So I've done a lot of writing this year which I am very proud of after a 5+ year absence.
But one sentence stands out because of a phrase my friends won't let me live down (will be bolded so you know which one).
For a bit of context, this involves my OC Izemrasen, Elgar'nan's Champion and emotional-support-twunk. And @elgargremlin's OC Eliovon, one of Elgar'nan's Generals who has made the unholy mistake of falling for Izem (Elgar'nan doesn't like sharing). It's been so much fun writing about these two and we are deep in this old man yaoi hell we've built for ourselves.
Anyways without further ado, under the cut for NSFW reasons:
Izem starts to bob his head back and forth, he swallows the entirety of the man's cock down his throat and repeats the motion with a whorish vigour that has the general stuttering and cursing under his breath.
The view below him has Eliovon mesmerized. Izem is singular in purpose, moaning wantonly as saliva and slick collects and drips down his chin. "By the void this is why Elgar'nan hoards you...the greedy fucking bastard."
vaguely inspired by @whump-sprite‘s prompt yesterday, though it’s gotten away from me a little. still, credit where credit is due!
CN for injury (implied), blood, fever (implied), illness, dehydration, disorientation and vague talking about murder.
Izem is fine. He is awake, he has all of his limbs and his vision doesn’t even go black around the edges when he stands upright. He probably hasn’t been poisoned (if he had, he’d be feeling it by now unless it’s something really slow-acting). Yes, the wound on his thigh is dangerously hot to the touch, but that also might just be the healing process having been kickstarted by the health potion he has taken earlier.
Summa summarum: Izem is fine. He just hasn’t had enough water in the last few days. As soon as he drinks something, he’ll be right back to feeling alright. He can buy some on his way out of town - he’s overstayed his welcome anyway, they’ll be looking for the man that killed Engineer M’dawe. Bit of luck and the excitement has already died down a little in the time he was out (though he honestly couldn’t say how much time has passed), but the gun marshals have long, long memories. Best he leaves.
He pushes to his feet where he has been sitting on the bed. Immediately, pain shoots up his left leg. Hip and knee lock up. He nearly topples backwards. His head is spinning. Sweat beds on his skin. He doesn’t make a sound.
All it needs is for him to bend down and pick up his pack, then he can go. Izem repeats it to himself as his traitor of a body wants to tremble and collapse. It’s not so bad, really. The leg’s still working. There is no hot liquid seeping through the bandages. He still has a vial of antiplague for the infection and some bloodblock. He just has to bend down real quick and then he - there.
The mental block gives, just a little, and this time Izem does collapse. The impact drives a low hhh sound out of of him. His head is ringing; darkness saps all warmth out of him. No. No, he - he has better things to do than lie here and - Izem forces himself upright. His pack is still on the floor with him, damn thing. The irrational, animal part of him wants to check it for water even though he knows he is out. Wasn’t he sweating just a moment ago? He feels paper-dry now, as if a single spark would reduce him to ash. Heh.
Wouldn’t that be fitting.
Why is he still sitting here? He has better things to do. Gritting his teeth against the inevitable agony, he tugs his good leg under himself, places his palms against the floor and pushes. Upright. Okay. He is upright. He refuses to think about his leg or the wound or water. Instead he thinks about his head, because his head doesn’t even hurt; it just feels like it’s about to burst. That’s good. He can do this. He just has to - there he goes. Picking up the pack unbalances him, but this time he catches himself. Izem feels irrationally proud about that. Dull throbs of pain are radiating out from his left thigh, pushing through his attempt at a mental block. Is there blood seeping through his trousers yet? He feels for any. No. Not yet.
Good. He fixes his eyes on the door. How far is that? Ten steps? Less than ten steps, probably. He’s had worse. He can do this. The room is spinning. Izem takes a step. It’s awkward, trying to keep his weight off his bad leg and failing a little, but also managing a little. The pain intensifies anyway. Bile wants to rise, stomach twisting inside his gut, and Izem swallows, dry throat rasping against itself, until the feeling goes away. He will not be sick. He will not be sick.
Another step. He staggers, knees wanting to give. Stupid fucking - it’s just walking. It’s not like this is hard. He’s done it all his life. Izem attempts to grit his teeth, then realises he cannot possibly grit them any harder than he already is. He feels like he is listing to one side - no, forwards - no, the other…
Izem crashes to the floor with a heavy, final thud. The impact is hard enough to bounce his head off the tiles and knock him out before his brain has fully registered the pain.
He doesn’t notice the door opening, nor the polished shoes quietly scuffing against the floor as the pale man walks closer. He certainly doesn’t notice the pale man crouching down next to him on a sigh. “Stubborn, are we?” The man reaches under his coat, producing a small flask before setting it aside. Hands feel and grasp for a moment before they find Izem.
The pale man heaves Izem onto his back with some difficulty, then picks the flask back up and unscrews it. Carefully, ever so so carefully, he sets it to Izem’s mouth. He doesn’t close it again until it is empty. Hands feel along Izem’s torso, not necessarily gently but carefully, as if the pale man knew that there were weapons and poisons hidden in the dozends of little pockets inside Izem’s cloak, until the man finds the pocket he must have been searching for. He slips his hand under the folds of the heavy fabric and pulls out a small vial.
Uncorking it, he brings it to his nose, sniffs and nods to nobody in particular. “Antiplague”, he mutters, “you weren’t wrong about still having a vial. Very good, Izem. Shouldn’t have expected anything less from you.” This too is carefully poured past Izem’s lips, before the man corks the vial again and slips it into his own coat, patting the pocket as if to make sure it was really there.
The pale man rises and looks down at the unconscious assassin at his feet for a moment, or at least he would were his eyes not not clouded by cataracts. He is smiling, a faint smile that doesn’t seem remarkable in any way. It isn’t fond and it isn’t threatening - it’s just a smile, the same way that the pale man is definitely a man. “Don’t die, now”, the pale man mutters finally, quietly but with no less warning filtering into his otherwise deceptively easy drawl, “it’s just getting interesting.”
