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Water
Bubbles.
Claws.
It was an instinct he still couldn't change. He knew there wasn't a point, really. But he still felt the need to shove sharp nails into flesh as he thrashed desperately (again, meaninglessly) under the water, as he was held down in the tub by his throat.
It didn't matter if he died. Not really.
Death in dreams never counted.
-- --
He swept his arms out and down.
The tide pulled.
His own buoyancy fought him.
The crash.
Every way but down.
Every force but relief.
Muscles screamed.
Didn't they always?
-- --
Blood. He wasn't sure whose it was. His or the other's. He watched it spin out into the water like smoke. Then like ink. Then a cloud.
-- --
Diving was hard. Real diving. Real "holy fuck do I have to get to the bottom" diving.
Gravity never helped you down. Not the way your body helped you to the surface.
Who needs air?
He wanted to live.
-- --
The light was disappearing. His lungs were burning. His hands scrambled uselessly at the quickly disappearing surface. Soon his throat would lock up. And then, eventually, stress would become too much and his throat would release and he'd fill with disgusting, brackish water.
He absently wondered if the kelpie would fuck him before or after that happened.
It didn't matter. Death in life never counted.
-- --
The Mockingbird coughed and sputtered as his "current paramour" yanked his head out of the full basin by his hair. He ignored the words tossed his way and pulled idly at his bonds as he struggled to regain breath, which was a lot harder than when there was just water in his lungs.
Finally, he licked his lips. "Goat blood? Really? You people have awfully specific feti--GARK!"
Blood in his nose.
Blood in his mouth.
Blood slowly edging up into his throat. In a matter of minutes, it would be in his lungs.
He hated real things. They made him laugh. He hated laughing.
What did it matter?
-- --
He was so deep he didn't dare stop swimming, no matter how much his muscles ached.
He couldn't even see anymore, the light having disappeared so very long ago.
He knew down only by it being the direction opposite from where he was being pulled.
If only he could get to the bottom.
If only his fingers could brush reality.
Then he would find something lost.
Then he would know something forgotten.
Then he would wake up and die.
-- --
The Mockingbird puked rivers of ice water across beautiful artisan tile in colors and patterns a human could never imagine wasting on a servant's quarters. It was already on its way out as he came to.
The sprite that had been sent to attend to his mess scowled in disapproval.
He would hurt her for that. He would make her scream. He'd horrify her in ways he wished he still could be. And he'd drown her when he was done and she'd stay dead.
Because she wasn't dreaming.
-- --
There are hands around his throat and his blood is coiling in the water like untangled promises, his long hair drifting up past him like blood. He's rising down. Crayak's black hair is an oil spill on the surface above him.
He's not struggling yet.
Then he is.
The water churns silver and red as he thrashes, dying. Birds weren't made to swim. Shadows coalesce in his vision. The fingers around his neck tighten and bruise and then suddenly release. But he's gone too far.
He inhales. The water is a knife down his throat, into his lungs. He hits the bottom, and it's deep and dark.
He opens his eyes. The knife is in his hand instead and in Crayak's throat instead and the blood is silver and-
He comes to and exhales. Sullied water gushes out and spills down his shoulders and onto the already soaked bed and he can't remember how he got there and-
-- --
"Is this your first time drowning?"
"No."
#tw: drowning#tw: violence#tw: blood#tw: abusive relationships#submission#Supermorphs#only the last part is mine
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The truth is, I was bored. My mother blissing ahead of me, rosebuds rising in her footsteps, And I skulking behind, thinking, Oh look. She walks in beauty. Again.
Her power could boil rivers, if she chose. She doesn’t choose. She scatters Heliotrope behind her.
And me, I’ve no powers. I think she’d like A decorative daughter. A link to the humans She feeds with her scattered wheat. A daughter wed to a swineherd’s just the thing To show that Demeter’s a down-to-earth Kind of goddess.
Do you know what swineherds talk about? Swine. Diseases of, ways to cook; “That ‘un’s got no milk for ‘er shoats; Him, there, he’s got boggy trotters.”
And when he leaned in, smiling, While we sat in a bower sagged with Mother’s honeysuckle, When he said, “Now, My herd’s growing and I’m thinking I could feed a wife—” That’s when I snapped, I howled, I ran.
And when a hole opened up, a beautiful black, in all the pastels of my mother’s sowing. Let me fix the lie: Nobody grabbed, nobody pulled. I jumped.
I thought it was a tiny earthquake, Thought I was killing myself, Starting a long journey to Hades. It was a more direct trip Then I’d imagined— I landed in his lap.
He just looked at me, said “Well,” And kept driving his chariot down, Flicked his leather reins near my face. He did not give me flowers. He never spoke of pigs.
Didn’t speak much at all. Just took me down in darkness And did dark things. I liked them.
I stumbled through his grey gardens, after, Sore and smiling. And the gardener said, “Little girl, Little sunlit flower, You belong in the world above. Trust that they’ll come for you, But while you wait Don’t eat the food of the dead, for it will trap you here.” And I said give me the fucking fruit.
But when I ate I could hear her howling, See her spreading winter on the world. My poor mother, who missed me after all; My poor swineherd, starving. Huddled up for warmth with the few he hadn’t eaten.
I spat out half the seeds.
So now I suffer through the summers, Smile at the swineherd who tells me Which shoat is off its feed. Smile at my mother and walk behind her. My powers have come to me now, and in her candy-colored wake I scatter Sundew and flytrap, nettles and belladonna.
I smile and wait for November, For when I come back to you. Your clever cold hands and your hard black boots. I don’t ask what the leather is made from. I don’t think I want to know.
"Persephone Lied"
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Swallow your tongue --(i am not his yet)
(this was a long time ago. the frost hadn't yet entered his blood)
He stood before the hearth in Crayak's bedroom, where a blue fire burned without warmth, where a small black box sat on the center of the mantle. It was unadorned, unless one counted the tarnished silver clasps.
Although he wanted to, the Mockingbird couldn't open it. The King had ordered him, at first, never to touch it: a week later he had been caught about to lift the lid with gloved hands. After that he had been given more specific instructions.
Instead he stared at it, hands clenched at his sides, wanting what was inside with an ache that was sharper than anything. His name, ripped from him, then trapped like a fly in amber in that simple black box. The piece that could fill the emptiness he had become.
I didn't know. I didn't know....
He tensed when Crayak came up behind him, fought back the reflex to twist away when the Unseelie King laid silver-threaded hands on his narrow shoulders. Crayak was seven feet to the Mockingbird's 5"6, and his hands were large enough together to span his back. It reminded him, constantly, not of his immortality, but of his fragility.
"Still dreaming of the past?" Crayak asked him, sweeping aside his hair to bare the back of his neck. The simple vulnerability of it made him shiver.
"I'm not dreaming," he answered, lowering his eyes from the black box to where the pale fire eats away at itself. He felt the tips of King's short claws trail over the base of his neck like cold needles, catching at the lip of his tunic.
"Aren't you?" Crayak dragged one claw down slowly his back, slicing through the thin fabric so that it opened for him like a flower. The press of his palm against his spine was anything but comforting: the Mockingbird clenched his fists to keep himself still.
"I never dream anymore." Not without a name, not really.
"Wrong. Now you never wake up."
The ruined tunic was pushed from his shoulders. It crumpled to the floor around his feet. "You said if I proved myself, you'd find other uses for me, my lord...."
"And I will." Crayak cupped his chin, long fingers framing his cheeks. "You did very well with the other Court, my little songbird. Did you enjoy yourself?"
Despite himself, his lips flickered into a self-satisfied smile at the memory. For the first time in his life, he'd felt powerful. He'd brought an entire Court to his knees with just his words. "I did."
"Thank me for the opportunity."
His mouth opened before he could even consciously make the decision, puppet strings tugged by the power of the box on the mantelpiece. "Thank you, my lord."
He could have killed him just for that. Except he couldn't.
He lost the rest of his clothes within moments and couldn't suppress a twitch in his shoulders, the start and abrupt end of a movement to pull him away from the King's hands. But even without a command the Mockingbird knew far better than to struggle. He kept his eyes trained on the fire.
"You have yet to learn proper respect." He was suddenly turned and lifted with hard hands, carried over and pressed down onto the bed with the King looming over him (always). His expression was as cold as the winter on his breath, his long black hair falling forward to curtain them.
"One day you will welcome my touch ... but for now, why don't we play a game?"
Crayak leaned down and kissed him until frost made patterns on his face and down his throat. He hated the intimacy of kissing: it made him feel like Crayak was taking everything from him, even his air. And his fangs cut at his tongue, his gums.
The King tipped his chin up, murmured against his throat: "There's one thing you can say that will make me stop, no matter what."
The Mockingbird's heart, still or not, felt as thought it leaped in his chest. "What- what is it?"
His legs were spread as his mind scrambled.
"Your name."
Something in him cracked.
"No," he whispered in denial, voice rising into a sharp cry as Crayak thrust into him.
It did feel like a dream. In dreams, you could do incredible things, have fantastic powers. You saw strange and beautiful and terrifying sights. And no matter how fast you tried to run, the monsters always caught you.
The Mockingbird felt the blood on his skin, sticky and hot, staining the bed sheets; tasted the blood on his abused lip as he bit it to keep his pained sounds locked in. He stared at the black box across the room, his panacea to the teeth at his throat. His mind was a vast stretch of darkness where no matter how far he reached he could not tangle his fingers in the roots of his identity. He grasped only air.
Crayak pinned his wrist down to the bed, and he realized only then that he had stretched his arm out towards the fireplace. Frost blossomed over his skin, the same way it had on his inner thighs.
"If you really want this to end, you'll say it."
The puppet strings tugged, snapped, coiled themselves into knots. He opened his raw and bloody mouth to obey.
All that came out was shrieking laughter that broke into a sob.
--(somebody's done for)
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Persephone & Hades (asked by abatgirl)
“It is finished. No one heard her.” (x)
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kiss my eyes &
he hates when Crayak takes him to his bed
The Mockingbird doesn't care. He didn't care the first time and he doesn't care now. It's just another endless night.
he hates it when the king takes him slowly, holds him down just to be gentle, just to force him to acknowledge every touch, every feeling, every moment that he wants it, and hates himself and the world for it
Erek cares. Erek is a fool. That's why he always tries, without fail, to kiss him like it means something, to run his fingers softly through his hair. The Mockingbird has had enough of that. He bites his lover to remind him who he is, bends his fingers back if they touch him too carefully.
he hates it when the king whispers in his ear, sweet poisoned nothings that he has to swallow because Crayak holds the strings to everything he is
"Shut up and stop treating me like Zak," the Mockingbird snaps at Erek when the Sidhe forgets himself, every time.
he hates that the only place he consistently sleeps is in the King's bed, where he dreams vividly of stabbing Crayak through the heart with a dagger made of ice
Erek always wants an afterglow. The Mockingbird has only scattered shadows to offer him, and keeps them for himself anyway.
when Crayak says "Tell me you want it" the Mockingbird asks "How much?"
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