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samiferboy · 2 months ago

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flicker back

inspired by @metztlilix's post:

anyway yeah huge fan of the hc Sam killed himself multiple times and Lucifer kept bringing him back in s5 I also think we should have gotten some scenes of Lucifer cradling Sam like a child in a pool of blood and gore while whispering “it’ll never end.” plus more hallucination-coercions of trying to get him to say yes but like in a toxic manipulative way coated in sugar. yk.

Rating: Mature Warnings: SUICIDE like lots of suicide, blood, mild gore Pairing: Samifer (sort of, lowkey) Other tags: s5e3: free to be you and me, heaven, dreams/memories, persuasion, attempted manipulation Word count: 4,200

"I'll just bring you back." Lucifer makes good on a promise. Then he does it again. And again. And again.

(please be nice to me im literally so anxious LOLLL kms)

Sam comes to with a jolt. He's breathing heavily, like he'd just been running, but there's no danger. He's laying in a field, staring up at the sky, sunny and freckled with clouds. Perfect temperature. No flies or mosquitos. Songbirds twittering in the trees surrounding the grass.

His heart calms down after about thirty seconds of nothing. Tentatively, he plants his hands on the ground and heaves himself to his feet.

In front of him is a path, a dirt path spotted with stones and roots and patches of grass. He glances around, searching for clues; surely there had to be something going on. He had no memory of getting here, after all. No memory at all, actually, except for…

His face falls. Blood. No escape. No reprieve. That was the last thing in his head.

I'm dreaming, he decides. At least this was a nice dream, a comedown after a night of pain. With that in his head, he walks down the path, enjoying the summer day. He picks out a few memorable bird songs, eyes some grasshoppers crak-crak-ing across the field, and just…relaxes.

He walks through the field, then into a forest. More birds chirp and squirrels chatter. A chipmunk runs across his path, stops and eyes him, then approaches him. Childlike joy spreads across his face and he kneels to look closer at the animal, but doesn't dare to reach out for it. The chipmunk bobs its little head, blinking at him, getting barely a foot away from him, but when he shifts, it runs off, chittering as it leaves.

Smiling, Sam stands back up. But then his smile fades; any minute now, Dean and Dad are gonna yell for him to catch up so they can hunt the -

He freezes. Dean and Dad are here?

Then he realizes that this isn't just a dream, it's a memory. It all floods back to him, being a child hunting through the woods with his father and brother on the trail of some monster, how he got distracted by all the animals, his delight when a chipmunk took interest in him. He couldn't have been any older than eight or nine.

Bushes rustle ahead of him and he stands, preparing for John to start lecturing him about getting distracted and falling behind and aren't you taking this seriously, you know it's dangerous, but it's not John who walks out. No, Sam's never seen this man before in his life, but he approaches Sam with a kind of patient, rueful smile.

"Good, it didn't take me long to find you," he says. "I'm just naturally drawn to you. I can sense you, sort of, at least up here. Now, come on, I am not welcome around these parts."

"Uh…who are you?" Sam asks cautiously, stepping backwards, patting for a gun and finding nothing.

The man tilts his head. "You don't…? Ah, must be a side effect." He looks sad, regretful. "We know each other, Sam. I know you very well, in fact. I need you to come with me."

"Come with you where? Are you an angel? What do you want?" Sam asks, retreating further. Something about the man reverberates power in the same way angels did, but there was something different about him. Something…cold.

"I am," he says. "And I'm taking you back to Earth."

"Back to - but then - where -"

The man seizes his arm, and then everything turns to black.

****

Blood everywhere. Blood all over Sam's face, it's in his eyes, in his mouth. Blood on the floor around his head, blood on his hands. Its stink sits heavy in his nose and he coughs, exhaling as if that could push it out, and he heaves himself up to a sitting position. He holds a hand to his nose and touches wet, hot blood, but there's no pain. No pain at all, actually. Something slimy and wet is on his forehead and he flicks it off; it lands on the floor in front of him and it's pink and wrinkly and fleshy, almost like -

Sam grabs his head - his hair is matted with blood, but there are no wounds. Not even a scar. Nothing but the slimy bits of brain littering his scalp to indicate he'd ever been hurt. He wipes them off, his stomach churning.

For another moment, he remembers nothing, but then it comes back to him with the force of an oncoming train.

Lucifer.

Terror grips his heart. The fallen angel had just sat there on his bed after pretending to be Jess - fuck, he had held her and kissed her cheek and knowing it was Lucifer made him want to chew the skin of his lips off - and told him very straightforwardly that there was no way out. He would say yes. He will. It's inevitable.

"No," Sam says aloud, as if the angel is there in the empty motel room. "No, I won't."

There's a gun lying on the floor next to him. If he hadn't known before, he certainly knew now that he had just killed himself, that he had gone to heaven, that Lucifer had dragged him back. Just like he promised.

Was it easy, he wondered. Had it been a struggle, or was going to heaven as an angel just as simple as flying into the sky? Lucifer had said it didn't take him long to find him, that they were drawn to each other, sick sick sick, did that mean there was no escape?

Maybe if I run, if I get there and run as fast as I can. But how can I get myself to…?

Sam chews on his nails. I didn't remember Lucifer. But I remembered last night. Maybe if I wait another night, when I die, I'll remember him, and I'll remember to run.

With that grim vow in his head, he crawls into bed and tries to fall asleep, finally does sometime in the dead of night.

****

24 hours later. Sam had laid low, just gone to a grocery store to get some food and coffee, then sat in the motel room trying to think of what to do. How can I kill myself properly was such a darkly humorous idea that had suddenly become his goal. He can't just bring me back forever. I have to run somewhere he won't find me.

He decides to try a few experiments just in case he doesn't remember. In the dream, he had woken wearing the same clothing he'd died in, so he writes "RUN" on a piece of paper and stuffs it in his pocket. He does the same to another piece he plans to keep in his mouth. Just in case dead Sam doesn't remember Lucifer, he writes "DON'T TRUST THE BLOND MAN" on a third piece of paper.

Lastly, he screws a silencer onto the barrel of his gun; didn't want to alert other people in the motel, after all. It was a miracle nobody had moved his body the night before.

He pops the paper into his mouth, tries to get as little saliva on it as possible, then holds the gun to his head. His hand trembles and he thinks about Dean.

He fires.

****

Sam wakes up in a bedroom with a funny feeling in his mouth, but when he feels around with his tongue, there's nothing there. Must not've had enough water before bed.

"Sam! Time for school!" Dad yells from downstairs. Sam brightens and swings his legs out of bed; he liked this school. His teacher was really nice, he had a few friends, and he was getting really good grades. Every night he prayed that Dad would be okay just staying here forever.

Then he looks down; he didn't remember wearing jeans to bed.

Dream, he thinks. Then it comes back to him. Heaven. Lucifer.

Run.

In a flash, he's sprinting out of the room, down the hall, down the stairs, and outside of the house. The road he runs out onto stretches through the neighborhood, but then disappears into trees. He bolts towards them, his feet pounding on the concrete, and when he gets there, he nearly crashes into some huge redwoods.

Right, that time we were hunting a hide-behind in the state park, he remembers. But he doesn't let himself get lost in memories, just follows the path, running. Miraculously - but it does make sense - he doesn't get tired, so he just keeps running. On and on and on, deeper and deeper into the forest.

Just when he thinks he's made it, he's escaped, he's well and truly dead, he runs around a tree and smack into Lucifer, knocking them both over.

"There you are," Lucifer says from the ground, looking at Sam with an unbearable fondness. "You really tried to get away this time."

Sam scrambles away. "Get - get away from me, I'll never say yes to you," he spits out.

Lucifer sighs. "You will," he says. "And you need to be in your body for that. Now, come on."

Sam gets to his feet and bolts again, but he's only been running for a few seconds before Lucifer appears in front of him and grabs his wrist. "I'm sorry, Sam, but I have to do this," Lucifer says, and the world dissolves.

Sam's eyes shoot open and he sits up. His face is coated in blood and bits of skull and brain again, and he wipes it all off his nose and lips and eyelids and forehead. Dammit, he thinks, but he's determined. He will fucking make it happen. Maybe Lucifer will just get too tired of bringing him back, too annoyed, if it's too much of a hassle. Or maybe, just maybe, if he does enough damage to his body, Lucifer won't be able to shove his soul back into it.

This time, he aims the gun right above his pounding heart, waits a beat, and fires.

****

Brrring!

Jostled and bumped by other kids, Sam leaves school clutching his books to his chest. He's halfway to the school bus when he remembers that he's a grown adult and he's in heaven. He drops the books and bolts.

He runs down the street, turns a corner, runs down another, then the street fades into a gravel pathway through the woods. He keeps running, the gravel crunching under his shoes. The gravel path seems to stretch on for miles, so eventually he just turns to the left and starts bushwhacking through the forest, stepping over rocks and sticks, shoving his way through gaps in roots, avoiding prickly plants and poison oak, darting through the undergrowth.

Wings flutter. "Really, Sam?" Lucifer's there, mildly annoyed. "You know, it's not a piece of cake, getting to heaven. There are a lot of angels who really don't want me here."

"You won't have me," Sam says.

Lucifer just rolls his eyes and grabs Sam's arm, and they both fall into darkness.

****

"Look at you. What a mess."

Sam stirs, blinking. There's still blood on his face, and now it's completely soaked his shirt, gray stained with deep, thick red. The gun is gone. Blood has pooled around him on the floor.

A hand combs through his hair and strokes his jawline. "I told you I'd bring you back, Sam. That doesn't mean I wanted to."

Sam tries to get away, but there's an arm around his stomach holding him in place. It's…comforting, actually, he feels comfortable, and it's sickening. All of his instincts say to relax in Lucifer's arms, let him touch his face and hold him, and all of his instincts are wrong.

Lucifer's head rests on his, on his bloody hair. Chin, lips brush his head. This isn't a dream.

"How - how did you g-get here?" Sam croaks.

"You broke your ribs when you shot yourself," Lucifer says. "It broke that sigil Castiel put there. Don't worry, I recreated it, leaving myself out, of course. It was quite rude of him to keep me away from you, but we don't want company."

Sam's heart pumps new blood through his veins, old blood drying on him, sticky and lukewarm, and he itches to take his shirt off, but he can't move his arms very far. Lucifer adjusts his grip and - there's the gun, just off to the right.

"Let me go," he says, knowing Lucifer will refuse.

"You might try to hurt yourself again if I do," Lucifer says. "I can't let you. It breaks my heart, Sam. You'd really rather die - kill yourself - than be with me?"

He genuinely sounds sad, and it fills Sam with anger. "I'd kill myself a thousand times before I'd let you in," Sam snarls.

Lucifer doesn't respond for a while, just strokes his hair. Finally, he says, "It…wouldn't be how you think of it, Sam. You wouldn't be delegated to some tiny corner of your own head. I wouldn't dominate you, force you out, we'll be together inside of you. I'll let you see your brother and your friends, even let you out sometimes so you can talk to them as you. I'll give you everything you want, Sam. What else can I say?" He really truly sounds desperate, genuine pain in his voice.

Sam in- and exhales a deep breath. "No," he says. "Never."

Lucifer's grip had slackened in his little speech. In a flash, Sam reaches out, grabs the gun, aims at his own head, and pulls the trigger.

****

"Sam, this is getting ridiculous."

Sam blinks and rolls over, looking up. He was in bed, comfortable, cozy, with snow falling outside and Dean snoring in the room across from him. But Lucifer stands over him, arms crossed, not pleased.

"You're being quite selfish," Lucifer says. "Heaven drudges up an awful lot of bad memories for me. In case you've forgotten my tragic backstory, my Father and brother forced me into an isolation torture prison for millennia after said brother beat me in a fight. I'm not exactly thrilled to be here."

Sam sits up in bed and scoots away from Lucifer, staring at him. "How - how'd you get here so f -"

"I was with your soul when it departed," Lucifer says patiently. "I was able to follow it. Now, come on, can you promise you won't kill yourself again?"

"No. Just - just leave me here," Sam says, desperation leaking into his voice. "Just let me be dead. I should have died years ago, I should have died before anybody could die because of me. Just let me go. Let me stay here."

"I'm sorry, Sam, but I can only possess you if you're alive in your body," Lucifer says, sounding genuinely regretful. "I'll give you the peace you want, I promise, when we're together. I can create any world you want in your head for you to enjoy, if you want one. I could pull out your happiest memory, make a whole world just about it. Would you like that?"

Sam's stomach turns over; he didn't know one could feel nauseated in heaven. "I'll never be yours," he snaps.

Lucifer sighs and says, "Why don't we talk about this in a more tangible location." He touches Sam's face and the setting dissipates.

****

The whole room smells like blood. Sam raises a hand to wipe some off of his face but his hand is already sticky and red. Dried blood flakes off his wrist, his dry lips, his elbows. His head rests against something soft, and a hand is comfortably rubbing circles onto his hip, another running through his hair.

"You're so beautiful," Lucifer murmurs, enraptured. "Every time I heal you, I see it more and more."

Sam swallows.

"It hurts my feelings, really," Lucifer admits. "I don't know what else to offer you, Sam."

"Nothing," Sam says, his voice shot. "Nothing will get me to say yes to you." He looks around for his gun and doesn't see it. Maybe Lucifer took it away from him. "I told you, I'd kill myself a thousand times. This is my body. I decide what it does."

"It's our body," Lucifer corrects him gently. "You were made for me, just as I was made for you. You were holding onto it for me - for us - and I certainly appreciate how you've taken care of it. But…it's fate, Sam. You're going to say yes to me. Right now we're just counting down the minutes."

Sam's eyes dart around, still looking for the gun. But he has one other option, if he can't find it. "I won't," is all he can say.

"You will. The sooner you accept that, and the sooner you stop killing yourself, the sooner we can just move on from this whole mess," Lucifer says. "Please, Sam. I have a heart now, and you're breaking it. Just let me take care of you, or this will never end."

Sam wipes some blood that threatened to drip into his eyes. "Then it'll never end," he says, and shoves his pocketknife into his neck.

****

"Come on, you and Dad drink it, let me try," Sam urges.

Dean, eighteen and finally looking it, wiggles the beer bottle just out of reach. It's a bright sunny day and they're sitting on a few beach towels halfway up a sand dune. "No way, Sammy, Dad'll kill me if he finds out I let you drink. You're underage."

"So are you!"

"Only by three years. And hey, I can vote and buy cigarettes and join the army, I should be able to drink, too," Dean says, and drinks from the bottle. "You know?"

Sam folds his arms. "Well, if you're not gonna let me try it, can you at least not drink in front of me?"

Dean opens his mouth, then closes it, looking sly. "You know what? You can have it. But," he adds at Sam's victorious expression, "you have to drink the whole thing."

Sam scoffs; he's seen Dean and Dad knock back half a bottle at once before, and Dean didn't even tell him to chug it, he can totally drink the whole thing. Dean hands him the bottle and he takes an eager swig - and chokes.

"Yuck!" Sam gags, spitting. "That's gross! How can you drink that stuff?"

"Hey, what'd I tell you? You have to drink the whole bottle," says Dean, snickering. "That's the rule."

"But it's disgusting!"

"I knew you'd hate it, that's why I didn't give it to you," Dean says with a grin. "Finish the bottle, party animal. But, uh, if Dad asks, I did not give it to you."

Sam shoots Dean a scowl, then takes another drink of the beer and sticks his tongue out. "I'm gonna tell Dad you told me to drink the whole bottle."

"Then I'll tell Dad about that magazine you think I don't know about."

Sam's eyes go wide and he turns beet red. "B - y - th - but - the - you - no, no, no, you can't -"

"Whoa, relax, relax, I'm kidding," Dean says quickly, holding up his hands. "It's fine, I was checkin' out Playboy when I was fourteen. But, uh. Look, it's fine by me if you swing that way. Nothing wrong with it. And I really don't think Dad would care, either, he had a buddy in the army who was kind of a fruit, he told me."

Sam stares at him, relief flooding him from head to toe. "You - you really don't care that I…"

Dean shakes his head. "Nope. S' not like it's hurting anyone." He reaches out and ruffles Sam's hair. "But I'd, uh, keep it quiet outside of the two of us, you know? Lotta folks aren't cool about that sort of thing."

Sam nods firmly. "I know. I haven't told anyone," he says, and smiles. "Thanks, Dean."

"Yup. Gimme that." Dean snatches the beer bottle from Sam's hand and takes a long drink, then hands it back to him. "Rest is for you. You wanna swim?"

"Yeah!"

They take off their shirts and run down the steep sand dune, nearly falling on top of each other, and run right into the ocean. It's colder than they thought and both boys are immediately complaining about the temperature. Dean shoves Sam's head under for a few seconds, so when Sam resurfaces, gasping, he splashes a ton of water at Dean, who yelps and splashes Sam right back. After a minute, Sam heads back to shore, giving Dean the finger when he calls him a pussy, and begins the climb back up the sand dune.

Up at the top, Sam is hot again, and he flops down onto the beach towel, dripping water everywhere. He dries off his hands and grabs for his backpack, searching for a book, but -

Why do his hands look so weird? They look…old.

"Are you having fun?"

Sam jolts and turns around. In a heartbeat, he's twenty-five, not fourteen, and he recognizes the man who sits down next to him.

"I can do this, you know," Lucifer says, gesturing at the beach. "I can let you live in your best memories when we're in your body together. I didn't realize your brother accepting you was such a big moment…but it makes sense."

Sam is silent - mad at Lucifer, hating how his angel can just watch his memories like this, but also…

He wiggles his toes in the sand. It feels so real.

"I would have this, with you?" he asks.

Lucifer's eyes brighten. "You could live through any memory for as long as you want, Sam," he promises. "You can relive any happy moment. I could make new ones, too. You could live in them and forget about everything else."

Sam thinks about blood and pain and Dean's disappointed face and the death and destruction he had brought - Lucifer had brought. He thinks about this day at the beach, so many years ago now. He thinks about every other moment in his life he loved. He thinks, guiltily, that it really would be nice to just…forget. Forget about all of it. Lose himself in this.

"Can I take you back now?" Lucifer asks gently. "Can we talk?"

Sam nods, and the beach fades.

****

The stink of blood seems to have permanently lodged itself in Sam's nose. It's all he can smell. He moves his hand and touches a pool of the stuff. He remembers, in flickers, drinking his own blood when he was at his most desperate. Wonders how it tastes now.

Lucifer holds him, cradles him. "I cleaned you up this time," he says, brushing hair out of Sam's face; indeed, it's no longer matted with blood. "I wanted to see your face. I want to see you smile again, like you did in that memory."

Sam's mouth is a straight line. He's sure his pocket knife is gone along with the gun.

"I have one more thing to show you," Lucifer says, stroking Sam's jaw, down to his neck, hovering over his chest. "I can give this to you, too."

Sam gasps - this was brand new. Sheer ecstasy, sheer bliss, runs through every vein and artery, lighting up his body. He feels like he's floating, powerful jolts of concentrated joy sending currents up and down his limbs, culminating in the pit of his stomach, like - fuck. He flushes, suddenly hot, suddenly very very turned on, squirming as the feeling settles deep within, as Lucifer's touch turns him inside out.

It feels like it's over as soon as it begins, and he's left panting in Lucifer's lap, hoping and praying he isn't hard. Lucifer is still touching his hair, touching his face, hand on his chest straying down to his stomach, pushing up his shirt, touching his hot skin. "It can all be yours," Lucifer murmurs. "I could give you this whenever you want."

It's getting harder and harder to keep saying no. The promise of relief, of solace, of pleasure, it's overwhelming. Sam arches his back, craning for - something, wanting something.

"That's it, Sam," says Lucifer softly. "Put an end to this. Say yes to me."

Sam remembers why he killed himself in the first place.

He remembers how he got here.

He remembers that first meeting, all of Lucifer's poison.

He touches the blood on the ground.

"No," he says. "Always no. Always."

Lucifer's hands on him clench, then ease. "We'll see about that," he says quietly, sadly, and presses a kiss to Sam's forehead. Then, with the flap of giant wings, he's gone.

Sam exhales. Finally alone. And there - his gun, his pocket knife, all just out of reach from where Lucifer had been holding him.

He picks them up, looks between them. He could do it. He could do it again. Again and again and again. And Lucifer would bring him back every single time.

There was no way out.

-------------------------

if u enjoyed this give it a like and/or a rb tysm <3333

#averyfics #spn fic #uhhhh. ill tentatively tag as #samifer #even tho its light shipping and very much onesided #anyway. hi

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damienthepious · 6 years ago

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*taps mic* hello y’all! for this week’s LKT, i proudly present to you... *checks notes* ... *coughs* ... uhh it’s just pwp!!

Awake With Wolf Teeth

[ao3]

[Rating: Explicit

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla, Lord Arum/Sir Damien

Characters: Lord Arum, Sir Damien, Rilla

Additional Tags: Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Smut, (i'm not a scalie but i'm also not a coward), Pining, Reunion Sex, (jesus fuck how do people tag things i'm such a disaster), Biting, Quiet Sex, Sneaky Sex, (adflkajds i hope y'all like this...... i mean... i do? but what the hell do I know??????)

Summary: Sir Damien has been gone for weeks now, and Lord Arum is incapable of waiting a single moment more before he can hold him again.

Notes: Look. I swear I'm writing smut that's NOT just these two. I have uhhhh three more in the works, two with all three of them and one that's Arum/Rilla. This one just. Took over my brain. uhhhhhhh have fun I hope????? *slinks away anxiously* Title taken from the song Heartbeats, by José González.]

What Arum is doing today ranks on the list of the riskiest things that he has ever done. It is dangerous, and foolish, and completely necessary because if Arum does not get to touch his knight again very soon he feels as if he is going to catch fire and burn up to a husk.

Damien has been gone for more than a month now. The Citadel has him and a cadre of less skilled knights on a pointless hunt for a creature they will almost certainly fail to catch (then again, with Damien’s considerable skill he can be sure of nothing), and Arum has, bit by bit, been losing his ability to function with each day of his absence.

It’s madness, really.

His entire life, it has been just himself and the Keep, but suddenly now that Amaryllis and Damien have insinuated themselves into his life and his heart and his bed, he has become terrifyingly reliant on them. He is furious with Amaryllis about it as well, because she seems to be handling the lack of their knight with substantially more grace than Arum is.

“Hey,” she says as she strokes his arm soothingly, as she kisses the scales beside his frill. “It’s alright, Arum. I’ve just had a lot more practice, worrying about Damien while he’s gone. Of course you want him back. Missing him is nothing to be ashamed of.”

He scoffs, of course. He’s not ashamed, not of this and not of anything. What Arum is, is irritated. He is irritated with Amaryllis, for being so earnest and understanding about the whole thing (he clings to her in bed when she stays the night, and he knows she is as acutely aware of the empty space in their bed as he is). He is irritated with himself for his new and unwelcome weaknesses (like a missing limb, Damien being gone, like his mind is a fuzzy and unwelcome place). He is irritated with Damien himself (a vague mental litany, oscillating between how dare you leave and please come back). He is irritated with the knights that are so ungratefully lucky to share their time with Damien in his absence. He is irritated, he finds, with everyone and everything involved in keeping Arum away from his poet.

“Saints above, just go to him then if you’re so torn up about it,” Amaryllis says a few days later, and behind the exasperation in her tone there is a worry that rankles. The idea of it, though, of seeing Damien early- the very idea sets his heart racing, and he can tell that Amaryllis sees it in his eyes. “According to his letters he’ll be passing pretty close to the western edge of the swamp over the next day or so,” she says. “Just- go and see him before you drive me crazy right along with you.”

“I-” he scoffs. Again. “I am perfectly fine, Amaryllis. I do not need to be coddled or- I do not need to see him.”

“I know,” Amaryllis says with a sigh, and then she lifts a hand to cup his cheek. “But I know that you want to. I get it, Arum, I really do. When we started seeing each other, the first time he left to go on a longer mission, I didn’t even know that I could miss a person like that. Just- promise me if you do go see him, you’ll be careful? Last thing we would need is for one of his little traveling buddies to spot you sneaking around their camp, you know?”

Arum doesn’t even know what part of that to be most offended by, which he later suspects is intentional misdirection on the part of the herbalist, but when she affectionately pats his cheek and departs through a portal back to her hut for her next appointment, Arum can’t stop thinking about the possibility.

Can’t stop thinking about seeing Damien, holding Damien. When he tries to do some work in the greenhouse he drops an entire tray of tools at the unbidden memory of Damien’s dexterous fingers, twirling an arrow before he notches it. He snarls at the Keep when it asks if he is feeling ill, then quickly, quietly apologizes. Obviously he is in no state to work, which has begun to feel more demoralizing than infuriating.

By the time Amaryllis returns to join him for dinner, he relents, defeated, and over their meal she helps him work out the most likely spot for him to potentially intercept their knight. Arum wants to bring her along as well (he does not simply wish to trade which of his lovers he is missing, he wants to have them both, they belong in his arms-), but she shakes her head.

“Maybe you can sneak into a camp of sleeping knights without any issues, Arum, but I don’t exactly have your stealth. You go,” she says, and kisses him on the cheek. “Tell him I miss him and he’d better hurry up. Have fun,” she says with a sly grin, “and be careful.”

And Arum grumbles, and clings even more tightly to her for a long, quiet stretch before the sun goes down, but as soon as it is properly dark he nuzzles a lingering goodbye into her hair and then portals to the westernmost reach of his land.

It doesn’t take more than a few hours to find evidence of them – humans are not adept at crossing the wilderness without leaving a rather obvious trail – and then perhaps an hour more to follow that trail to its conclusion.

The knights are all sleeping in small, individual tents arranged around a central campfire which has already burned down to the dimmest embers, which is rather convenient as far as Arum is concerned. There is a knight he does not know standing watch, but Arum slips past easily with a combination of subtle camouflage and cunning, and it only takes a moment of scenting the air to find the only tent he cares about.

(Arum feels a senseless pulse of fury with the watchman; a monster with half his skill and none of his affection could slip past in the night, endangering his honeysuckle, and that possibility is utterly unacceptable-)

It is too dark for human vision inside Damien’s tent, but Arum is beyond those sorts of limitations. He can see the sleeping form of his knight easily, and he looks smaller without his armor on, looks vulnerable curled alone in a thin bedroll on the uneven ground, and Arum has the hot urge to scoop him up and simply use his emergency packet of swamp dirt to ferry the both of them back home right this instant, to put Damien back exactly where he belongs, in Arum’s bed between himself and their herbalist.

He takes a breath, putting a stopper to his more unreasonable urges, and then he slinks closer.

Damien is a trained and skillful knight, of course, and Damien is also, in a word, vocal, so the first thing Arum does when he is close enough is to very, very gently place one of his palms over Damien’s mouth, running a second hand soothingly through his hair and hissing in a shushing way as Damien’s eyes flutter open in the dark, as his body jolts underneath Arum’s own.

“Only me, honeysuckle,” Arum says in his lowest whisper, close against Damien’s ear, and the knight relaxes so instantly that Arum fears for a moment that he has somehow fallen right back to sleep. Damien lifts his hands, though, pressing his palms against Arum’s chest as if he’s checking that the lizard is actually real. “I hope you will forgive me for waking you,” Arum hisses, uncovering Damien’s mouth now that he’s sure Damien is not going to shout.

“What are you doing here?” Damien whispers, words tumbling together in his haste. “How-”

“You have been gone entirely too long, honeysuckle. I wanted-” Arum starts, but almost every way that he could end that sentence is actually too embarrassing to stand. “I wanted- you,” he settles on eventually, and Arum is close enough that he can feel the way Damien’s breathing shifts deeper.

“I… this is like a dream, Lord Arum,” Damien whispers, joy and desire balancing perfectly on his tongue as his hands drift across Arum’s shoulders. “Each night out here, each night alone, each night has been spent wanting you, wanting Rilla, wanting the both of you together, dreaming of your touch and then waking alone, and to dream your touch and then to realize that it is no dream at all-”

Arum purrs low, Damien’s words working their usual obscene magic on his body, making his own heart race, and he has missed this, he has missed this foolish little creature so absurdly much. He flicks his tongue out to run up the delicious column of Damien’s throat, his hands in Damien’s hair, on his shoulders, pulling the bedroll down. “No dream, honeysuckle,” he breathes. “I… I thought that perhaps you could do with a reminder of what is waiting for you at home, when you complete your little errand out here.” He scrapes his teeth gently back down Damien’s neck, over his shoulder. “I thought I should give you a taste of what you have surely been missing, while I have this chance, while you were close enough to reach.”

“A taste,” Damien repeats breathlessly. “Oh Saints, oh Saints I have been dreaming of a taste nearly every night, my lily-”

“Then allow me to indulge you,” Arum says softly, his hands working quickly and efficiently to pull away the fabric of blankets, the fabric of clothing which separate their bodies, baring Damien's skin and his own scales in the safety of the dark. “Though, you must promise me that you will try to keep control of that tongue of yours as you take that taste. I believe this is what one might call a tryst, honeysuckle, and I do not think that either of us would appreciate interruption by any particularly sharp-eared cohorts of yours.”

Damien’s eyes widen, and Arum suspects that the knight is only now remembering his surroundings in earnest, as surprised as he is with this nighttime visit.

“O-of course,” he pants, and Arum grins in the dark before he slithers his body down.

“Good,” he hisses. “I think, however, that I will take my taste before I give you yours.”

Predictably, Damien makes a soft noise when one of Arum’s hands presses down on his hip and his tongue flicks a tickling line down his stomach, but Damien slaps a hand over his own mouth just in time to muffle the gasp he gives as another of Arum’s hands impatiently finds his hardening cock. He gives Damien a few slow, soft strokes to start, drinking in the way that he trembles and jerks his hips up towards Arum’s touch. This- this is how Damien should be, reveling in joy and touch, utterly spoiled by the caresses of his lovers, appreciated and adored.

Arum moves his hand faster, purring low and entirely out of his own control, and he watches Damien near-silently writhe beneath him.

Damien’s heartbeat- Damien’s heat-

He still and forever fills Arum with an urgent, desperate sort of hunger.

Arum loosens his grip, wrapping his thumb and two fingers around the base of Damien’s cock so that when he slips his tongue out he can twine it around the rest of his length. Damien muffles the noises he can’t help but make, the joyous-overwhelmed gasp that Arum is gleefully familiar with by now, and Arum chuckles, low enough not to be heard but just enough that he knows Damien will feel it.

As his tongue works, twisting and squeezing and flicking, his free hands are quietly busy as well, uncorking the small vial of oil he had the foresight to bring and slicking his fingers (on one of the hands he keeps with claws blunted and softened, just for this, just for giving pleasure to his fragile humans), before he slips them teasingly up the inside of Damien’s thighs.

“Arum,” Damien whispers through his fingers, and his other hand reaches clumsily down through the darkness until he can caress Arum’s face, until he can run his palm up over one of Arum’s horns and grip there, not pushing or pulling Arum where he wants him, but merely scrabbling for purchase as Arum plies and pleasures him. Arum growls low and careful, squeezing his tongue around Damien’s length in a rippling wave, and then he presses a slick finger slowly up and in.

Damien holds his breath rather than whine, and Arum pauses, waits for Damien to relax around him and catch his breath before he moves his hand again. He unwinds his tongue from around Damien’s cock, letting the hand around its base resume its previous determined stroke as he lifts himself to better watch Damien’s reactions as he slowly twists his finger, slowly pumps it in and out.

Careful, careful. Arum is… particularly careful, this night. Particularly attentive, particularly focused. It has been too long since he has been allowed this, and he wants to indulge himself- but more than that, Arum wants very dearly to indulge Damien. To give the poet as much satisfaction as possible, to pleasure him as thoroughly as he is able. He moves his fingers with care, taking his time, treating the poet to the kinds of touches Arum knows he will most enjoy and ensuring that he is more than ready, that he is nearly coming apart with desire before Arum allows a second finger to join the first.

Damien is painfully beautiful. Shatteringly beautiful, like this. Alight from the inside out with rapturous joy, with his strange soft hair falling over his forehead, with his strong, lean musculature tensing and his entire body near-glowing with heat. Arum feels lucky, feels greedy, feels like all his foolishness and yearning in the last few weeks were entirely justified for the sake of this gorgeous, loving creature coming apart beneath him now.

Arum has a hand in Damien’s hair, another carefully circling his nipple with a claw, a third working his cock and the fourth plying him open, every touch focused and just barely skirting the edge of teasing, and only when Damien can barely keep from letting his tiny, torturous noises grow beyond his control, only when he scrabbles his hands desperately on Arum’s sides, clutching and pulling and whispering please please please, only then does Arum oblige him with a third finger.

“If only you could see yourself, honeysuckle,” he murmurs against Damien’s ear, and Damien pants hard and presses his face into Arum’s neck, burying a quiet whine in Arum’s frill. “Oh, the poetry you could compose, if you could see the way you come undone-”

“If I c-could only see you,” Damien mutters in response, his hands clutching tight to Arum’s back as he tries to press himself down harder onto Arum’s fingers, and his voice wavers almost too high when he continues, “a thousand times curse the darkness for keeping your beauty from me tonight, for keeping me from drinking in every single detail of this impossible encounter, for hiding your eyes from me-”

“Shhhhhh,” Arum warns gently, then flicks his tongue quick over Damien’s lips. “I know, dearest creature. When you return home, you may take every single detail from me, you may take me in plain sunlight if you so desire, and you may tell me every single comparison to my eyes and scales and claws you plan to weave into your works, and I even promise not to complain because I will be too spoiled to have you safe and home in my arms again.” Arum pauses long enough to press his mouth against Damien’s, only an almost-kiss until Damien kisses back, until he gasps lightly and dances the tip of his tongue along the sharp edges of Arum’s teeth. “But for now we must be careful, honeysuckle, and quiet.”

Damien nods, panting against Arum’s mouth, and when he whispers, “Sorry,” it comes out nearly soundless.

“No apologies.” Arum nips at Damien’s lip, playful. “I would make you scream for me, honeysuckle, if I could. You know that I would.”

“I know,” Damien whispers, and Arum can feel the pleased heat in his cheeks so he nuzzles against them.

Arum’s hands slow during that exchange, but he still pleasures his poet as they speak their hushed words, and now he twists his fingers inside Damien, watches and feels him squirm underneath him. “So tempting…” he murmurs. “So delicious you look…”

“Please,” Damien hisses, writhing, trying to press the fingers deeper, trying to press his cock into Arum’s hand more effectively. “Please, my lily, I feel as if you are taking me apart- the most blissful torture but torture nonetheless, please, please-”

“You know as well, honeysuckle,” Arum growls, low and slow, “that I can never deny you anything, especially not when you ask so prettily.”

He keeps his grip on Damien’s cock as he slips his fingers away, as he properly slicks the lower of his own two cocks and then lifts Damien’s legs until the angle is just right, until he can line himself up and press forward.

Damien quietly keens as Arum slowly, slowly fills him, heat coiling low in his stomach at how easily the poet takes him, at how eagerly he presses his hips up to meet Arum’s first thrust. He pauses there for a moment, ensuring that Damien is ready, waiting for Damien to give a breathless eager whine before he starts to fuck him in earnest.

He wraps his hand around Damien’s throat. He does not squeeze- he only holds him like that, another layer to the way he is pinning Damien against the ground, feeling Damien’s heart thudding against his fingertips, feeling the vibration of all the tiny noises Damien is holding in as Arum fucks him slow and thorough. One hand tangling in the bedroll beneath him, one hand clutching Arum’s shoulder for purchase, Damien bites his lip hard and doesn’t even seem to notice that his helpless whines are growing lewder and louder with each thrust, and Arum’s heart feels hot with affection but clearly they cannot risk-

“Hush, shhhhh little honeysuckle,” Arum hisses low, pressing a hand over Damien’s mouth gently but firmly to muffle the noise, and Damien rolls his entire body up into Arum, shivering, and Arum blinks in surprise because- he is quite familiar with that reaction from his poet.

“Arum,” Damien gasps into his palm, and Arum feels the vibration of it more than he actually hears the word.

“You… you enjoy that, honeysuckle?” Arum whispers, both teasing and pleased all at once as he rocks fervently, steadily into Damien, holding Damien’s noises carefully back. “You enjoy that I must keep you quiet? You know that I adore every single skill of your tongue, of course, and it pains me that I cannot bask in your noises. I have missed them, missed pulling such sweet song from your lips.” His own lips he keeps close against Damien’s ear, and he flicks his tongue over the seashell curve of it as he pauses to hiss. “Of course, in my greed for you I never paused to consider- do you enjoy being denied, honeysuckle?”

Damien squeezes his eyes shut, panting hard, and nods so slightly that Arum would not have noticed it if he couldn’t feel it through his hand upon him.

“Ahh,” Arum hisses, slips a hand into Damien’s hair, cupping the back of his head and licking up his neck. “You delightful creature… I will indulge you in anything you desire, honeysuckle. I will indulge you even in denial, if it pleases you-”

Damien whispers against his palm, a near-silent litany that Arum takes a long moment to recognize as a repeated murmur, echoing love love love love into his scales, and then Arum has to focus beyond the unceasing rhythm of his hips on burying the helpless growl he wants to make in response.

Damien taps Arum’s side, a small signal but one that Arum quickly responds to, slowing his thrusts and lifting his hand away from his mouth immediately.

“Arum,” Damien breathes, and then bites his lip for a moment, humming low and clinging tighter. “I- I want…”

He trails off entirely and Arum slows further, more rocking them together than thrusting anymore. He scrapes his claws through Damien’s hair again, flicking his tongue out to tease Damien’s neck, then up by his ear. “Whatever you desire,” he says again, low and sure and hungry. Anything Damien wants he would give, anything to make his honeysuckle happy, to keep himself bright and beloved in the poet’s memory, Arum would do anything. “I will give you whatever you desire, if you only ask-”

“Mark me,” Damien chokes, half-swallowing the words, and even in this darkness Arum can see his face darken further, can feel even more heat rushing to fill his cheeks. “I want you to- to mark me.”

Arum blinks, his fingers still caught in the softness of the poet’s hair, his movements still slow and careful. “Honeysuckle?”

“I still feel within a dream, my lily,” Damien murmurs, his own hands caressing up and down Arum’s back. “I fear I will wake and I will be convinced that I imagined you in the depth of my homesickness, my heartsickness. I want- I want proof I can carry with me. I want your teeth upon me,” he says, and Arum’s breath catches sharp. “I want to feel you, I want to feel you still tomorrow. I want the echoes of your touch upon me when you are gone, I want to feel this,” he rocks his hips, meeting Arum’s movements, and Arum has to clench his teeth to keep from growling his overwhelmed pleasure, “I want to feel you for as long as I am able. If you- If you put your teeth to my shoulder, if you bite me there, only I will know-”

“Honeysuckle,” Arum repeats, a shiver running through his body from his horns to his tail.

“It will be hidden by my armor, but I will know,” Damien whispers, and presses his lips against Arum’s neck. “If you leave a mark. It will be proof to remind me, to remind me that you love me, that you gave this pleasure to me, that you wanted me enough to claim me-”

Arum can’t help the way his body responds to that, thrusting deeper into Damien’s heat with a low, controlled purr. “I want you always, Damien,” he murmurs, and then he drags his teeth lightly, so lightly over the skin of Damien’s shoulder. Damien gasps, clasps a hand over his own mouth again as Arum’s teeth tease at his collarbone, as the monster rolls his hips with more purpose. “I want you enough that it makes me foolish, makes me take ridiculous risks, makes me come for you like this, like a thief in the night-”

“A thief,” Damien hisses through his fingers, and then his voice takes on a familiar, lilting, sing-song cadence, though he keeps his volume careful-low. “O come you now to thieve my heart, you beast of fae-wild night?”

Unfair tactics, Arum thinks as his body shudders at Damien’s voice, and then he slips a hand down between their bodies so he can wrap it around Damien’s cock again, stroking in careful time to his thrusts, making Damien’s breath come as ragged as his own between his rhythmic words.

“All craft and guile undone, in vain, your questing overdue,” he gasps. “Within your garden blooms my heart, ‘neath silver stars alight, an off’ring free, my fruit and tree, my monstrous love, for you-”

Arum clenches his teeth, hisses through them, and then he buries his unoccupied hands in Damien’s hair, tilting his head to the side so he can better lick and nip at his throat, so he can drag his teeth with careful promise over the crook of Damien’s neck, over his bare, strong shoulder. “That- clever- tongue- of yours,” he grits out between helpless thrusts, “will be the death of me.” He lets his hands roam as he nuzzles Damien’s throat, as the poet throws his head back and bites his lip to keep the noises in.

“Please,” Damien whispers, reaching out in the darkness, and Arum has no choice but to reach back, tangling their fingers together as Damien rolls his hips, pushing Arum deeper. “My lily, my lily, please-”

Arum growls, burying his face in the crook of Damien’s neck and panting there as Damien provokes him to move faster. “Honeysuckle,” he purrs, “you know I can deny you nothing.”

“Your teeth, Lord Arum.” Damien clings, writhes, tries to press Arum’s snout towards his shoulder. “Please, please-”

“Shhhhh,” Arum soothes, pressing his hand over Damien’s mouth again, gently. He knows the poet too well to do anything else. “Patience, my honeysuckle,” he says, soft with his mouth against Damien’s collarbone. He adjusts his grip, lifting Damien’s hips so he can more easily speed his movements. Arum loosens the careful control he’s been keeping on his pace, reveling in the tiny choked-off noises Damien gasps into his hand as he fucks him harder, fucks him more urgently.

He can feel Damien’s lips moving against his palm, can hear the barest edge of his pleas and quiet cries, but he keeps his teeth light and teasing on Damien’s skin, delays that gratification to instead focus on drawing out every bit of pleasure he can with his thrusts, with his hand around Damien’s cock. Delays, until he can feel Damien trembling beneath and around him, until he can feel Damien start to come apart, overwhelmed tears pooling at the corners of his eyes as they press closed in the darkness.

Then, Arum bites down.

Careful, even in this- his teeth are less sharp than his claws but still he has no wish to draw blood, he only means to give the poet what he asks for, clamping his jaws down over his shoulder with just enough pressure to bruise. The hand he has pressed over Damien’s mouth only barely manages to muffle his cry of mingling pleasure and pain, and it is enough, it is just enough-

Damien comes with a gasp, and Arum holds him, holds him, slows and deepens his thrusts as Damien squeezes around him and spills hot over Arum’s hand and both of their stomachs, and that is just enough as well, the victory of bringing his honeysuckle to the heights of pleasure, and Arum pulls his teeth away from Damien’s delicate skin so that when he finds his own release he can clench them together without worry as he rolls his hips helplessly and comes inside his poet, comes onto his stomach with a muffled hiss.

After a long, panting moment Damien draws on some reserve of strength that baffles Arum and lifts his head, kissing along the line of Arum’s mouth with unselfconscious adoration, and Arum nuzzles back in kind, buffeting their foreheads together and purring his satisfaction as he pulls his hips back slowly, slipping from his lover before they grow uncomfortable.

Arum fishes out a cloth from his cast-aside cloak, cleaning the both of them off with gentle attention and then resettling the blankets around them, curling close and soft and satisfied around his poet.

“You do not know how viciously I wish to carry you off home with me right this instant, honeysuckle,” Arum sighs into Damien’s neck, clinging tight to his warm, pliant body as both of their heartbeats slow. “How terribly I want to spirit you away and keep you in my clutches, to bring you to where you belong, to kidnap you back to the Keep and drop you triumphantly into Amaryllis’ arms…”

“I imagine that you desire it precisely as desperately as I do, my love,” Damien whispers, nuzzling Arum’s cheek with his own, exhaling deeply. He lifts a hand, then, and brushes it over the vivid purpling arc on his shoulder with a distinct look of pleasure, of satisfaction.

Arum feels, just a little, as if his heart is trying to climb up his windpipe.

“Damien,” he whispers, and then he leans down to lick his tongue over the mark, feather-light and soothing. “Perhaps… perhaps I shouldn’t have-”

“Thank you,” Damien interrupts, and then he kisses the corner of Arum’s mouth and comes away smiling. “Not even my unsteady mind could ignore such bold, lingering proof of your affection.”

Arum swallows roughly, then flicks his tongue up Damien’s cheek with fond affection. “Hate having to miss you, honeysuckle,” he admits in a whisper, clinging as if he wishes to pull Damien into himself, as if they could possibly be any closer. “Love you too fiercely to be without you.”

Damien makes a small, pained noise, cupping Arum’s face in his hands and kissing him again, kissing him soft, sweet, like petals and rain. “Oh, my lovely lily,” he says, and Arum can hear the tears he his trying not to shed. “I love you so much. So much that it breaks my heart to be without you, without Rilla…”

“She asked that I pass along that she wishes for you to hasten your quest and hurry home,” Arum mutters, “as, of course, do I.”

Damien sighs. “I know. I intend to be home as soon as I am able, as soon as the Saints allow.”

Arum shifts, and Damien- Damien makes another small noise, clinging tightly, and Arum hears his heart stutter fast for a moment.

He blinks, and drapes himself back over the entirety of Damien’s body indulgently. “Not going anywhere just yet, honeysuckle.”

“I… I am perfectly aware that I cannot keep you here forever, my lily.”

Arum growls lightly. “Nnnno,” he admits, “not forever, not that, of course. But I can stay a little longer, yet.” He buffets his cheek against Damien’s, nuzzling closer, closer. “I can stay until you are asleep again, at least. Until you are dreaming, until I can leave you safe in slumber.”

Damien kisses him, kisses him, cups Arum’s face in his hands, kisses him. “Soon, soon I shall return to the both of you, with new tales and triumph. Soon shall we have our homecoming, earned and exultant, and then I will give to the both of you every single word I have had to carry with me during our separation, every kiss I have wished to press to your lips, every pleasure I have dreamed of spoiling you with… soon, my lily. Soon.”

Damien’s singsong cadence is almost too soothing, and Arum feels as if he could outright melt into Damien’s arms. He sighs, flicks his tongue out to tickle Damien’s jaw, drifts his claws softly up and down Damien’s arms. “It will not be soon enough, honeysuckle. I am an impatient creature. But for you…” his words falter, and he brushes some errant curls away from Damien’s brow. “For you, I will wait.” He pauses. “Impatiently, of course.”

“With an abundance of complaints,” Damien says with a soft laugh, and kisses Arum’s nose.

“Needless to say,” Arum growls, and then he gives a wry sort of smile. “But I have taken enough rest from you already, my poet. No more teasing, now. Return to sleep. I will hold you until you are safe in slumber, and when morning comes…” he drifts his claws careful over the purpling arc on Damien’s skin, “you can carry me with you, until you can return to us in fact and not just in dream and memory.”

Damien purses his lips, expression gone yearning and wild for a brief moment before he nods, lifting one of Arum’s hands to kiss his knuckles, pressing them against his cheek with a sigh. “I love you so dearly, my Arum,” he murmurs.

In this moment, quiet and dark, Arum even feels like he might deserve that.

“I love you, Damien,” he answers, voice rough. “Now sleep, little honeysuckle, and I will watch over you.”

After a few more kisses, (three or four, nine or ten, impossible to say because neither of them count), Damien drifts, his breaths evening out, his heart beating slow and gentle, and Arum holds him close and safe.

And with the poet asleep, no one has to know exactly how long it takes before Arum can bear to tear himself away.

#*shrugs loudly and disappears into the mist*#elle's fanfic #the penumbra podcast #second citadel #rad bouquet #lizard kissin' tuesday #lord arum #sir damien #lak;djfsdf this is my 50th fic on ao3 alkdjfa;ldkjf

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