The Monster
[CW: Nudity, Sex, Death]
Hot breath on his neck, fingers feverishly searching for opening to get under the clothes. Back against wall the red-eyed young man sounded almost suffering, gasping for breath.
“No- Someone will come…!”
The other one pleaded, skin moist of sweat, knowing that it was already too late to resist. They had sunken too fast too far.
“Please, just this time…”
Izil’daerryn heard himself begging, in a hollow voice that didn’t sound like his, when he made sure to leave a proper mark on the other’s neck, enjoying the salty taste of skin. They had done this so many times, yet it always amazed him how it went exactly the same way; they tried to keep their hands off of each other, but after a few drinks it always ended up like this, without a fail. It didn’t matter which one initiated it. They didn’t mean to continue, but eventually almost began to expect it. They got too drunk, not on wine but on love and lust. When their bodies tangled it was the most exhilarating feeling in the whole world. It had never felt like this before, not with anyone else, he had to admit. Izil’daerryn knew he had lost all his senses, and this time he loved the feeling of losing control. For once, everything was good, and nothing mattered. Nothing absolutely mattered.
Lips met lips, breathing was heavy and the other one’s naked body so close, so hot and untameable, yet gentle and ready.
“Why does it always go like this…?”
Calthel murmured quietly, sounding like he was almost in trance. Izil’daerryn knew why, but he didn’t answer, laying on his side and running his fingers on his best friend’s skin, lazily drawing unintelligible whirls of love with his fingertips. His hair was a mess, looking like a nest of some wild animal, braids partially undone and expensive golden jewelry sunken deep into the hairdo or even fallen off in all the tossing and turning. He glanced at his best friend, who absentmindedly played with his curls, twirling one strand around his index finger and then untwirling it. Izil’daerryn was about to place a soft kiss on the collarbone of his lover, but noise from the corridor alarmed them.
Footsteps.
Izil’daerryn fell off the bed, but was still faster to get his hands on his shirt, which he pulled over his head just when the door was banged with force.
“Come out of there, in the name of the Prophet!”
An unknown male voice called out and then, without giving them more time to react, the door was violently kicked open. Calthel extended his hand and took hold of his arm, but Izil’daerryn didn’t react. He felt his heart sinking, fear engulfing his senses like a black cloud of smoke. Blood froze in his veins, when he faced the man who had come in wearing armor and weapons drawn.
Like in a dream he walked closer. The shadows withdrew their veil and when he had already knelt by the first body, Izil’daerryn understood they were dead. The man and his small entourage laid before him, deep red blood slowly starting to fill the seams of the stone flooring. He took a gasp, when he recognized the tarnished face of the man; those distinctive features he would have known anywhere, even when blood had poured out of every orifice and started to soak into his clothing.
“Duagantar…”
His lips were dry, voice got stuck into his throat and he couldn’t breathe. Duagantar Sharphunt, the patron of the Family Sharphunt, laid there before him. He jumped up in panic, restlessly gazing around. Duagantar was dead. And the rest were all familiar faces he knew from somewhere, but in panic couldn’t tell who they were, but he knew they were sent here to eliminate him. To destroy the infidels. To kill him and his lover.
Izil’daerryn let out a nervous chuckle, when he turned to Calthel.
“We can fix this, I promise! Look, take off the sheets and let’s…”
He started to explain, trying desperately to come up with a plan on how to dispose of the bodies, when he finally understood his best friend had fallen silent, only staring at him a disgusted and terrified look on his face.
“Cal?”
He called for his friend, but no avail. He chuckled, trying to make it a joke.
“It’s alright. I know this looks bad, but we can fix this. I promise!”
Izil’daerryn let the body of patron Sharphunt alone and approached his friend, who was still staring at him like he would have akin to a lolthian priestess.
“Don’t come any closer!
Calthel’s voice wavered, which shook Izil’daerryn out of his own panic.
“Cal? What do you mean?”
He was so confused it physically pained him. A refusal was the last thing he has expected to hear from Calthel’s mouth.
“Are you hurt?”
Izil’daerryn reached out for his lover, who drew back in fear and clearly tried to find something to hit him with.
“Don’t touch me! You monster!”
Monster? No, I’m not… and then he saw his own outreached hand, but it didn’t look like his at all; it was all engulfed in whirls of blackest shadows, his carefully manicured fingernails had grown into thick, black talons of a beast, his skin encrusted with dark, translucent scales. He lifted his head when he felt someone staring at him, but it was just the reflection from a window; a creature so twisted and foul stared him back that he froze in fear.
Izil’daerryn sprung up, heart beating and out of breath. For a moment he didn’t understand a thing. The room was the same, but the bed was empty. There were no bodies, no blood, and no monsters. He stared at his hands, which were as well taken care of as usual. Just a nightmare, he understood, and took a deep breath. The smell of a servant girl still faintly lingered on the sheets, but it didn’t calm him down. With a sigh he stood up and wrapped himself into his morning jacket and slipped his feet into his house slippers. He walked to the window -the very same which in the dream had reflected his changed looks- and opened the curtains. He gazed out absentmindedly and untangled one loose braid, fingers rubbing his head. His hands didn’t meet any horns like those the beast had had. Horns, which curved far back like two scimitars.
What a silly dream.
That he consciously thought and tried to push the bad memories away, by pouring himself a drink of mushroom wine he had a small personal stash in his room and concentrating on a new book (‘The Elemental Applications of Magical Minerals’) he had bought yesterday. Yet, he couldn’t completely shake the uneasy feeling off his mind…
“No- Someone will come…!”
The other one pleaded, skin moist of sweat, knowing that it was already too late to resist. They had sunken too fast too far.
“Please, just this time…”
Izil’daerryn heard himself begging, in a hollow voice that didn’t sound like his, when he made sure to leave a proper mark on the other’s neck, enjoying the salty taste of skin. They had done this so many times, yet it always amazed him how it went exactly the same way; they tried to keep their hands off of each other, but after a few drinks it always ended up like this, without a fail. It didn’t matter which one initiated it. They didn’t mean to continue, but eventually almost began to expect it. They got too drunk, not on wine but on love and lust. When their bodies tangled it was the most exhilarating feeling in the whole world. It had never felt like this before, not with anyone else, he had to admit. Izil’daerryn knew he had lost all his senses, and this time he loved the feeling of losing control. For once, everything was good, and nothing mattered. Nothing absolutely mattered.
Lips met lips, breathing was heavy and the other one’s naked body so close, so hot and untameable, yet gentle and ready.
“Why does it always go like this…?”
Calthel murmured quietly, sounding like he was almost in trance. Izil’daerryn knew why, but he didn’t answer, laying on his side and running his fingers on his best friend’s skin, lazily drawing unintelligible whirls of love with his fingertips. His hair was a mess, looking like a nest of some wild animal, braids partially undone and expensive golden jewelry sunken deep into the hairdo or even fallen off in all the tossing and turning. He glanced at his best friend, who absentmindedly played with his curls, twirling one strand around his index finger and then untwirling it. Izil’daerryn was about to place a soft kiss on the collarbone of his lover, but noise from the corridor alarmed them.
Footsteps.
Izil’daerryn fell off the bed, but was still faster to get his hands on his shirt, which he pulled over his head just when the door was banged with force.
“Come out of there, in the name of the Prophet!”
An unknown male voice called out and then, without giving them more time to react, the door was violently kicked open. Calthel extended his hand and took hold of his arm, but Izil’daerryn didn’t react. He felt his heart sinking, fear engulfing his senses like a black cloud of smoke. Blood froze in his veins, when he faced the man who had come in wearing armor and weapons drawn.
Like in a dream he walked closer. The shadows withdrew their veil and when he had already knelt by the first body, Izil’daerryn understood they were dead. The man and his small entourage laid before him, deep red blood slowly starting to fill the seams of the stone flooring. He took a gasp, when he recognized the tarnished face of the man; those distinctive features he would have known anywhere, even when blood had poured out of every orifice and started to soak into his clothing.
“Duagantar…”
His lips were dry, voice got stuck into his throat and he couldn’t breathe. Duagantar Sharphunt, the patron of the Family Sharphunt, laid there before him. He jumped up in panic, restlessly gazing around. Duagantar was dead. And the rest were all familiar faces he knew from somewhere, but in panic couldn’t tell who they were, but he knew they were sent here to eliminate him. To destroy the infidels. To kill him and his lover.
Izil’daerryn let out a nervous chuckle, when he turned to Calthel.
“We can fix this, I promise! Look, take off the sheets and let’s…”
He started to explain, trying desperately to come up with a plan on how to dispose of the bodies, when he finally understood his best friend had fallen silent, only staring at him a disgusted and terrified look on his face.
“Cal?”
He called for his friend, but no avail. He chuckled, trying to make it a joke.
“It’s alright. I know this looks bad, but we can fix this. I promise!”
Izil’daerryn let the body of patron Sharphunt alone and approached his friend, who was still staring at him like he would have akin to a lolthian priestess.
“Don’t come any closer!
Calthel’s voice wavered, which shook Izil’daerryn out of his own panic.
“Cal? What do you mean?”
He was so confused it physically pained him. A refusal was the last thing he has expected to hear from Calthel’s mouth.
“Are you hurt?”
Izil’daerryn reached out for his lover, who drew back in fear and clearly tried to find something to hit him with.
“Don’t touch me! You monster!”
Monster? No, I’m not… and then he saw his own outreached hand, but it didn’t look like his at all; it was all engulfed in whirls of blackest shadows, his carefully manicured fingernails had grown into thick, black talons of a beast, his skin encrusted with dark, translucent scales. He lifted his head when he felt someone staring at him, but it was just the reflection from a window; a creature so twisted and foul stared him back that he froze in fear.
Izil’daerryn sprung up, heart beating and out of breath. For a moment he didn’t understand a thing. The room was the same, but the bed was empty. There were no bodies, no blood, and no monsters. He stared at his hands, which were as well taken care of as usual. Just a nightmare, he understood, and took a deep breath. The smell of a servant girl still faintly lingered on the sheets, but it didn’t calm him down. With a sigh he stood up and wrapped himself into his morning jacket and slipped his feet into his house slippers. He walked to the window -the very same which in the dream had reflected his changed looks- and opened the curtains. He gazed out absentmindedly and untangled one loose braid, fingers rubbing his head. His hands didn’t meet any horns like those the beast had had. Horns, which curved far back like two scimitars.
What a silly dream.
That he consciously thought and tried to push the bad memories away, by pouring himself a drink of mushroom wine he had a small personal stash in his room and concentrating on a new book (‘The Elemental Applications of Magical Minerals’) he had bought yesterday. Yet, he couldn’t completely shake the uneasy feeling off his mind…
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