(( First thing's first. The following piece contains a pretty big spoiler for a specific character. If you don't like having that kind of background knowledge about a character, DO NOT READ. Secondly, the following is also pretty graphic. Fair warning.
This is an older piece, posted here mainly for a friend who doesn't have access to where I usually post my work outside of Y!Gallery. ))
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“Geh ouh.” His voice isn’t muffled or distorted because of the pillow he presses his face to, nor does it sound slurred from the large amount of strong bourbon that he’s already ingested.
His disinterested tone is the same as the distant expression so carefully plastered to his face, but it’s not so easy to keep it in place with the disgust oozing through him.
The unhurried, rough thrusts of the body above him prove that either his order is being ignored or has gone unheard.
“Geh ouh,” he repeats through clenched teeth, hating the nausea that churns in his gut for each time the stranger’s thick cock slides slickly in and out of him.
Despite the grunted, wordless question in response from his partner, the pace never falters; his nipples feel raw from being rubbed over the sheets too many times in rapid succession, and his hands ache from clenching the mattress in pointless effort not to be shoved forward.
Seeing no point in repeating himself a third time, he closes silver-coin, bright eyes, and waits.
Too much of the alcohol numbing him has been burned away, leaving him conscious of being on his knees in a tavern he’ll likely never frequent again with a man he doesn’t know and will never speak to after this.
He wants this sordid falsehood to end, for the prick to come and go away, but he’s taking his time and the smaller elf’s self-loathing mounts what little of his lust remains and ruins it as surely as the man at his backside is doing in this moment.
It’s over, finally. Rough fingers dig into grey skin as the kal’dorei buries himself deeply and remains there, panting and groaning out his release. Pinned to the bed under the other man’s weight, the nausea twists the quel’dorei’s gut again as he’s forced to feel the throb and twitch of the cock his muscles are so firmly clenched around.
There’s no satisfaction in it for him, like there seems to be for the one that’s done the fucking--at least, judging by the lewd groans and the hot slap of skin to skin during.
For the quel’dorei lying on his stomach with his hips pulled up and his back to his nameless partner, there’s only a dull ache inside that pools between his thighs; it refuses to go away, it mocks him, taunts him, makes him burn with the desire to relieve it, be rid of it. He can’t; the means are beyond him to. This truth shames him as surely as the wetness that escapes and trickles down between his thighs when his hips are released and the stranger pulls out.
He’s supposed to feel empty without a cock stuffed into him, but stretched-out insides aren’t comparing to the deadened, empty feeling he’d felt before he’d drunkenly pulled the other man into his bed.
The mattress creaks as weight is displaced then lifted away--a shuffle of bare feet and the slosh of water tells the quel’dorei, without the need to lift his head and watch, that the other elf is cleaning himself off. It’s the shuffle of those same bare feet padding back over, however, that has him reaching under the pillow, fingertips brushing cold metal.
“Geh ouh befoah I kuh ouah ah-ahmme fwoah.” Is rasped dully, undermining the very real threat to the garbled declaration. It’s difficult to be concise without a tongue.
Whether he’s understood or not, the flinch of his shoulder is clear enough, jerking away from under the callused palm--worn from years of handling swords--that touches him. The small knife that is plucked from under the pillow is an added emphasis where it glints poorly in the dim lighting of the room.
The stranger and his post-coital concern recoils. Fabric rustles, but the quel’dorei keeps his face turned away until the door shuts with a definitive, pointed click.
Weapon still in hand, he rolls out of the bed and moves over to the water basin. The knife is reluctantly set down next to it, but glanced at continuously as he cleans himself up, cold water making his skin tighten as he works the cloth between his thighs and wipes away all evidence of his shame.
It’s the shine of the knife reflected back at him out of the corner of his vision that has the grey-skinned elf lifting his chin and staring over at the body-length mirror in the corner. He hadn’t noticed the room came with one when he’d hastily rented it earlier.
Silver eyes stare back at him from under a tousled, unruly mop of green, and he watches the reflection as those eyes tilt downward. The elf in the mirror glances at the shaved scalp, the sharp, hawkish features of his face, the hooked nose and crooked mouth, the slender throat with its tattooed gills and the narrow, rounded shoulders.
The reflection halts its gaze at his chest, lingering, and the lopsided mouth thins out into a pained, miserable slash of lips.
Dropped to the floor, the cloth hits with a wet thwap and is left there; the quel’dorei straightens, presses his palms to the rounded, small tits shown in the reflection. His hands cup them, hide them from the mirror. But he can still feel the meager weight of them nestled against his palms, jutting forward in twin peaks that rest where only muscle should be.
The knife is suddenly in his hand, one breast still cupped in the opposite palm as he angles the weapon against it. He clutches the hilt in his unsteady grip, point pressed hard enough to dimple the flesh but not to break it. Prayers hover unbidden on his lips. A few quick slices and they’d both be gone--
"Elune's tits, Namurael, how many times I gotta say it? Get th’ fel outta my kitchen!"
The green-haired child stares down at the purpled hand where the wooden spoon had rapped smartly over the knuckles. Silver eyes flick up to the cook, then to the pans of freshly baked bread lining the counter, still warm from being removed from the flames.
Their mouth-watering aroma mingles with the other kitchen smells, lemons, spices. Elsewhere in the bustling room pots clatter and voices chatter.
"I wanna learn how'ta be a chef," Namurael pipes up above the din around them, which causes the somewhat heavyset quel'dorei male to frown down at her.
"Your mama finds you here 'stead of practicin' them prayers of yours, she’s gonna tan your ass ‘gain 'n fire me. And then fire me 'gain for lettin' you slip in your diction. Speak like th' Queen and her court, yeah?”
Her nose wrinkles at this. "Bu' Meros gits'ta do it! It's not fair! And I hate talkin' all stuffy! You don' do it, an’ Meros don’ do it, why I gots'ta?"
The cook rubs at the back of his thick neck, shrugs. "That ain’ up to me, Namu. You’re s'pose to be with them other girls--”
"I'm notta girl!"
He grimaces when she screams this, because her high voice carries over the chatter of the other cooks, and slowly, the atmosphere goes from busy to silent, with one sullen child staring up at him in anger.
"Back to work!" He bellows, and they reluctantly obey, leaving him to wipe his hands on his stained apron and rest his fists on his hips. Child and man stare at each other, unwilling to speak first, and with the former, arms remain crossed stubbornly.
This isn't the first time he's found her sneaking into the kitchen to hide from her duties, and it won't be the last. This isn't the first time they've had this argument, either, yet he never tells her mama, and at least in this kitchen, she's free.
"Elune forgive me for enabling your games, child," he says at last with a sigh, and turns away as her small, bare arms wrap around his wide waist, hardly able to reach around.
"Thank you, An’da," Namurael says, to which the green-haired cook grunts and shakes out of her grip to check the boiling pot nearby.
"At least put on a damned shirt, Namu. It ain' right for a little girl to wander 'round bare-chested like that."
"Meros don’ gots’ta wear a shirt!"
Her father sighs at her. "Merosiel is a boy, Namu, you can’t keep tryin’ to use your brother as an excuse. It don’ work like that--"
“I’m a boy, too!”
“No, Namurael, you ain’.”
Prayer is useless, and so is he. Unable to carry through with the intentions to hack them off, the knife slips free, nicking him as it tumbles and sinks into the wooden planks at his feet to land with a thunk next to the cloth.
Blood wells up from the shallow cut, lacing his pale skin before dribbling down the slope of his breast. He watches it travel southward toward his navel, but jerks his head up rather than look at that, too, and be reminded of what else is wrong with him.
Stooping down in a fluid motion, the quel’dorei plucks up the throwing weapon and hurls it at his reflection. Glass shatters, spews tiny shards of his body, tits and all, onto the floor.
There’s the drum of feet and the hammer of a fist knocking on the door, but the answer he has for the inquiries can’t be given: I can break a thousand mirrors, but it doesn’t change the reflection. I still see Namurael staring back at me. I still see a woman instead of a man.
He can bind himself up under clothes, he can act the part, and he can let nameless strangers fuck him with his stomach pressed into sheets that don’t belong to him, but he can’t be rid of the truth, no matter how much he pretends.
I prayed to Mother Moon a million times, prayed to her every day since I was taught what prayer was amongst the other Sisters. Yet, nothing can erase me.
With his back to the wall, he slides to the floor until his knees press to his chest. The floor is cold under his bare ass, but like the person behind the door, this is ignored. And where the voice and footsteps can eventually retreat--and do--his misery cannot, does not.
Too drunk to crawl into bed and not drunk enough to drown his self-loathing for a little longer, Merosiel cries mutely into his perfectly feminine hands.
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