aenonnymoose:

For: Lady-Karasu

He doesn’t believe in gods, demons, anything but the world around him that he can twist and use to his purposes. He believes in what he can do with his mind, with his hands; everything of superstition and myth can be someone else’s hang-up, he doesn’t need any of that nonsense. Some might say he’s mad, twisted, wrong somehow, but they don’t say it to his face. Lately they don’t even whisper it behind his back, and the heady rush of the knowledge that he is feared and hated, but obeyed, does. not. get. old.

He doesn’t believe in the things other people do, but he has found it strangely satisfying to be believed in. To see the light of eager compliance, of willing obedience in the eyes of a killer. Eyes that are flat and cold when turned on everyone else. It’s of particular satisfaction to him that despite all his random little tests, his relentless pushing, his studied cruelties, the world-hardened killer, the insanely-patient shikari has given allegiance to him. Willingly.

So, it’s with a pristine conscience that he accepts the unexpected worship that is the startlingly gentle touch of large hands on his bared body. Hands that have killed countless times, that could snap his neck without more than a soft grunt of effort from their owner, and which will release him the instant he wishes. But he doesn’t wish it. He takes the offering of that strong, scarred body that he can caress or mark as he pleases, drinks of a hard-lipped mouth that softens only for him. He’s found that the sounds of moans and sighs, of his name whimpered imploringly or choked out unintentionally, all are like music to his ears – as cliché as that may be.

Deep in the night, when he wakes from dreams of endless nothingness filling him up and erasing him rather than the horrors others profess to fear in their dreams, he whispers into the tanned and scarred skin that’s always so warm when he’s so cold. No one but his own and only believer hears the words, will ever hear them. If he ever loses faith, ever stops believing, best to kill himself than to run; no mercy will be shown. Better still, he says, just kill them both, because that’s the kindest end he can think of on nights like these.

Always, no matter what’s happened, no matter if he bears fresh scars from fingernails and teeth, or wine-dark marks from lips and tongue… always, his sole acolyte, his killer, his never-tamed but obedient tiger, will enfold him in strong arms and whisper in his rough-edged voice, “Never, Jim. Never. I’m yours till you end me.” Each time, the nothingness inside is pushed back, the burden of being is eased, and he can sleep peacefully again; the worshipped genius instead of the abandoned madman.

END

~MF-Anon

(This just won’t work in an AskBox, so breaking tradition a bit and posting here first.)

aklsfjdalksjdf!!!  MORMOR FIC FOR ME! o/ There are no words for how much I adore this, THANK YOU ANON!  No, seriously, this deserves caps – so much love for this.  SO MUCH!  *hugs it tightly, then backs away slowly because those boys are dangerous*  ^_^  Excuse me while I glee!flail…