A Peek to the Present -GamTav/GHBSum-

A trembling could be felt in his skin, mirrored in my own. It was a tremor born of lust, the simple contact of my fingertips on his arm the cause of it. From relaxation to alert tension, his body responded in ways only youth and love allowed. From his inner arm to his bicep, from his bicep to shoulder, my hand roamed of its own accord, seeking more of his quivering, watching carefully as his sepia eyes hazed and dilated with adoration.

"G-Gamzee..."

The name came on a heated sigh, and despite my mind's cries of 'too soon, too soon', our lips were upon each other in a vaguely familiar dance. Pressure then lax, shift and turn, bumping noses with a whispering set of giggles. The steps were becoming second nature fast, given the frequent lessons under sun, moon, and rooftop. We were still young, innocent hearts in blossoming bodies. Breaking away was nearly painful, but we kept close, noses brushing as we pressed light noisy kisses upon one another's lips to keep the hurt at bay.

"The bed," he whispered, almost a whine as he pressed a sure hand to my shoulder, a touch, not a push. "The bed..."

"Not yet." My own voice came out darker than what was natural, shaded by lust and the heady sense of power I had over him, he in his seat while I stooped over him. "Not yet, I want--"

But his lips crashed upon mine again like a warm tide over the smooth stones at the shore and I was swallowing my words under his confident measures. The touch became a rough shove, sending me back, stumbling over the mess we'd left. But the strong hand became a firm grip in the collar of my shirt, my weight countering his own and allowing him to rise from his chair with a grace that I'd only believed to be possessed by my sopor-induced visions.

All at once, he'd become the strong one, I, the damsel clinging to his broad shoulders as if he were a lifeline. Off balance, minutely panicked, our kiss had broken as a result of my mistrust in him. Shows how easily the tables can be turned...

Chuckling, his remaining hand cradled me, assuring me I need not fall on his account. The touch alone sent chills. Palm open, calloused skin slipped under the shroud of my top, skimming hips so used to being clenched in the demanding grip of that hand. Up, up, up, to the point his longest finger could caress the nape of my neck, the remainder of his hand spread across the plain of my shoulderblades. He could support me so easily...and I was effortlessly dominated by him, and him alone.

When had he grown so much? I'd once towered over him by whole feet, now he was slowly bridging the gap. Muscular, deep of chest and broad of shoulder. There was no denying he'd grown from a blushing boy to a confidant young man, handsome as ever, a different kind of handsome, but none the less...

I tried and failed to swallow without giving lust to my voice. "Tavros." He smirked. Oh, such a charm. It reached his eyes beautifully, made them gleam through the fog of arousal. "If you want..."

"Oh, I dunno now," he murmured coyly, head tilting simply to nip roughly at my throat, my whole body giving quiver and jumping in his grip. I was a specimen to his eyes, supported and wholly relying on his hand for balance, finding none for my own. I knew how I must look to him: a long, gangly marionette lying limp in his grip, power obvious in the right places, but still so unequal, so uneven. He was undressing me with those darkening eyes as well. It would be easy enough...

"Come now, Tavros," I hissed softly, teeth clenched at my own words. How he loved to play his new-found mind games. "You stuttered my name but moments ago, I know you want m--"

A knee pressed carefully to my nook kept my lips taut against my fangs just long enough for my love to chuckle deeply. Caught between lust and panic, I was, indigo eyes wide as he leaned further up, growling dark words to my ear. "I want...when I want."

Gog, how did one troll attain such power...?

I was still trying to catch that elusive breath when the mattress came up so suddenly beneath me. He'd play more of his games, I knew. Teasing, sweet welcome torture of the touch and taste. Yes, here we go, with a gentle skimming of my clothed outer thighs. He sat over my hips, a solid weight of strength and sinew that I could never hope to acheive. Hands pushed at my top like it was merely a cover to 'disfigure my loveliness' as he put it so poetically, baring my thin chest. Ribs apparent, I knew. I could just watch myself breath at times. My weight could never catch up with each bout of growth, an ill-effect of the sopor addiction that seemed so long ago. I'd thought it unattractive, but Tavros...he never failed to surprise.

Nosing at the stark ridges of my ribcage, Tavros pressed gentle kisses to the familiar trails he traversed at mating seasons, in fits of boredom, or late-morning tangles on the rug. I could never dissuade him, could do nothing but rest my own long-fingered hand in the lengthy strip of chestnut hair that dripped over his brow like a casual mess. He knew what heat was stirring within me, withing us both, but he always chose to ignore, to play with his prize.

And then it was there. As he'd finished his travels, finally kissed each square inch of my torso, he would glance up and that shy smile of his youth would beam through like a loving call to my own subconscious, freeing up every happy moment we'd shared together, every meaningful thing I'd done in our lifetime, and returning it wit my own lopsided grin. There would never be another like Tavros, not in the thousands of sweeps to come...




The Grand Highblood was never known to be a restful sleeper within the walls of the Subjuggulator Citadel. Feuds were at their breaking point beyond the painted stones, nearly fully-winged wars. There was no rest for a Bard of Rage. Too much to think, too much to muse on. But there were those times when he'd catch that little 'pixie' he loved to pin between his claws. The Summoner always brought peace to The Highblood's mind, but not for the reasons others tended to imagine. Other Subjuggulators within the Citadel, they'd see The Summoner captured in chains, brought to bow at their Highblood's feet and promptly receive his humiliation as their leader taunted him. Ordering weighted chains to be tied to the troll's wings, for weeks to be spent in the dungeons without contact with any but the rotting cadavers in the caverns below the castle...but they never noticed that those weeks were never properly served.

They never noticed when The Highblood would go down below, keys in his bloodied hand, or the locked door to The Highblood's Wing of the Citadel, barring all other ruthless Subjuggulators from entering. The Summoner walked freely behind these doors, free to spend as many hours at The Grand Highblood's side, as long as the Highblood permitted him...as long as it was safe. Sometimes they spent whole days to their own devices, mulling over truth and tragedy together, lying in silence, peaceful after their bodies were spent and the end result lied in a bucket on the floor.

Nights like this, The Grand Highblood could sleep. Stripped of his bony armor, breath evident as he drew it, he'd sleep semi-restfully, only awoken should his partner-in-secret-matespritship reach a waking state first. This wasn't the average night apparently...

Rising like the undead, The Grand Highblood stared off at the far wall, painted images leering at him as he recalled the vivid dream in minute detail. The brown hue in those broad shoulders, the flush in those cheeks as the boy-not-yet-a-man cried out in the throes of passion, thrust after thrust after thrust. It seemed to real to be a dream, to solid to simply be imagined.

"M-Makarin?"

A shifting at his side, wings perking slowly from their resting place under the sheets. The Summoner always had to sleep on his stomach, lest his rare wings feel trapped and panic reach his mind in the midst of the night. "You alright?" His voice was hushed with sleep, all the sweeter to what little of Makarin's mind tended to. A soft breeze found its way through the open window, rustling the great mane of ink-blot hair that settled around The Highblood's shoulders, tapering off in elegant curls and waves that any female troll would envy.

A shudder surpassed his senses, drawing The Summoner closer to attentiveness. "Makarin?" Finally, a sign of awareness. Makarin turned his head in the slightest, feeling that large calloused hand on the crook of his arm. "...Yes, Firos, quite fine. A...dream...a dream occurred to me." "P-Prophetic?" Firos asked simply, to which Makarin shook his head soberly. "...No. Something closer to home," he whispered, voice rumbling like thunder deep in his chest. Your heart is a storm cloud, Firos had told him once, always in turmoil, always changing face and shade and shape...who knows what goes on in there?

Without thought, Makarin gathered up the sheets in his great hands, draping it across himself like a hooded cloak. The material more than made up for his nakedness, covering the unease of his thin chest, the corded muscles of his surprisingly strong calves, his nimble feet. Firos was left nude on the mattress, watching in vague fascination. "Wh-where are you going?" he asked, already knowing to follow. Makarin had that crazy glint in his eye, like spotting the first signs of the battlefield. He had a plan, and he wasn't going to let Firos' words halt the rushing flow of thought, broken as it was.

The door was flung open and The Highblood shuffled near-silently down the long hall, clothed in his white sheet. Brown. He needed brown. And not just any shade, no. He had to find that exact tint he saw in the boy-not-yet-a-man's cheeks, an upper class brown-orange, a caramel...

Firos followed a step behind, much less rushed. He seemed almost casual in his nudity, flaunting to an audience that wasn't present. The only fact that irritated him was the lack of pockets to slip his thumbs into, just the less elegant press against the round of his hipbone. Ahead of him, Makarin was reaching a near frenzy. He knew he had a corpse that exact shade, it was all a matter of where he left it. Doors were unceremoniously shoved open, cracked open corpses glanced over for color, then the doorway promptly left in search of better prospects. Brown, he needed that brown, before the image left his think--

There it was.

A young woman, a prisoner they'd brought him, dead from lack of care and forgetting the sparse meals. Not much on her, but she was the color, he could see it in the molting bruises of her cheeks. Rushing forward, the sheet fluttering forgotten to the floor, Makarin reached the poor girl's side without hesitance. Firos kept to the doorway. He never really enjoyed watching corpses being 'cracked open'. Not really his taste, but it was worth seeing what had driven Makarin to the waking world.

It was almost a profession by now. Drawing up his claws like a doctor's scalpels, Makarin slit open the tunic. Her body suited him no longer, the empty flesh not given a second glance in it's nudity. No, it was blood he wanted. And it started by cutting her navel to chin. The long line was pressed into her, skin parting like a slowly opening oyster, reveling it's sandy innards. Speaking of innards, that came next. Spreading the flesh of the stomach cavity, Makarin dove in without any adverse thought, large hands tangling in her organs and holding fast to as many as he could manage. If lucky, they could be removed in one scoop. Not as such this time around. As the majority of it was set aside, he had to return for liver and spleen. A large pool of settled brown blood, the perfect shade, welled up in the void he'd left behind.

Ribs. They proved no match for a sharp fist. The spatter was kept minimal, reaching his bicep, but they fractured nicely down the center, just as he wanted. Digging in claws and fingers, Makarin made his hands a makeshift rib-spreader, the crackling of multiple bones breaking turning Firos' stomach. Heart. He took it up gently. This was never treated falsely in The Highblood's hands. A quick slit with a claw and it was neatly removed, set aside atop her entrails he'd scooped out previously. Lungs, the same. Breath was kept there. Love, in the heart. Two of the most precious things to Makarin, to be treated kindly.

What remained, her 'cracked-open' shell, was his paint jar.

Makarin dove in, coating his hands and beginning on the wall nearest, rough outlines becoming limbs, a face, hair, horns, legs, clothing... Firos watched carefully, eyes flickering to see the details Makarin planned in his hurry. A boy, a man...or nearly so. Youth was still prominent in his face, full in the cheeks and smile. Was this what Makarin saw? Another troll...but it didn't fit, not in this time. An eerie chill overcame The Summoner. What was this?

Makarin stepped back from it, near teary with his creation. The-boy-not-yet-a-man stood among them, though flat and unspeaking.

"This is Tavros," Makarin stated in the silence, "and he is you, Firos."