Legacy of Kain (Vorador/Janos)
Title: Caught Between Sky and Earth
Author: emerald_embers
Rating: NC17
Warnings: Yaoi and bad language.
Pairings: Vorador/Janos.
Summary: Losing faith was never going to be easy.
Disclaimer: Non-profit fanfiction, this lot aren't mine.
Prompt: Feb 25th - Legacy of Kain, Janos/Vorador: abandon all hope - Welcome to Hell! (On Nosgoth.)
Notes: Sorry for the delay, had a much more hectic schedule than expected!
He was alone.
Certainly not in terms of company - the mansion seethed with unlife, fledglings crammed into the hallways given rain had made the courtyard and gardens into no-go areas, and Vorador was above him, soon to be inside him, the picture of solidity.
But he was the last.
Janos spread his legs further, settling them around Vorador's waist and asking Vorador to be rough in as convincing, as calm a tone as he could manage without using any of the unnatural ability that would allow him to persuade someone to cut off their own limbs if he so desired. He knew his fledgling would not completely give in, never had been able to; Janos might be Vorador's sire but he had not been the protector since the day a human blacksmith had to rescue his vampiric friend from the edge of madness in Uschtenheim.
Still, even if Vorador wouldn't entirely obey his command, at least he seemed to understand Janos' need for this; for the dark and the ambient noise, the sense of being buried in the sheets of Vorador's bed. Humid swamp air clung to his skin, made him feel weighed down, trapped by nature.
He was the last. There would be no others - could not be any others even if the curse of sterility was lifted. He was the last.
The faint blue of his skin he could glimpse in the dark, the press of his feathers into the bed beneath him, he wanted it gone; wanted to tear it off because it was worthless now, Vorador's sympathetic murmuring into his ears almost forgotten.
Humans called the Ignis Fatuus the guiding lights to Hell. Even before the first generation of blood-drinkers colonised the jungle, Janos could have guessed why.
Uschtenheim was clean. Some would say stark or unwelcoming, but to Janos it was honest; nothing hid in Uschtenheim, there were no secrets, just truth laid out against snow.
The swamp held secrets of every sort, secrets his own kind hadn't known. It had never been quiet, not even in the lull after a battle, insects and strange creatures of every size filling the air with the sounds of their lives. It was dark, damp, and secretive. It was Hell on Nosgoth.
And for now, it was exactly what he needed.
Hiding from the Reaver and his duties, the Citadel and its horrific emptiness, it was only possible within these walls and these arms, but even then it wasn't enough to stop his thoughts. The dark blocked out sight, the noise blocked out quiet, the swamp air and Vorador's thrusts gave him simple feelings to focus on but still his mind taunted him with the same truth that had his tears bloodying Vorador's bedsheets.
God had yet to breathe a word, his messiah had not shown, and his kind were no more. The man above him was the only familiar face left in the world to lack the intention of killing him, and their past was scarcely perfect.
Vorador paused, still hard, newly golden eyes narrowing. "I can't do this. You're not a corpse and I will not fuck you like one."
Janos' nausea since the moment he'd realised what happened heard those words all too well, rekindling with a vengeance, the same familiar ball of fear and pain rising in his throat and curdling in his gut. "I want to forget who I am. You had the luxury of walking off your guilt when you lost your fledglings. Give me that decency, please?" His hand moved up to rest against Vorador's cheek as he made the request; it wasn't a command, nor begging, just the need for understanding, the need for Vorador to comprehend being the last - not only the last, but the guardian to the relic that was supposed to have saved his race. In practise, the sword had been no more than a witness to their decline, no more vital in the world's saving than he had ever been himself.
Vorador hesitated a moment longer before pulling out, nudging Janos over onto his stomach and pushing back in, seeming able to both thrust harder and to cope with Janos' relative inactivity from this position. "You slay me," Vorador growled between ragged, unnecessary breaths. "You and your damned eyes."
"I am damned," Janos murmured, closing his eyes tight and gritting his teeth as Vorador fucked him into the bed, not senseless as he had hoped but the intrusion and moments of pain were something to hold onto at least.
He was the last.
He had company - Uschtenheim's mountains echoed with human voices despite the snow's cruelty to their fragile skins, all of them attentive to his every move for the wrong reasons; and Vorador was but a flight away, nestled in his mansion in the swamp, still resilient despite years of suffering.
But he was alone.
His messiah had not come.
Author: emerald_embers
Rating: NC17
Warnings: Yaoi and bad language.
Pairings: Vorador/Janos.
Summary: Losing faith was never going to be easy.
Disclaimer: Non-profit fanfiction, this lot aren't mine.
Prompt: Feb 25th - Legacy of Kain, Janos/Vorador: abandon all hope - Welcome to Hell! (On Nosgoth.)
Notes: Sorry for the delay, had a much more hectic schedule than expected!
He was alone.
Certainly not in terms of company - the mansion seethed with unlife, fledglings crammed into the hallways given rain had made the courtyard and gardens into no-go areas, and Vorador was above him, soon to be inside him, the picture of solidity.
But he was the last.
Janos spread his legs further, settling them around Vorador's waist and asking Vorador to be rough in as convincing, as calm a tone as he could manage without using any of the unnatural ability that would allow him to persuade someone to cut off their own limbs if he so desired. He knew his fledgling would not completely give in, never had been able to; Janos might be Vorador's sire but he had not been the protector since the day a human blacksmith had to rescue his vampiric friend from the edge of madness in Uschtenheim.
Still, even if Vorador wouldn't entirely obey his command, at least he seemed to understand Janos' need for this; for the dark and the ambient noise, the sense of being buried in the sheets of Vorador's bed. Humid swamp air clung to his skin, made him feel weighed down, trapped by nature.
He was the last. There would be no others - could not be any others even if the curse of sterility was lifted. He was the last.
The faint blue of his skin he could glimpse in the dark, the press of his feathers into the bed beneath him, he wanted it gone; wanted to tear it off because it was worthless now, Vorador's sympathetic murmuring into his ears almost forgotten.
Humans called the Ignis Fatuus the guiding lights to Hell. Even before the first generation of blood-drinkers colonised the jungle, Janos could have guessed why.
Uschtenheim was clean. Some would say stark or unwelcoming, but to Janos it was honest; nothing hid in Uschtenheim, there were no secrets, just truth laid out against snow.
The swamp held secrets of every sort, secrets his own kind hadn't known. It had never been quiet, not even in the lull after a battle, insects and strange creatures of every size filling the air with the sounds of their lives. It was dark, damp, and secretive. It was Hell on Nosgoth.
And for now, it was exactly what he needed.
Hiding from the Reaver and his duties, the Citadel and its horrific emptiness, it was only possible within these walls and these arms, but even then it wasn't enough to stop his thoughts. The dark blocked out sight, the noise blocked out quiet, the swamp air and Vorador's thrusts gave him simple feelings to focus on but still his mind taunted him with the same truth that had his tears bloodying Vorador's bedsheets.
God had yet to breathe a word, his messiah had not shown, and his kind were no more. The man above him was the only familiar face left in the world to lack the intention of killing him, and their past was scarcely perfect.
Vorador paused, still hard, newly golden eyes narrowing. "I can't do this. You're not a corpse and I will not fuck you like one."
Janos' nausea since the moment he'd realised what happened heard those words all too well, rekindling with a vengeance, the same familiar ball of fear and pain rising in his throat and curdling in his gut. "I want to forget who I am. You had the luxury of walking off your guilt when you lost your fledglings. Give me that decency, please?" His hand moved up to rest against Vorador's cheek as he made the request; it wasn't a command, nor begging, just the need for understanding, the need for Vorador to comprehend being the last - not only the last, but the guardian to the relic that was supposed to have saved his race. In practise, the sword had been no more than a witness to their decline, no more vital in the world's saving than he had ever been himself.
Vorador hesitated a moment longer before pulling out, nudging Janos over onto his stomach and pushing back in, seeming able to both thrust harder and to cope with Janos' relative inactivity from this position. "You slay me," Vorador growled between ragged, unnecessary breaths. "You and your damned eyes."
"I am damned," Janos murmured, closing his eyes tight and gritting his teeth as Vorador fucked him into the bed, not senseless as he had hoped but the intrusion and moments of pain were something to hold onto at least.
He was the last.
He had company - Uschtenheim's mountains echoed with human voices despite the snow's cruelty to their fragile skins, all of them attentive to his every move for the wrong reasons; and Vorador was but a flight away, nestled in his mansion in the swamp, still resilient despite years of suffering.
But he was alone.
His messiah had not come.