╔ empty E C H O E S . ╝

you are a boy of eight when the lights flicker & the world stops making sense. your mother cries out & fades away under your hands. you run. your name is a curse, a leash. you shake it off. you forget who you are. they call you Trystan. you are a man of some age you can no longer remember. shadows curl familiar around your hands & death feels like an old friend. you are quieter, older & you decide to try just this once to have a new life. indie. selective. original character. heavily nsfw with possible triggering content. mun/muse 21+ written by krio. please read rules.

[madamenova]

[sxciopathxc-deactivated20191125]

[neoninmyeyes]

[arcusxx]

art by sorrowgrips (my edits )

[seriesandphrases]

[catshapedcoffin]

[likamartini]

[catshapedcoffin]

[tenebraemortem]

velvettclaws:

Ah, he sighed, and took his turn to lean into the searching press of fingers against his face, turning head to just so press lips to the young man’s palm. He gazed, still yet, at the play of expression on Trystan’s features – precious.

And then, and then, he saw it, the faint, pale flickers of orange in his peripheral. Such a small triumph, to see the soul light he had not before, a promising thing. Something he would have to come back to when he wasn’t distracted by fingers in his hair and on his skin for the first time in what felt was ages –

O, supple bud from which I taste thy nectar – that sweet, needy kiss that found Gabriel’s lips spoke deeply, and he gave with a calm return. Arms looped around his weaver, he pleasured in the chastity of it, the absolute thrumming of Trystan’s being setting the space between them alight. He could not stop himself from sighing against the fingers that found his lips, kissing those, too, hungry for them to be past his teeth.

“A secret?” Now he was curious. He wondered what the other would have shared with him in such a dream. Such a dream! The thought of it spread heat anew through the shepherd’s chest and he wanted. “Share me your secret, but first…”

Tender, he gave again, but that urge spurred by Trystan’s words was far from ignored. If he thought before had been devouring, he would fast find that there was more, now that Death had tasted. It came – in waves, of lips and teeth and tongue that consumed in slow strokes and pried his weaver open and suckled at his very being and tickled with strange, otherworldly sensation that surely must have been what he had spoke of. Not so much sparking but smoldering in it’s heated intensity. 

“You know,” a pant of breath, and god he longed for more, “I think dream me had the right idea.”

It feels so impersonal at first, but then he remembers where they are and that there are plenty of opportunities his half empty apartment offers. Shadows cast his room in darkness making Gabriel seem larger, more ominous beneath his fingertips. But he feels those hands, solid and warm, nearly enough to set him to trembling. All at once Trystan wants more, a flickering ember given warm breath to spark alive, to spread and grow. More please more. Strong arms circle around his spine and he imagines those hands doing more than merely holding him.

His ears warm and he’s caught watching how lips press to each fingertip that dances across his mouth. Trystan is caught in wondering upon possibilities as he tastes the words, growling and hot. “First--?” His words are stifled into a quiet moan. Legs give out but the shadows are yielding towards the way he reaches for them. Now the embers burn into a quiet hungering inferno and he feels the press of carpet at his shoulders as he arches breathless into each slide of their mouths together. Trystan’s hands are claws of their own, shadows licking hungry along his skin. Dark eyes are stained with black ichor, the whites of his eyes turned pitch black as he gasps for air on Gabriel’s mouth. Don’t stop. Set my body to flame and sing to me dark delight -- 

Poetry again, honey sweet and heady on his tongue. For his Reaper, for the dark raven he welcomes between spread thighs. Breath shallows as his heart dances hotter in his chest. Trystan cards his fingers through feathers, breathing in the warm scent of roses as he chases Gabriel’s mouth with a shaking exhale.

“My secret --” He’s coaxing claws to his waist, under thin fabric and the tremor of his skin. “-- I told you I’d never been touched and I wanted you to be the first.” Ebony eyes are half-lidded and the boy reaches out with those shadowed claws, feeling the threads of the other man. It burns pleasantly and he moans into Gabriel’s mouth as the darkness crawls the walls circling in lazy patterns. Trystan kisses him until his mouth aches and his face feels too hot. Let him weave them together, with feathers intertwining with the barbed thorns of his flesh. A shaking breath is lost between lazy kisses and his legs snare his Reaper in close.

“I want to be yours.”

[pnnzzlr]

[tenebraemortem]

you’ve heard of trystan, how about trysin.

[tenebraemortem]

velvettclaws:

Crying was never pretty, especially in front of another, yet it held such a purity to it. Trust. Another may have pitied, but Gabriel would not misplace his weaver’s tears, for how incredibly important it was. 

“Good boy,” soft praise, and the edge of mask is nuzzled into the side of Trystan’s head. It was all he could ask; what use was he, if he could not give at least an ounce of respite, a second of breath without worry. So long he had reaped endings into his palms, to give a beginning, for what it seemed –

Subtle, but there, the uptick of his own pulse at the feeling of hood being drawn back, and he commended Trystan for being so bold then. He remained still, as if not to spook away the gentle touches and sweet words that returned from another time, and he considered.

Gabriel did so love giving gifts to those worthy. 

“I did say so,” murmured, and it was with little hesitation that the claws left the young man to grasp at the chin of said mask, tugging. “Nothing but sorrow to be found, when there’s no spark to hold between your lips.” 

“You, on the other hand,” ah, there he was, bearded and scarred, tired rosy-brown eyes laying onto Trystan unobscured at last and with such a softness to them, “ you have something no other has held before.” 

Quite literally.

“I think that I have something of yours long overdue.”

Later he’ll be embarrassed for crying and standing there in front of Gabriel with his face flushed and eyes red. But for now he can lose himself in the shadows, in the slow easy calm that seemed to circle in their veins. Good boy. It makes his pulse quicken and that quiet coil of heat at the pit of his belly is stirred alive. The Doctor told him the same, touched his neck, ran leather gloved fingertips across his mouth. Praised him for reaching out with his powers and turning death from his latest accident, knitting life back into the withered husk.

His cheeks are hot at the memory. It hasn’t been so long since he’s imagined his Reaper in place of the Doctor. Thumb dragging slow across his lip, making his heart hammer in his throat.

The mask slips away and Trystan finds himself unable to look away. What is beneath is so much more than he could have imagined. Instead of those hands touching his lips, instead it is the boy meeting inhumanly colored eyes unafraid. Instead it is his fingers running feather soft across those of his Reaper. Beautiful. Scars are stories across Gabriel’s handsome face, ones that he wishes he was brave enough to ask about. “I do?” Trystan whispers, his fingers running tender, curious, through wild curls of dark hair. I always knew Death was beautiful. I always knew.

“You do.”

Trystan chases his lips down slowly, fingers touching scarred features with quiet reverence. For Death he is warm, he is kind. Kissing him, losing soft breathless whimpers on his mouth as years of hunger boil over desperate and yearning. The boy wakes slowly, taking and taking, and feeling some part of himself warming. Hopeful. Parting slowly, his breath shakes between them, dark eyes fallen shut as he lets himself drown in the thunder of his heart. Fingertips trace Gabriel’s lips, committing them to memory when he is alone in the shadows with nothing more than his hands to stave off the terrible hunger.

“I had a dream once,” the boy confesses in a whisper, “you were there with me. Hiding in the darkness but warm. So warm. I told you a secret and you kissed me. Like this. Like you were going to devour me.”

[bigboyscry]

[thegayfleet]

You can kiss me if you want.

[ooevilynoo]

[socialpsychopathblr]

[tenebraemortem]

-- @lcvoyant from [ x ]

A nervous sort of laugh slips free. Right. He’d nearly forgotten that most people didn’t like the reminder of authority. Trystan can’t blame him, not at all honestly. But it isn’t the reason that he’s here looking like something a cat dragged home. So he’s swallowing hard and his brows are knitted up tightly, gaze fixated on his shoes for a moment while he gathers up the loose thoughts.

“Well, uh, Bernardo or Manfred? I think I need your help.” Swallowing thickly, he’s meeting the other man’s gaze much like a skittish animal. One loud sound and he’s liable to take off running for the hills.

“I don’t have anyone else to go to and I need someone to just -- to tell me I’m not crazy.” His heart is hammering wildly in his chest and he’s got his eyes on the shadows around them like they might come alive. The longer he stays still, the louder those whispering hisses are getting. The closer It gets to him. “Please, I don’t have much but I just -- I need help.”