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triumphant2011-03-07 02:43 pm
reaver) wrote in triumphant2011-03-07 02:43 pm
Entry tags:
crowe/arumat, 1995 words.
the memories of days of petty insults about the color of your eyes and hair are a blurry haze compared to the flashbacks to the first day you punched someone in the mouth and they stopped. making the transformation from meek to feared isn't difficult considering the low delinquency rate in eldarian schools, and being the exception nearly ensures no one will speak to you. you prefer it that way.
it's ten years later when you're faced with an ultimatum–either join the military or spend the next five years in prison even though you've committed nothing but the occasional petty crime for the sake of survival. word of your fighting prowess has reached the ears of the commander, and gaghan wants you in the military whether or not you want the responsibility. you don't. his features don't change as you vehemently spit accusations of coercion, and you mull over accepting the five year sentence out of spite but eventually comply.
less than a month after you complete your military training and are handed the unwanted position of an adjutant you find out that bodies can bend stranger ways and contain more blood than you ever wanted to know. the warmth of your own blood running from your body does nothing to ease the chill in your bones as you look into the lifeless eyes of the navigator, a man you could have called friend. the shock and persistent reminders of eldar not engaging in interplanetary war do not ease you, and the hospital smells of death rather than sterilization. the first day you can walk you're making demands, dismissing all rebuttals of them being unrealistic and find yourself in a new ward insisting on more strength. the pain burns and wrecks you like nothing you've ever known and you scream for more.
this time when gaghan approaches you with a new proposal to create a new military unit and offers you the commanding position, you stare back with a feral determination and accept without a second thought.
the longer you live the more those around you fear you. the rumors have persisted to make you a living legend, even if you consider yourself no more than a walking corpse. sometimes it fascinates you that you still bleed, but that's all you do as those around you die, one after another to the point crew members consign themselves to not make it back upon setting foot on your ship. death incarnate, death himself–it has a certain ring to it. fitting.
the days have become a blur and the only thing you remember are the names of the men who lost their lives fighting beside you. it's been eight, no, nine years, and you're supervising a forced evacuation of your planet. eldar's sun has swelled and is going to devour it alive, but that wasn't enough. the black ships are like flies you can't manage to swat, they're swarming, destroying without discretion and you can't do anything but watch, even as you fight as hard as you can. your crew are sprawled out and bleeding as you commit their names and screams to your memory–they join the others. eldar disappears a moment later, and while you don't mourn it–it makes no sense to mourn something that was already dying, or so you tell yourself–you know you'll miss the time you spent alone staring at the sun, wondering morbidly the day it would grow to engulf the very ground you stood on. it has come.
you don't remember accepting the transmission from the earth ship, but you remember the words of the young looking captain on the other side as well as you remember your own name. before he starts to speak you wonder if he's like you–he looks too young to carry that responsibility effectively. minutes later you abandon your plan to make space itself your grave and prepare to board his ship. it's a trick of the mind, you're too reasonable to believe otherwise, but you swear you feel something pestering you as it beats in your chest for the first time since you were a child.
he laughs when you introduce yourself as death incarnate, and you don't understand what's so humorous. his eyes show no hint of fear as he remarks it's good to know that death can bleed just like the rest of us. you demand that he proves himself before you follow him and he exceeds even your expectations as you feel the heat on your neck radiating from one of his flashy swords. the way he looks at you is entirely foreign–there's something you can't quite place there, but you've never seen it in your direction before. sometimes you question if it's a coincidence that the first man you trust completely and respect is the first to desire you, even as he insists there are no coincidences about unrelated matters. he talks and you listen, he leads and you follow, and when you tell him there's nothing left to believe in, he doesn't miss a beat and assures you that he will just have to believe enough for you both.
the dreams start a month or so into travel, dreams of his mouth, of being filled, of shamefully writhing beneath him with his hot breath in your ear, and you're sick of waking up with come in your pants. when he takes the initiative and has you pinned against the wall it doesn't slip past you that his breath smells of alcohol–he's been drinking with the rest of the crew as you make preparations in your room–and you almost tell him no. instead you let him touch you, hold you, and despite the pain–you've been through worse–you let him take you. it's hot, sloppy and desperate, as if he knows you're dying and thinks he can fuck it out of you. if anyone's foolish enough to believe something like that, it's crowe. he satisfies you before he gets off, and rolls over to nestle himself at your side. you know he'll regret this when he wakes up. instead, you wake from a dream rapidly twisting into a nightmare to find his mouth on your cock.
sleeping with him isn't unpleasant, by any means–you relish in feeling and hearing his quiet breath, it's an assurance that he's surviving the night. he lives beside you, something you have long thought to be impossible, and you're beginning to wonder if he's going to defeat the odds again. he does, but not in the way you anticipated–instead he takes your place after you leave, becomes the man looking in prepared to sacrifice himself after losing those who believed in him and fought alongside him. he knows that you're going to die now, and while he said nothing he did not object, did not offer you any banal advice, and even though you know it should be you in his chair and him in yours, you don't interfere just as he conceded not to interfere with your decisions. his will is as strong as yours, perhaps even stronger as it has managed to bend your beliefs. you watch as the aquila disappears, and even after watching the events transpire with your very eyes, feel an unmistakable heaviness on your heart as you hear his ship is undetected. things like this aren't meant to be–not for you, although you allow yourself to wish he wasn't the casualty–because this isn't a fairy tale, this isn't a novel with a happy ending. there are no happy endings for death incarnate.
someone has to take up the charge as the resident meddlesome do-gooder after crowe dies, and you see it as a fitting enough way to spend the rest of your days. there may not be many, but you'll live them in a way you can face him as well as your brethren with your head held high. the phantoms are gone, the eldarians have found their legendary holy land, but anything holy is no place for you. the more you think about it (solitary long trips don't leave room for much else, and a traveling companion is out of the question because the seat next to you already has an owner and you're too proud to settle) you realize how angry you are. the one promise he harped on, the assurance he would be there, he broke it. he's human, flawed. was human, at least. he's space dust now, or so you believe.
of course he couldn't keep quiet, of course he broke the mold and started to change the very planet was on while creating a ruckus loud enough to travel the cosmos–and of course, here he is. he's running at you, and you don't know if you're more afraid that he's going to hug and humiliate you or that you just might enjoy it. you don't even make it off of this planet before he has you straddling his thighs, taking him in, riding him–you're grateful that your sol is powered down and the door is closed, because his lewd comments about your body are bringing an unfamiliar heat to your face. he smiles less, stares at nothing often and wakes up screaming the way you do. vulnerability is a luxury either of you rarely reward yourselves, so you don't make a point of his, hoping he will return the favor.
unlike you, he's a creature that thrives on companionship and you sacrifice part of your solitude until he can get back on his feet. he's unable to return home, so instead he buries his roots in you–they aren't entirely unwelcome, and although you aren't willing to admit it just yet, you discover on a solitary mission that you can't sleep without hearing him breathe anymore. this shred of dependency is nearly enough to make you run for his sake, but running will get you nowhere since you don't have anywhere else to go, and do you no good because he will follow. there are worse things than relying on the most dependable man in the cosmos, after all.
after the last desperate attempt to save your life in the thirteenth independent, before him, when you still had solid ground to plant your feet although you rarely did, you pledged you would never return to a hospital. going back on your word is hardly commendable, but you rationalize it away based on the change of circumstances. he accompanies you with a confused look on his face until the same man who announced crowe's ship was nowhere to be found explains the situation. you scowl when he reaches for your hand, but before you can ask him why he's mocking and embarrassing you, a look into his eyes shows nothing but compassion and gratitude. you will never tell him that you did this for him, but you don't need to. he already knows.
ten more years pass, and you find an almost smile tugging at your lips more often than not. the nightmares still occasionally haunt you both and you recall a reoccurring one with a harsh clarity–live, arumat, it's the dying wish of a man who loved you–but the concern it's a warning or bad omen is a fleeting thought, quickly buried when you open your eyes and see him smiling above you, very much alive. you had everything you needed for a life of solitude, everything you needed to die young without a care, you were given the tools. it just so happened that he had it all to convince you to abandon ship.
you wouldn't have it any other way.
it's ten years later when you're faced with an ultimatum–either join the military or spend the next five years in prison even though you've committed nothing but the occasional petty crime for the sake of survival. word of your fighting prowess has reached the ears of the commander, and gaghan wants you in the military whether or not you want the responsibility. you don't. his features don't change as you vehemently spit accusations of coercion, and you mull over accepting the five year sentence out of spite but eventually comply.
less than a month after you complete your military training and are handed the unwanted position of an adjutant you find out that bodies can bend stranger ways and contain more blood than you ever wanted to know. the warmth of your own blood running from your body does nothing to ease the chill in your bones as you look into the lifeless eyes of the navigator, a man you could have called friend. the shock and persistent reminders of eldar not engaging in interplanetary war do not ease you, and the hospital smells of death rather than sterilization. the first day you can walk you're making demands, dismissing all rebuttals of them being unrealistic and find yourself in a new ward insisting on more strength. the pain burns and wrecks you like nothing you've ever known and you scream for more.
this time when gaghan approaches you with a new proposal to create a new military unit and offers you the commanding position, you stare back with a feral determination and accept without a second thought.
the longer you live the more those around you fear you. the rumors have persisted to make you a living legend, even if you consider yourself no more than a walking corpse. sometimes it fascinates you that you still bleed, but that's all you do as those around you die, one after another to the point crew members consign themselves to not make it back upon setting foot on your ship. death incarnate, death himself–it has a certain ring to it. fitting.
the days have become a blur and the only thing you remember are the names of the men who lost their lives fighting beside you. it's been eight, no, nine years, and you're supervising a forced evacuation of your planet. eldar's sun has swelled and is going to devour it alive, but that wasn't enough. the black ships are like flies you can't manage to swat, they're swarming, destroying without discretion and you can't do anything but watch, even as you fight as hard as you can. your crew are sprawled out and bleeding as you commit their names and screams to your memory–they join the others. eldar disappears a moment later, and while you don't mourn it–it makes no sense to mourn something that was already dying, or so you tell yourself–you know you'll miss the time you spent alone staring at the sun, wondering morbidly the day it would grow to engulf the very ground you stood on. it has come.
you don't remember accepting the transmission from the earth ship, but you remember the words of the young looking captain on the other side as well as you remember your own name. before he starts to speak you wonder if he's like you–he looks too young to carry that responsibility effectively. minutes later you abandon your plan to make space itself your grave and prepare to board his ship. it's a trick of the mind, you're too reasonable to believe otherwise, but you swear you feel something pestering you as it beats in your chest for the first time since you were a child.
he laughs when you introduce yourself as death incarnate, and you don't understand what's so humorous. his eyes show no hint of fear as he remarks it's good to know that death can bleed just like the rest of us. you demand that he proves himself before you follow him and he exceeds even your expectations as you feel the heat on your neck radiating from one of his flashy swords. the way he looks at you is entirely foreign–there's something you can't quite place there, but you've never seen it in your direction before. sometimes you question if it's a coincidence that the first man you trust completely and respect is the first to desire you, even as he insists there are no coincidences about unrelated matters. he talks and you listen, he leads and you follow, and when you tell him there's nothing left to believe in, he doesn't miss a beat and assures you that he will just have to believe enough for you both.
the dreams start a month or so into travel, dreams of his mouth, of being filled, of shamefully writhing beneath him with his hot breath in your ear, and you're sick of waking up with come in your pants. when he takes the initiative and has you pinned against the wall it doesn't slip past you that his breath smells of alcohol–he's been drinking with the rest of the crew as you make preparations in your room–and you almost tell him no. instead you let him touch you, hold you, and despite the pain–you've been through worse–you let him take you. it's hot, sloppy and desperate, as if he knows you're dying and thinks he can fuck it out of you. if anyone's foolish enough to believe something like that, it's crowe. he satisfies you before he gets off, and rolls over to nestle himself at your side. you know he'll regret this when he wakes up. instead, you wake from a dream rapidly twisting into a nightmare to find his mouth on your cock.
sleeping with him isn't unpleasant, by any means–you relish in feeling and hearing his quiet breath, it's an assurance that he's surviving the night. he lives beside you, something you have long thought to be impossible, and you're beginning to wonder if he's going to defeat the odds again. he does, but not in the way you anticipated–instead he takes your place after you leave, becomes the man looking in prepared to sacrifice himself after losing those who believed in him and fought alongside him. he knows that you're going to die now, and while he said nothing he did not object, did not offer you any banal advice, and even though you know it should be you in his chair and him in yours, you don't interfere just as he conceded not to interfere with your decisions. his will is as strong as yours, perhaps even stronger as it has managed to bend your beliefs. you watch as the aquila disappears, and even after watching the events transpire with your very eyes, feel an unmistakable heaviness on your heart as you hear his ship is undetected. things like this aren't meant to be–not for you, although you allow yourself to wish he wasn't the casualty–because this isn't a fairy tale, this isn't a novel with a happy ending. there are no happy endings for death incarnate.
someone has to take up the charge as the resident meddlesome do-gooder after crowe dies, and you see it as a fitting enough way to spend the rest of your days. there may not be many, but you'll live them in a way you can face him as well as your brethren with your head held high. the phantoms are gone, the eldarians have found their legendary holy land, but anything holy is no place for you. the more you think about it (solitary long trips don't leave room for much else, and a traveling companion is out of the question because the seat next to you already has an owner and you're too proud to settle) you realize how angry you are. the one promise he harped on, the assurance he would be there, he broke it. he's human, flawed. was human, at least. he's space dust now, or so you believe.
of course he couldn't keep quiet, of course he broke the mold and started to change the very planet was on while creating a ruckus loud enough to travel the cosmos–and of course, here he is. he's running at you, and you don't know if you're more afraid that he's going to hug and humiliate you or that you just might enjoy it. you don't even make it off of this planet before he has you straddling his thighs, taking him in, riding him–you're grateful that your sol is powered down and the door is closed, because his lewd comments about your body are bringing an unfamiliar heat to your face. he smiles less, stares at nothing often and wakes up screaming the way you do. vulnerability is a luxury either of you rarely reward yourselves, so you don't make a point of his, hoping he will return the favor.
unlike you, he's a creature that thrives on companionship and you sacrifice part of your solitude until he can get back on his feet. he's unable to return home, so instead he buries his roots in you–they aren't entirely unwelcome, and although you aren't willing to admit it just yet, you discover on a solitary mission that you can't sleep without hearing him breathe anymore. this shred of dependency is nearly enough to make you run for his sake, but running will get you nowhere since you don't have anywhere else to go, and do you no good because he will follow. there are worse things than relying on the most dependable man in the cosmos, after all.
after the last desperate attempt to save your life in the thirteenth independent, before him, when you still had solid ground to plant your feet although you rarely did, you pledged you would never return to a hospital. going back on your word is hardly commendable, but you rationalize it away based on the change of circumstances. he accompanies you with a confused look on his face until the same man who announced crowe's ship was nowhere to be found explains the situation. you scowl when he reaches for your hand, but before you can ask him why he's mocking and embarrassing you, a look into his eyes shows nothing but compassion and gratitude. you will never tell him that you did this for him, but you don't need to. he already knows.
ten more years pass, and you find an almost smile tugging at your lips more often than not. the nightmares still occasionally haunt you both and you recall a reoccurring one with a harsh clarity–live, arumat, it's the dying wish of a man who loved you–but the concern it's a warning or bad omen is a fleeting thought, quickly buried when you open your eyes and see him smiling above you, very much alive. you had everything you needed for a life of solitude, everything you needed to die young without a care, you were given the tools. it just so happened that he had it all to convince you to abandon ship.
you wouldn't have it any other way.