away, and there is blood on his tongue.
"Not like that," he says and pulls away, licking the taste from his lips. "No, not like that at all."
AND THEN IT ALL WENT TO HELL AND I SAID WELL WHY NOT I'LL WRITE ONE FOR MYSELF, TOO Break I'm sorry.
+++++
Black is a terrible color on the young lady: it makes her look washed-out and her lovely hair turns to the color of pale ash in comparison. The contrast with her reddened eyes and the spots of color in her cheeks is ugly.
Break opens the door for her and bows his head as she passes. From under lowered lashes he watches her, and even though she is raw and clumsy, there are occasional moments of true grace in the tilt of her head or the line of her neck. A few more years, and she might--
She turns to him, surprised; he realizes his hand is already upon her shoulder. It's so thin and tiny under his palm; he feels that if he just applies a little more pressure, she'll just--
"Break?" she asks. Her voice is husky from grief, and even the voice stirs something in him. And this is not fair to her, his tiny lady; it's not fair in the slightest to see her mother in a girl who's just lost that.
(but it's hardly fair either, with Lady Sheri just tucked into her new earthen bed; it's not fair to any of them)
He swallows; he makes himself loosen his grip -- but not before he draws her in a few steps. He bends low and wraps his fingers around the long fall of her hair, lifting it up and away from the ugly muting black. He presses it to his lips, and the smell is nothing like the Lady Sheri (lilac), just of Sharon herself (lavender and rose). If he reaches out, it would be no effort to rest his palm against the bony little-girl jut of her hip.
She makes a brief noise. It's not his name, but he steps back anyway, letting her hair slide from his fingers. As she stares, he sweeps into a low bow, one hand to his chest and the other arm folded against his back.
"My lady," he says, and smiles.