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Fandom: Black Jewels Trilogy
Characters: Kartane SaDiablo
Prompt: 029. Guilt
Word Count: 359
Rating: PG
Summary: Kartane wants something. Or rather, someone...
Kartane woke up shaking, a cry locked in his throat. He rolled over, wincing at the pain that spiked in his belly, and stared panting at the ceiling. He tried to close his eyes and go back to sleep, but that was far out of reach. He ached all over, feeling wrung out like a used rag. His ribs stood out like the timbers of a ship from his washed out, brittle skin. He shifted slowly, winging as he left behind a clump of hair.
He tried to remember what had woken him, though this wasn’t unusual at all – just the peculiar feeling was that, a different kind of ache. It took him several moments to put a name to it. Yearning.
He took a deep, hissing breath through gritted teeth, curling into himself. He could feel himself dying, see his body wasting away before his eyes. But the worst was the vague yet persistent suspicion that somehow he deserved this…
Kartane sniffed, eyes stinging, feeling unbearably sorry for himself. Dorothea didn’t care anymore, and the other witches look at him as if he were dirt or worse on their feet. The males shunned him for fear of being fouled by association. He could feel the tears of self-pity dripping down his cheeks.
He wanted Daemon.
He wanted Daemon to comfort him. Daemon had always made the nightmares go away. If he were here now, he would surely do it again.
But Daemon was not here, Daemon was not coming back, Daemon hadn’t been seen or heard from in years.
And even if he did come back, why would he have any mercy for Kartane? All they had had in common for years was their hatred of each other, but weak as he was, Kartane could not find the energy to hate his bastard cousin.
Daemon was not ever coming back for little boy Kartane, and it was his own damn fault there was no one to make him feel better. He’d sacrificed the only good friendship he’d ever had for – what? For this?
He should have felt guilty, but all he could feel was bitterly sorry for himself.
Title: Lady
Fandom: Black Jewels Trilogy
Characters: Lucivar Yaslana, some OCs, Jaenelle and Daemon purely by mention
Prompt: 017. Fear
Word Count: 1,312
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Lucivar's language, mention of rape and its aftereffects
Summary: Lucivar's had to handle broken witches before. He just wishes they didn't remind him so much of Her.
“Lady?”
She looked at him blankly, shivering, huddled close to the heat lamp, her eyes glazed and terrified, hardly aware. He flinched, pained, protective instincts surging like nausea in the pit of his stomach. Lucivar moved slowly, carefully, keeping his hands in view.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he promised her in the softest voice he could manage with his temper jumping under his skin. Damn them. Damn them to the deepest corner of Hell.
She stared at him, through him, biting her lower lip until he could see blood leaking out, though she hardly seemed aware of it. She gathered the rags of a shawl around her shoulders and huddled away from him.
“Lady…” He tried to remember her name. “Katharine. I swear on the Darkness I won’t hurt you. Let me take care of you.”
She looked up at her name. Her eyes, grey and bright once, were blank and empty. His heart ached. Her tongue flicked nervously across her lips. “Don’t – want.”
Lucivar felt as if he’d been stabbed, as if he were bleeding. Damn them. Damn them. Even with the fading bruises and the shocked expression, her glazed eyes and tangled hair, it was easy to see that she had been a beautiful witch. Was still a beautiful woman. But no longer a witch.
He clenched down on his jaw to keep the snarl from escaping, leashing his anger. It would only frighten her, wouldn’t do anything to the people who’d done this to her, wouldn’t change that it would happen again in the future.
He called in a blanket and offered it to her. “Here, Lady. Take this, at least. Please.”
She cowered away and he moved closer, gently, adjusting the blanket and reaching out. She flinched, but when he settled it around her shoulders and moved quickly back, she looked at him for a long moment, confused and thoughtful.
“Thank you,” she said at last, softly.
“You’re welcome.” He watched her, pained. He found himself picturing her, her blond hair tangled, sapphire eyes dulled and glazed, broken…
No! He felt himself twitch and took a deep breath through his mouth. She was safe. Far from here. Thank the Darkness. He’d know if something happened to her. Wouldn’t he?
He shook the thoughts off. “Lady,” he said, persistently. He could hear her humming to herself, too low for him to make out the tune or the song. “Will you come with me? I can find you new clothing and a room…”
Her eyes widened in alarm. “Not the room,” she said in a hoarse, frightened voice. “Don’t take me back there.”
“Shh, no, a new room,” he said, keeping his voice even. His wings rustle, agitated. “Don’t worry. I won’t take you back there. You need a safe place to stay.” Away from these scum. Away from these bitches who call themselves
He kept the snarl out of his voice with a great effort. “I will take you somewhere safe. And warm.” She was shivering so much. He swallowed hard, picturing her narrow shoulders shaking, curled in a cold corner somewhere far away, whispering to herself to fend off sleep and the nightmares, her small, graceful hands with the nails bitten to the quick…no. He would have felt it, he would know, Daemon at least would know…he’d have to know.
She was watching him closely. Her eyes seemed a little clearer. “Is something wrong?” She inquired, and she almost sounded whole.
He shook his head. “It’s nothing,” he said hoarsely. “Just worries.”
She didn’t ask any further. He stood up and moved a few steps away, giving her room to get up without being too close to him. He just had to hope she wouldn’t run away. He could see some of the other witches, clustered in a corner, watching him, laughing, their hands to their mouths, amused at his show of compassion for this not-witch.
Damn them. He hated them. He hated them so damn much. Let them laugh. Let them think what they liked about why he helped them. Let them laugh behind their hands. He wished they were all dead. He closed his eyes, bit down on the snarl, and checked to see that she was following. His stomach churned at the way her beautiful eyes stayed fixed on the floor, as though following the pattern, her steps stumbling as if she’d just learned how to walk. Worst was the fear rolling off her, tensing his muscles every time a male walked by, hardly even noticing her, looking at Lucivar only with the scorn afforded a bastard pleasure slave.
It was a relief to be out on the streets. The air still stank, but it was cleaner, and here the psychic scent of the bitches didn’t rub and grate on his temper. He took a deep breath and strode down the street, listening keenly for her footsteps behind him. She followed, at her own stumbling pace, and he slowed his steps to be sure she didn’t get too far behind.
He counted the houses to be sure he had the right one and knocked twice on the door. Katharine stood shivering at the bottom of the stairs, and he shifted anxiously at the wait, raising a hand to knock again before the door opened.
“Yaslana.”
He nodded, curtly, stepping aside. “Lady Katharine,” he said, softly, keeping the anger out of his voice. The woman here watched him as warily as she did the other males. She wouldn’t understand that his anger wasn’t like those who brought broken witches here after they became a nuisance rather than a reminder.
The lady – he didn’t even know her name, not even that was safe – stepped out and held out a hand to the broken witch. Katharine, he reminded himself. She still had a name, if nothing else. Still had her name. Katharine cringed, the fear intensifying, and Lucivar felt his stomach and shoulders clench together with the need to protect that was now completely useless. What else could anyone do to her that was worse than had already been done?
“Come inside, Lady. You’ll be safe here.” Her voice was completely different than it had been, gentle, soothing.
Katharine drifted toward the door and Lucivar took two steps back. The lady looked at him and her voice changed again. “Get out of here. Your business is done, Yaslana.” Lucivar bowed curtly and turned away, unhappiness tightening his face.
Katharine turned her head as she left, looking at him, her eyes gray, her tongue flicking out across her chapped lips. Her voice was hoarse and barely audible.
“Thank you…”
Lucivar bowed his head to her. “You’re welcome, Lady,” he said, grateful for the evenness of his voice, and turned back. The bitches would be angry if their pet Eyrien wandered too far too long.
He looked back just as the door closed, the setting sun glinting off her hair making it golden, and he imagined blue eyes staring blankly at him, puzzled, lost, wandering. He choked on that, swallowed hard. No. It wouldn’t happen. Ever. Other witches – but he would not see it happen to her. Not to Witch.
The anger surged and he turned furiously, wheeling and slamming his fist into a wall. It hurt and he could feel it sting, see the bright blood on his knuckles. He stared at it and clenched his teeth viciously together.
He wouldn’t see her broken. He would take care of as many broken witches – endure as much fear and wariness as he needed to, if only, if only, he never had to see her broken.
If she was whole, nothing else would ever matter. Life or death, anything…
If she was whole, that was enough.
Title: Obedience
Fandom: Black Jewels Trilogy
Characters: Lucivar Yaslana
Prompt: 061. Feral
Word Count: 1,016
Rating: R
Warnings: rape, sex, implied violence
Summary: Lucivar's never killed a witch before. He's never had to.
His nerves were on fire. He couldn’t stop moving, clothing chafing on his skin like sandpaper, teasing, tantalizing and painful. He snarled, uselessly, the feeling of his tongue on too dry lips nearly too much. He clenched and unclenched his fists, nails biting into his palms. The feeling of the carpet on the soles of his feet as he paced was agony and he couldn’t stop moving and his wings were half spread because folded they touched each-other and that sensation made him want to scream. He didn’t want to scream, didn’t want to make a sound. Making a sound might signal weakness and he would not be weak.
Lucivar hardly knew what he was doing here. He wanted to be back in the training camps, with Eyrien warriors. Even as an outsider there, it was safer, cleaner than here…here the very air made his skin shiver, and the witches…
He didn’t like to think about the witches.
The cloth rubbing on his skin was unbearable, like countless pinpricks wherever it touched his body. He vanished his shirt, surprised by the sheen of sweat he noticed on his skin. He shuddered at the whisper of wind from another room, his glazed golden eyes closing with that half ecstasy half agony feeling. The hairs on the back of his neck rose, prickling. He kept moving, the idea of stopping impossible.
What was wrong with him? Something was wrong. It must have been the water – he’d tasted something odd, but no poison he’d recognized. Rational thought was getting more difficult. He shuddered, the shiver running down his spine, goosebumps standing out on his arms, still slick with a sheen of sweat.
The door handle turned slowly and his neck cracked as he turned, moving automatically into a stance to attack. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. He stared at her, lips curling into a snarl, her psychic scent teasing his nostrils as they flared wildly. He swallowed, hard, feeling every muscle in his body tense.
She crossed to him. Lust surged in his belly, added fire, as she lifted a hand, touching his face. He twitched away, automatically, with a snarl and she seized his wrist. The pressure of her fingers made him arch his back and shudder. He clamped down on his tongue, refusing to scream despite the protest of his too sensitive nerves. Lucivar tried to pull away and found her dragging his head down and kissing him fiercely – less a kiss than an attack, her lips too hard and her tongue forcing its way into his mouth.
Startled, he had a moment’s still shock before pain kicked in and he felt the pressure of her hand on his chest, stroking, fire following her touch. He yanked away, his eyes widening even as arousal settled in a knot in his abdomen. He didn’t want this. Sex wasn’t – new to him, but –
Another breeze blew against him. He sucked breath in quickly through his teeth and clenched his jaw, and it gave her the moment he needed.
She pushed him down, her hands moving greedily over his bare chest, straddling him. His wings crumpled ungracefully beneath him, he tried to move, to push her away, trying to ask what the hell she thought she was doing –
She had him halfway free of his pants, stripping him methodically. His skin shivered at her touch; he wanted to scream with the agony it caused him. He tried to move, feeling anger ripple under his skin.
Finished with his clothing, she toyed with him. He snarled, trying to get free. “Get” – he said uselessly, trying to push her off, but she didn’t move, vanishing first the clothing above her waist. She caressed herself and he tried again to get free, but then she vanished the rest of her clothing and shifted and he knew one moment of panic before she sheathed herself on him.
Lust maddened him as he arched his back, seeking release in her body for his desire as she moved, panting, moaning. Pressure built in his head and his groin, agony and lust grating together. He could taste blood where he’d bitten his tongue. He tried to struggle, but his body seemed beyond his control, lost, too distant. His heartbeat was too loud in his ears, anger surging in a red haze over his vision, feeling her use him like this, knowing as the desire and lust grew worse and worse that there would be no release, just pain, he barely kept from screaming. His wings rubbed together, the sounds of her moans and pants too loud, her hands clenching on his shoulders painful, feeling as though they would bruise –
The rushing in his ears deafened all sound. Fury filled his mouth like bile and burst out of him in a roar, his body returning to life as he called in his Jewels and smashed into the witch’s mind as she rode him, mindless for anything but her own gratification.
She had a moment to scream before he jerked away, wings flaring, holding her mind captive, Eyrien war blade in one hand, lust still raging through his body like fire.
He remembered nothing for a long time.
He opened his eyes, cold, shivering. He looked around himself, an odd, rusty smell in his nostrils. There was red on his hands, sticky and cold. Familiar. Why was it familiar?
He lifted his head slowly, ragged strands of hair falling in his face. He could taste something sour in his mouth. He ached all over. More of the red was on his chest, his arms. On the floor. It took him a moment longer to remember what it was.
Blood.
He stood up, shaking, and walked over to the bed. He tried to feel guilt, but he couldn’t, not for this. All he could feel was cold.
He walked to the bathroom, washed. An hour later, he walked out, fully clothed, free, and left for the Eyrien camp.
A day later he was called back to Pruul. Two days later, he wore the Ring of Obedience.
