FIC: Days of Yore
Nov. 10th, 2008 10:19 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nilchanceTitle: Days of Yore
Authors:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nilchance
Rating: Adult
Pairing: JDM/Misha Collins
A/N: Sequel to If Bird or Devil. Jeff's a dom, and Misha is his boy. Read the first bits first, or this will make no damn sense at all.
Misha dreams crow-black dreams.
****
The pigs dance. He watches from the street, sipping his tea. Waiting.
They go free, these wretched things. They flit and laugh and spurn, and a man can only catch the edge of their skirt before they're gone with a ghost of perfume. He's outlived these games, but they still catch his eyes.
He turns the page of ecclesiastical art, and his fingers smooth the Madonna's chaste white dress.
He chooses his canvas, again and again, imagines the pale of their vertebrae like rosary beads and the sweetness of their tears. He remembers the intoxicating drum of his heart as his last project screamed into the muffling kiss of the gag.
They do not understand. He will make them understand.
Soon, he thinks. Soon.
****
"Wake him," says Aunt Rosemary. "It'll see him."
"It's his initiation," rebukes Aunt Sage. "We all did it."
"Men," Aunt Pepper grumbles, her quick fingers making the needles click. "They're in everything else, they don't need to be in the circle. Oh, what we've come to."
"Stop your damn muttering," Rosemary growls. "This isn't some fool like your husband, it's Mary's boy."
Mary Collins, nee Marigold, holds her son's head in her lap and strokes soothing patterns across his sweating brow. Misha's eyes roll beneath their lids and his back bows, grinding his head back into her legs. He's filthy with ash and sweat, furrows dug beneath his heels. Her son's man ought to be here, but Pepper's right, there's no room for more men in their circle. Particularly not a Morgan. She had to fight hard for Misha to be let in, and it was only softness of heart that allowed it.
Only softness of heart and keen awareness of what would come. That poor girl, skinned and hung. There will be more.
It's war again.
"Don't wake him," Mary says. "He has to get through this alone."
****
Misha dreams crow-black dreams.
Authors:
nilchanceRating: Adult
Pairing: JDM/Misha Collins
A/N: Sequel to If Bird or Devil. Jeff's a dom, and Misha is his boy. Read the first bits first, or this will make no damn sense at all.
Misha dreams crow-black dreams.
****
The pigs dance. He watches from the street, sipping his tea. Waiting.
They go free, these wretched things. They flit and laugh and spurn, and a man can only catch the edge of their skirt before they're gone with a ghost of perfume. He's outlived these games, but they still catch his eyes.
He turns the page of ecclesiastical art, and his fingers smooth the Madonna's chaste white dress.
He chooses his canvas, again and again, imagines the pale of their vertebrae like rosary beads and the sweetness of their tears. He remembers the intoxicating drum of his heart as his last project screamed into the muffling kiss of the gag.
They do not understand. He will make them understand.
Soon, he thinks. Soon.
****
"Wake him," says Aunt Rosemary. "It'll see him."
"It's his initiation," rebukes Aunt Sage. "We all did it."
"Men," Aunt Pepper grumbles, her quick fingers making the needles click. "They're in everything else, they don't need to be in the circle. Oh, what we've come to."
"Stop your damn muttering," Rosemary growls. "This isn't some fool like your husband, it's Mary's boy."
Mary Collins, nee Marigold, holds her son's head in her lap and strokes soothing patterns across his sweating brow. Misha's eyes roll beneath their lids and his back bows, grinding his head back into her legs. He's filthy with ash and sweat, furrows dug beneath his heels. Her son's man ought to be here, but Pepper's right, there's no room for more men in their circle. Particularly not a Morgan. She had to fight hard for Misha to be let in, and it was only softness of heart that allowed it.
Only softness of heart and keen awareness of what would come. That poor girl, skinned and hung. There will be more.
It's war again.
"Don't wake him," Mary says. "He has to get through this alone."
****
Misha dreams crow-black dreams.
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no subject
Date: 2008-11-12 01:18 am (UTC)