If You Are

by epicpovertyfail

Notes:

coming back to work on this after a very stressful year + editing parts that I failed to convey (and properly paste here) while uploading. #FUCK

character description/analysis heavy in the first portion - i'm still workin on the hoo-ey !!!

Chapter 1

Summary:

They've been partners for the short time-being. Creighton is attempting to adjust to having a new partner and to the feelings he's being fed.

A heavy thump muffled the last rattling of chainmail. The figure—barely recognizable as human—fell forward, jaw slack in its final death rattle. The butchery left its face mangled into near unrecognizability. Whatever it had been in life was now unidentifiable meat. Blood spattered the dirt in a gruesome pattern splayed before the butcher.

Creighton stood over his kill, breath ragged and eyes bloodshot. A laughter bubbled low in his throat—depraved, dissonant, and shot through the woods with victorious adrenaline. The thrumming in his ears echoed the hollowed crunch of bone, static still running wild on his face as he dropped his gaze to the corpse. His eyes cutting fresh wounds where his axe had not already done so.

He was interrupted from his manic afterglow by a familiar voice, smooth and almost musical in its bemusement.

“My… You’re even tougher than you look. Good to see you alive.”

Creighton’s head whipped around, chain links clanking at the sudden motion. The man behind him, Pate, stood with arms uncrossed, hands now on his hips in a posture that looked unusually casual given the scenario. While Pate’s face remained half-shadowed from his helm, the corners of his mouth lifted in something akin to genuine approval—or so Creighton guessed. Subtlety was lost on him in the wake of bloodlust.

Whatever fragile composure Creighton had left, he let slip. Snarling, he lunged with surprising swiftness, grabbing a fistful of Pate’s chainmail before slamming him down. One of Pate’s hefty pauldrons dug into the ground, forcing his back to arch at an awkward angle. He seemed more inconvenienced than afraid, and though he allowed Creighton to pin him, Pate shifted with small movements to avoid any real or potential harm being done to him. At last, Creighton’s voice snarled out,

“An’ why haven’t ye done shite to help, you bastard?” Bloody froth spewing from the cracks between his teeth. 

Pate’s eyes didn’t quite meet Creighton’s. Instead, he studied the warrior’s fury behind the helm, calculating something behind a façade of panic. He made a point of wriggling like a helpless animal underneath the blood-slicked arm pressed against his throat. He had already set this instance aside, but he would not forget.

Then, acting as if he didn’t see this coming, he replies to his interrogation in a friendlier tone than their situation would warrant.

“Ach… What the devils, Creighton?” he feigned. “My task was to ensure he couldn’t run off or catch you off guard. And—urk! I-I suppose I was… complacent. Especially judging by that wound on your arm.”

Creighton’s grip tightened.

“Wha’dya mean, ‘make sure he couldn’t escape’?”

Still pinned, Pate made sure to lock eyes calmly with Creighton, as an attempt to fan the man's blind rage. He made sure in withholding any venom in his response.

“Urk...He was human, was he not? No undead curse to bring him back. That means his souls—and whatever trinkets he carried—are ours, free to meager along without fear he’ll come back for revenge. And if he couldn’t walk, well, he couldn’t run. And besides, he was—urgh—never going to escape with his life, I made sure of that myself.”

Creighton, swept up in his persuasion, thought back to before hearing cries for mercy. The bloke did seem to be limping before having been slaughtered. He shrinks, and grows defensive, unsure of why.

“But that don’ give you the right to leave me stranded! Fucking…”

He thinks back earlier to the jaw he unlatched with his fist. He then remembers the first time his jaw was dislocated, new to undeath, and how he could return the favor tenfold to the other bastard, thanks to the curse.

“Grrrah! ...I would’ve been aw’right. But..." still forming his thoughts, "don’ just...go round thinkin’ it's something you can get away with, you lazy shite. I’m sick of cleanin’ up after you.”

A meek mask replaced the one of fear.

“Creighton…Look... I have the one life to spare. It’s only natural I would show more… caution… I was afraid of what was inside.”

Something in Creighton recoiled, and subconsciously relaxes his grip, as if to express remorse for his impulsiveness.

“…Coward…”

And as if to parallel the softening of his grip, Pate speaks more truthfully.

“...Urh-I might've been a coward, but I wasn't without purpose—he was half-limp when you took him, after all.”

The logic was sound, yet he seethed at how Pate had left him to the brunt of the work.

Pate’s lips curled in a smile that might have been genuine—were it not so practiced.

“Creighton… You… well, you have a knack for coming back from rather nasty situations, at least from what I've gathered.”
“But… I am sorry, truly, for leaving you lonesome. You see—”

His gaze dropped, the start of his sentence turning unusually earnest.

“I'm a street rat, it's how I survive. I can’t risk waiting for the dogs to catch my scent. That’s why I... require your help." and as if to further placate Creighton, "A lowly street rat and not some... distinguished knight of Mirrah, like you.” 

Creighton flinches and pulls his hand back, the sudden hesitation and confusion apparent in his body language.

…Hmm.

That did seem a bit excessive, honestly.

Pate, vexed by his own subpar performance, compensates by relaxing his laugh lines. He had returned to neutrality, hinting desperation to undo any ramifications his sweet talking did.

The tension stretched between them, appearing more as a silent standoff than an apology between partners. That gave Creighton pause. His anger, though not fully abated, had faltered. He released Pate’s collar, balling up his fists instead. He had stuttered and muttered under his breath, uncomfortable with the gravitas of Pate's admiration, failing to fully reassert his composure. He cast a sidelong look at Pate, who was absently rubbing his throat—thumbing over the mark Creighton left with his grip. He was oblivious to what was glaringly unmistakable—he was waiting for Pate to praise him for his mercy, growing impatient as Pate withheld his affections. He continued to stare as the man in leather dusted himself off and sat back up. Creighton quickly looked off to the side, again, unsure as to why.

“Anyway,” Pate continued, letting the threat of violence simmer into the background, “I can prove my usefulness in this alliance. You do seem capable of handling yourself… for the most part,” he nodded to the other man's lacerations, Creighton unaware that he continued to leak all over. 
“Do let me tend that gash before it gets any worse.”

Creighton huffed, emotional dysregulation and impatience overtaking him.

“…Fine,” he spat, Creighton attempting to play off his bashfulness for impatience. He muttered under his breath,“…Alright then…” and quickly glanced back over to Pate.

He was looking back at him.

“Shit! Just...‘urry and ged’on with it!”

“Haha, so you do need my assistance after all,” Pate teased gently. Turning his back to Creighton, Pate rummaged through his belongings for bandages. “Silly as it may sound, that makes me quite happy.”

For a second, Creighton felt almost content in thinking that their shared fortunes—and by extension, Pate’s life—hinged on this alliance, his strength.

Creighton was again reassured by human death and desperation. It provided him with a means of purpose, not possible with the affliction of being undead. The inadvertent promise of Pate’s, that he relied on him, that he was vulnerable, and that he couldn’t possibly leave his side. For the second time in his undeath, Creighton did not mind his curse. Creighton might've been happy at that moment. Pate took note. 

They both got up, and gave each other quiet nods to conclude their kerfuffle. And with Creighton distracted while looting the fresh corpse, Pate had slipped a curious ring from his pouch while he wasn't looking. It was serrated with sharp spindles that could easily prick through skin. He took off a leather gauntlet, and slid it on without flinching, ignoring the thin beads of blood it drew. A swirl of adrenaline had pulsed through his core and pooled back at where Creighton left his mark. The formation of their alliance was truly serendipitous. Besides Pate having cleanly and efficiently terminated his last victim in crime, he found Creighton meandering around while he was looking for the next chump. Creighton was overtaken by some of the hollows that had chased him down, Pate arriving to assist from a distance. While prodding at the animated corpses, he became enamored in studying the chain metal knight—who thought it'd be "wise" to rush through the resting place of nameless soldiers. Pate ensured he assisted enough so that they would survive, but the cruelty in how Creighton slaughtered his prey was most alluring. Creighton was a liability that he should have disposed of long ago, but a possessive fascination kept him from doing so. He didn't frighten him, not when he proved to be... malleable. Being fairly sure of the risk Creighton presented, he figured he'd be better to equip the ring of thorns, lest he miscalculated like earlier, or if the partnership were ever to turn sour. Pate had been having fun, but he has overstepped in the past. Creighton would allow him to hone his practice.

Creighton sat, continuing to comment on each trinket he could pocket from the corpse, allowing Pate to put his hands on him and tend to his wounds. Pate, yawning deeply, set his sights on the next bonfire on higher ground. He had beckoned Creighton to follow him after having meticulously tended to his wounds, and like an trained dog, Creighton followed Pate for the promise of recognition and attention.

 

They let the body lie where it had fallen, the pools of blood soaking into the uncaring earth.

Whatever tangled web tied Creighton to him, held fast. Pate hadn't cared to break it… yet.

 

Chapter 2

The two had made camp in a half-collapsed alcove, ending in a desolate mining outcrop instead of the forest grounds. Pate figured he could sacrifice the plush grass bedding if it meant avoiding vengeance-seeking simpletons.

After checking to see if any masked stragglers had perched on the ledges above, Pate turned around to give Creighton authorization to drop their winnings. He pressed his back against the cool stone, crossing his legs with an elegant nonchalance. His eyes—obscured by his helmet—flicked over to Creighton the moment the undead knight unloaded the stolen goods.

A groan of chainmail and metal preceded Creighton’s weary collapse onto cold rock opposite Pate. They both acknowledged the heavy clanging of their earnings when Creighton dropped it haphazardly between them, its worth in weight alone. Their eyes had met halfway.

Creighton was the first to look away, but not without a boyish laugh.

“You’re not half-bad,” Pate’s voice was light, playful, no doubt influenced by the future wealth that stood between them. The weight of his words were barely audible now, gentle undertones muffled ever so slightly by the fire’s crackle. “Quite good, as a matter of fact.”

“Huh,” Creighton's ears perked. He huffed, “...And you’re quite the sweet talker.”

Their eyes met once again, and locked. Creighton had become quite used to their visual exchanges, Pate thought to himself. He would be lying if he said he wasn't enjoying Creighton's longing glares. For a moment, the only noises were the soft crackling of embers and the distant gust of wind drifting through the corridors. Pate tilted his head, considering how easily he could slip away now—vanish into one of the many corridors to leave Creighton to fend for himself—and how strange it felt that he hadn’t already.

Creighton let out an awkward and ragged laugh.

“All this time… fightin’ for scraps… Heh, suppose I should be grateful you’ve stuck around, even if you never jump in ‘til I’m half-dead.”

“I don’t quite have the guts myself, haha…” Pate gave a lazy smile. “I could have lost my life, back there.”

“Hah! At least you’ve got somethin’ to lose.”

Something flickered across Pate’s face—curiosity, or maybe pity, Creighton couldn't tell. Pate straightened his back away from the stone wall, moving closer with care not to spook Creighton. Finally, knees having popped and being fully squatted, he lowered himself to eye level, the shifting glow of the flame highlighting the rough edges of Creighton’s battered armor.

“Let me see your arm,” Pate said softly. "It should be better by now."

Creighton stiffened but didn’t refuse. He watched warily as Pate bent down, deft fingers working around the damaged chain rings around the flesh wound. A glimmer of care in Pate’s eyes from his meticulous care had stirred an unwanted warmth in Creighton’s chest, that rose to an uncomfortable choke in his throat. It was a feeling he tried and failed to smother, unknowing of what it even entailed. He could only turn to frustration. With a building heat in his face, he squirmed when Pate's leather spaulder was drawing closer and closer to his face.

“You’ll be good as new by sunrise,” Pate chuckled. “Or at the very least, less squeamish.”

They hovered there, locked in mutual wariness. Creighton despised how his heart dropped when Pate withdrew his hands. The heat from Pate’s touch lingered on his wounded skin, heat spreading throughout his body and onto his chainmail... building further into a slow burn the more he ruminated on it.

"I'm alright..." Creighton broke the silence. "...with this..."

Pate had looked up to meet Creighton's eyes again. He didn’t finish his sentence and was sat there, arms now awkwardly crossed over his chest. Pate watched him trying to steady his thoughts, as though admiring the earnest behind the tremble in his voice.

“Go on,” Pate murmured, voice low and almost pleasant. “I’m curious to hear the rest.”

“Now don’t push your luck,” Creighton grumbled, his tone having lost some of its usual bite. “Ain’t much to say. You got your reasons for tailin’ me, I’m sure… but I got my own reasons to keep you ‘round.” As if scared of the silence, he kept rambling.

“And sure as hell… you need me more… than I…”

He trailed off, letting the words dissipate. Yet Pate looked unsurprised, turning his attention instead to the slow steady breathing of the bonfire.

“I can’t afford to stay in one place, and it's difficult. Out here, alone.” Pate said at last, still not meeting Creighton’s gaze. “Surely you understand, given your… condition. Neither of us are very welcome in polite society… for differing reasons.”

Creighton’s brow knit at the implication that Pate was also an outsider, despite being human, but he accepted it without protest. Pate, perhaps dangerous, was not undead, like he was. An undead was about as welcome as a wolf in a pigsty—a loathsome creature that sticks out hideously, its existence unpredictably violent. Like a desperate starved beast, they’d always return, and the only means of staving it off was to have it crippled or stoned. Yet something about Pate’s mild reassurance was agreeable to him, even though the man was calmly restating the obvious.

“Course I understand,” Creighton replied gruffly. “I also understand you keep your guard up—always watchin’ me. If you’re so cautious,” he mindlessly continued, “why not kill me outright n' move on?”

Not expecting Creighton to have any semblance of perceptiveness, Pate’s fingers drummed restlessly against his forearm, a small betrayal of his outward calm. Mastering Creighton would prove to be the additive goal he would strive towards. He retorted quickly, providing that Creighton was unusually impatient for an immortal. Pate, caught in his own conflicting emotions, failed to realize Creighton had only meant their exchange of fleeting glances. 

“Well then, who said anything about not planning to? Hm hmm hmm…” he chuckled impishly. Despite a rapid acquisition in understanding Pate's subtleties, Creighton reflexively and audibly gritted his teeth beneath his mask. He’d been oddly betrayed by the Pate he’d crafted in his head, though it proved vindicating to hear him like that. The memory of Pate cooing under him, despite coming for his neck, unnerved a rudimentary and primal reaction.
“Relax, friend,” Pate becoming uncharacteristically honest once more, “We still stand to make quite a profit together. Seems silly to throw that away now, don’t you think?”

“Profit, eh?” he barked, “I ain’t seen you fussin’ over treasure the way other folk do. You talk big of it, but you don’t really need it, do ‘ya?”

“Everyone needs something, Creighton.” Pate corrected him, forcing a polite smile. “Something to… overcome. And in this world... treasure hunting, as you may call it, keeps me from rotting in a gutter, and perhaps, even more. Need I remind you, I do not have the ‘luxury’ of...”

Creighton’s nostrils flared under his helmet. But Pate continued to prattle on, nonetheless.

“Well in any case, I can’t say I dislike working with you. On the contrary, I quite… enjoy it. For starters, you’ve already shown yourself to be capable, especially in combat. You’re unflinching, though a tad reckless,” their eyes dropping to see his own hand caressing his neck, “…but always ready to fight—fighting as though your very life is on the line, though we both know better. Not only does that prove to be beneficial, as an… undead—"  "it’s.. refreshing.” He turned a more assessing gaze on Creighton. “And despite all this, I do wonder why you haven’t gone for my head just yet. Knowing what you're capable of, I'd say it wouldn't be much of a struggle.”

Pate leisurely drew a thumb across his jugular to nail the point, shrugged with an ease that Creighton had knew he carried before, but could now really tell Pate meant it. He was curious to hear what Creighton thought were his own conceptions, realizing Creighton's outbursts usually stem from the distorted reality he lived. He shifted his weight, and sat himself comfortably down, elbows know resting atop the sides of his thigh chausses. He’d been generous with the time he gave Creighton to respond. He truly was curious.

“You could, you know. If you truly think you’re my better. So, why is it that you've chosen to spare me? Hmm?”

Creighton’s response would determine how their remaining time together would fare, their partnership already fairly brittle. Despite the waning nature of Creighton's boyish disposition, Pate found an innocence to his partner in crime. It was odd he'd find himself this amused with a partner, especially one this viscous. Eyes beginning to glaze over in waiting, pate planned to how he'd absolve himself from Creighton when the time came, and snapped forth to reality when he heard the audible separation of Creighton's lips.

“Dunno… maybe I just don’t see the point in doing so,” he finally responded. He must have earnestly contemplated his answer—albeit for a tad too long. “You’re useful. And you’re not half as annoyin’ as half the undead I’ve met. Or half the humans, either.” Raising the wing of his bandaged arm. He tore his gaze away, teeth biting into the inside of his cheek. “We've got a decent scheme goin’, is 'all.”

A flicker of a smile cracked at Pate’s mouth, finding it to have been against his will. The growing intimacy and promise of union frightened him— Creighton's companionship was a threat to be squandered. He couldn't let Creighton's attachment progress any further, and he couldn't indulge more than he already has. Could he?

“...A decent scheme, indeed. If you really had no qualms about me, you’d sleep soundly. But I think you’re always just one ear open, waiting for me to betray you, though I wouldn’t have the courage to. Well, just making that clear, if it wasn't obvious enough.” His response intended to illicit a reaction from Creighton—which type of response, he couldn't find answer. He needed to widen the distance. 

Perhaps to his own relief, Pate had miscalculated Creighton's capability for banter, or failed to account for how easily Creighton would find himself frustratingly infatuated. The insistent switching of Creighton's ease and unease due Pate’s circular smooth talking had confused an over-eager Creighton. The growing anticipation confused now as frustration, his only release being to lash out at Pate—as if reactively protecting himself from the unfamiliarity to kindness.

“Speak for yourself!” Creighton gruffed. “You’re the one who’s been prattlin’ on about trust—about unsavory bandits, the ones like us." He spits to the side. "Grr...You've... You're always..! Who even thinks to—”

Creighton was flustered into incoherence. Unable to spew his sporadic thoughts, he stepped back from their conversation to chew at his cheek. The nervous energy spreading throughout him, now balling his fists into a numbing mitten. His canines prodding at the inside of his mouth mimicked the repetitive back-and-forth of his tightly wound fist, causing the chain links of his armor to grate against itself. They both fell into silence, the only noise again coming from the distant windmill turning through crumbling corridors, and the fire popping between them. At last, Pate spoke, hushed. “Perhaps we both sleep on this. Could be we’ve found ourselves an odd sort of balance—two men who’d do well to be safe and kill each other, yet we continue this… partnership.”

Creighton snorted and ignored the taste of iron. “Partnership. Sure.” Still, some part of him felt relieved that Pate put words to it, and that he could deescalate Creighton when he himself couldn't. Pate was good for things like that. Despite everything—the suspicions and tension—he didn't feel quite so alone, or outcasted, not that he cared. He refused to let that realization settle into his worldview.

“Anyhow,” Pate said briskly, waving a hand. “Morning will be upon us soon. Let’s not waste the rest of the dark with petty quarrels—" already feeling the mood between them ease over, "and let’s try not to kill each other before the next bonfire. Deal?”

Creighton barked out a short, dry laugh. Pate always did like the boyish charm to it. 

“Hah! Oh, I’ll keep ya ’round if only to see how far you can push your luck, and since you need the extra company.” As if to show Pate that he too can play at his game, almost too amused for someone having been so flustered moments ago. 

“Splendid, Creighton,” He had felt out the extent of Creighton's capacity for tease. Pate figured he could enjoy it, his self efficacy in smoldering his relationships was something he could quarrel with himself later. In allowing himself to be caught up in the glow, he felt it natural to be honest about his intentions for the first time. “I'll have you know, I do love... a challenge.”

He turned his back over to settle against the stones, letting the hush of night drape over them. For a time, Creighton did the same, making a show of turning his shoulder away from Pate to conclude the evening. Both found themselves stealing small glances at the other as they settled, each gauging how authentic their arrangement might be, unsure if they could trust the excitement growing in their chests.

Pate’s mind was already bursting with plans—the next ambush, the next treasure-laden fool, whether Creighton would keep playing along, and how he would go about entrapping Creighton. And Creighton, behind his mask, replayed old memories of the kills before this day to ease himself to rest. His past prideful recollections of his strength were now felt with an emptiness he couldn't describe. With Pate around, he was let known the valor of his might, finally witnessed and adorned the respect he should have received as a “vagabond” of Mirrah. But with Pate, he tasted what it could be like, and became too hungry to return to solitude. He could not discern it, but he feared loss. His undeath would strip him of his chance to become a knight of Mirrah—yet it might have also been the only thing he had left.

Eventually, Creighton’s posture slackened, being the first of the two to rest. Pate, after having pretended to be asleep, ensured Creighton wasn’t feigning the same, listening to his companion’s breathing with half-lidded eyes. He watched the embers that separated them jump and crackle faintly, before he, too, allowed sleep to overtake him. Tomorrow, he’d allocate more time to tighten the leash he fastened onto Creighton.

He settled back to imagine the reaction Creighton might have—a pair of cuffed hands rattling behind bars, trailing upwards to see frantic bloodshot eyes peering back between rust and moss, to finally, an unmasked face. Would the blue in his eyes dim in denial? Ignoring the growing swell at the pit of his stomach, Pate continued fondling the ring of thorns in his hand.

 

 

 

 

Notes:

ok the next time they gonna do some narshty

Chapter 3

Summary:

Creighton has a dream about his buddy

Notes:

ok well it's not really that narshty just yet. i'm getting there and this is actually a lot more difficult (scritch scritch)

It was unusual that Creighton had fallen asleep that night. Routine was that he’d stare out into the open wilderness, eyes bloodshot waiting for any fool thinking to jump him in the midst of the dark… Either that, or some unfortunate soul that he’d busy himself toying with, testing how much repair powder he could abuse on his battleaxe. The darkness Creighton was oh so familiar each night had stretched wide and silent, but to his surprise, Creighton felt the presence of another—felt it in the prickling sweat that lie on his lower back. The world around him was hazy, warm, and vacuous. He knew what it felt like to be in solitude; the numbness, the deafening silence, a self-inflicted incapacitation… but that suffocating night, he felt an invasive warmth of an intruder. Squinting through a hot haze, expecting to see a bloodied field and hollowed faces, he was faced with an opponent he couldn’t ascertain.  

A silhouette appeared—a familiar stance, too poised and deliberate to be any undead husk. Creighton recognized that sly elegance as his partner in crime. If he were any less moronic, or perhaps anymore wise, he would have swung his axe without a second thought. But something about his new companion had left him to reconsider his every angle. With Pate, his worldview rules blurred, and all the static tension between them had made Creighton more of a sweltering and oafish mess than usual. He felt the steam build beneath his mask, heaving in and out with each heavy pull of his diaphragm, the humidity causing the building heat to swell in his lower half.

Pate drew closer, the edges of his serpentine figure softened by the suffocating haze that surrounded him. A familiar obscured sneer drew closer to Creighton, accompanied by fevering, demanding deep of set of eyes. Unbeknownst to Creighton, he had been engulfed by Pate, thoughts hijacked by his presence alone. Creighton realized he was the one standing stiffly—adrenaline pounding through his chest, unsure of what to expect next. He had felt Pate’s voice before he could hear it, the invasive heat breaching through the chainmail around his neck, warping down to crawl down the arches of his back.

“Let me."

Pate’s hand landed on his shoulder, tightening in a silent command that Creighton did not and could not refute. He stood, allowing Pate to wander his leather gauntlet in between his chainmail and shoulder chausses, beginning to massage that cold, stiff muscle left untouched other than by the edges of long swords. Taken aback by confusion, he stood idly as Pate found his way through his layered armor, wincing silently at each overly teasing and curious squeeze. From behind, Pate reared his head so that Creighton could see him peering over his shoulder. Creighton’s breath caught in his mask, the air becoming increasingly suffocating.

Taking his boyish stupor as permission to continue, Pate began undressing Creighton’s head piece, deliberately avoiding the front mask. Soft clinking of metal hitting the ground hadn’t caused Creighton to flinch until more and more of his neck was exposed. Pate had taken off his leather gauntlets to fondle at his moist nape barehanded. Save for his mask, he moved his hands to begin undressing the rest of Creighton. The dry skin of his forearms encroached Creighton from behind, hands exploring the minutiae of his abused body, battle marks and aches growing clammier and wetter with each excavation by Pate's deft fingers. Arms sliding their way through Creighton’s warm armpits, he found Pate’s hands were now molesting his now damp chest, playfully cupping the fat of his right pectoral. One hand had moved downward, cruelly tenderizing the flesh around his stomach.

Creighton had seen an assessment like this before: When he had witnessed a cattle rancher praise an ox for its meat, the ox unable to fathom why it was treated so gently. 

There were no longer any attempts to stifle any hissing or sudden grunting. Creighton could feel the condensation now pooling on the inside of the dented metal, threatening to drip right back onto his cupid’s bow. His palm cupping his right breast, Pate began to swirl his thumb over the stiffening pebble, slowly massaging the under stimulated organ, coercing the pinkish underbelly of Creighton's right nipple with an agonizing rhythm and force. He kept thumbing at the nub, roughly pushing back and forth—cruel sharp tugs on occasion, and watched as Creighton’s head swerved opposite of the direction Pate had pleased. It was like Pate knew exactly what to do to cherish Creighton: fingernails occasionally leaving a sting, dragging clockwise to counter-clockwise motions, patiently growing a numbness connecting them, opting to leave the other nipple neglected, forcing it to react on its own.

Aching for the abuse it didn’t know it needed.

“Let me go,” Creighton whined, voice rough and heightened with impatience.

“Well then...If you wish... but, " Pate paused, before asking demurely, "Why on earth would I do that?”

Creighton could only breathily pant in response. He no longer cared to hide or deny his arousal, evident in the stiffening cock between his legs. He looked to his right shoulder, where Pate had rested his chin, accidentally locking eyes. Blood had pumped furiously down to his lower chambe quicker than he could think. Creighton unintentionally averted his gaze, glancing over to see what Pate would do to him next. The notion excited Pate.  

“You like this, don’t you?”

Creighton felt the heat of Pate’s hands sink through his metal mask, eyes tightly closing as fresh air spilled onto his sweltering face. Creighton reflexively and erratically began scrambling underneath Pate, who didn't release his mask but paused where he held it. He could see closed eyes desperately blocking his visage out. 

“..T'fuck are you playing at..?!” Creighton spoke through his teeth, his voice carrying tenacity and desire. Pate responded by caressing his mask back on fully. He then silently began guiding him backward, clasping his ear and thumb on cheek in one hand and nape in the other. Pate’s lips curled into the barest hint of a satisfied smirk, hot breath hitting the shell of Creighton’s ear. As though he were holding back confusion, or the facsimile of garnering the strength, he bared his teeth. Creighton stumbled, boots scraping, only to realize that Pate had placed them both against a cold stone floor. He began massaging the base of Creighton’s inner thigh, smile audible in his soft chuckling. Creighton knew the answer to his own question because he wasn’t shoving the other man away. He found himself gripping Pate’s shoulders for any semblance of control in the situation, unable to push or pull him any closer. Creighton was practically rutting through feeling Pate's breath alone. 

“Look at you,” Pate cooed, leaning in close. “All that fury, with nowhere to burn it.”

A hot flush rose in spread across his face. He reached for Pate’s banded mail, curling his fingers, holding Pate in place with his grip. But Pate was quicker. One hand wrapped around Creighton’s wrist, pinning it gently above his shoulder. There was no venom with the move, but the intent was clear: Pate wanted control. He pressed in further, teasing dry lips over the side of Creighton’s neck.

“Let me see your face.”

Creighton jerked back, his surprise threaded with hints of betrayal. He’d never think to fully removed his mask for Pate—or for anyone, really, not when someone could recognize him. Creighton knew it himself that it was foolish, eyes closing tight again as fresh air spilled onto his sweltering maw. He could feel his pulse in his chest and his groin. 

“There you are,” Pate purred, leaning in. Despite the usual bravado he wore, Creighton shivered at how thoroughly Pate took control of the kiss. Slow rhythmic tongues entwining with one another, one lazily lapping at the other, chasing any warm moving thing. Creighton began pushing his head forward sloppily and with hunger, not allowing any strings of saliva to form when their lips parted.

Pate’s free hand glided over Creighton’s waist, then crawled up his stomach until it rested at the swell just beneath his ribs. Slowly, that hand began to roam lower, finding the place where Creighton’s navel dipped in.  Following his hand where it rested, he brought his mouth to Creighton’s exposed abdomen. Creighton's eyes widened when he felt the wet warmth of Pate’s tongue pressing against the small indent of his navel.

 “Urnngh!?” was all Creighton could muster up. Too many racing thoughts and conflicting emotions to piece together a coherent message. He might've began to cry had he any better sense to. 

Pate spared a moment to cast a lopsided grin up at him before returning to the sensitive spot, lips and tongue teasing in a slow, languid pattern. Each flick of Pate’s tongue over Creighton’s navel dug deeper and deeper through, wet squishing and tacky saliva soaking the skin Creighton's stomach. Creighton’s nails scraped at Pate’s shoulders looking for some kind of release, like a caged animal in heat. He was too unfamiliar of the dizzying sensation—so foreign and agonizing that it made his pulse pound violently in his ears.

“You've quite the talent,” Pate breathed against Creighton’s skin, the faintest chiding. “I know you can take more.”

Anger flared in Creighton's temple, the playful teasing lost on him as condescending. 

"...You... I'm not one to be trifled with...Prick." He tried to jerk his free arm as if to sell his point, the brevity of his threats immediately discarded. Pate effortlessly ensnared him. 

“Hmm...You're right,” Pate agreed, shifting so that Creighton’s captured hand wrapped around his waist. “And you could very easily stop this..."

He shivered as Pate guided him into a more intimate embrace, pressing their bodies flush. Anger, arousal, and twisted curiosity warred in Creighton’s head. He felt oddly self conscious that Pate still had his leather on, but he felt more sore about the unbearable swell in his balls. He surged back into the kiss, dryly humping against the man on top of him seeking any sort of friction, the raw intensity made both of them groan. Pate’s firm mouth demanded Creighton yield more and more, teeth grazing his lips as he become more and more covetous, and Creighton unknowingly forfeited so. Pate chuckled against Creighton’s mouth, a low, triumphant sound that made the warrior’s skin prickle.

“Good, good,” he murmured. “That’s it…”

Fingertips dug into Creighton’s hair, tilting his head back so Pate could explore deeper along the line of his jaw and throat. Another moan escaped Creighton when Pate’s mouth returned to his torso. The sly flick of tongue against his navel again, the teasing nibble of lips trailing downward, tongue lapping at the trail of white hairs leading further down—he felt everything keenly, each nerve painfully looking for a release.

“See? Not so difficult,” Pate teased, tongue rising up and down his pelvic bone.

Creighton tried to growl something back, but it broke into a gasp. 

 “You’re full of surprises, Creighton,” Pate whispered, bending in to suck lightly at the dip just above Creighton’s abdomen. “Maybe I ought to keep an eye on you.”

Chapter 4

Notes:

I now have more free time and cognitive load I can invest into this!!! A short and quick update to get me thinking about these two again

He awoke abruptly in the stillness of the campsite, armor pressing uncomfortably against his ribs. His breathing was short and stiff, unhelpful in processing his surroundings. The stench of burnt myrrh and cold alabaster further nauseated him. He could not discern where he was as his breathing returned to normal, and he grew increasingly volatile. The dull glow from the last of the embers fully grounded him, sweat beading at his temples. He was so feverishly warm that for a moment he expected to see Pate still pinning him against the ground.

But Pate lay a short distance away, propped against a mound of gear. Even in the dimness, Creighton could see his eyes lidded—half-open—as if he could sense the shift in Creighton’s breathing. Slowly, Creighton forced himself upright. He shakily dragged in a breath, refusing to meet Pate’s gaze. His body still hummed with electric tension and an insensible ache, as though the dream had left a curse. He didn’t have to peer down to know the veins of his cock still twitched.

“Is something the matter? What finds you so perturbed?” Pate asked softly, the meekness of his tone doing nothing to hide the curiosity in his eyes. Creighton didn’t trust himself enough and barely assessed that Pate had been prying more than he was usually comfortable with, so he just gave a dismissive grunt in response. The memory of the dream seared his cheeks. Or maybe, the traitorous voice in his head murmured, maybe Pate did know.

“Well, I ask because, from here, it seemed to me as if... you were having a bad dream…”

With no further words exchanged, he hastily lied back down, dismissing Pate as a form of self defense. He turned his back and curled inward, desperate to conceal the burn in his face, having convinced himself in his erratic mind that it were visible to the naked eye. Even then, he felt his shame gnawing at him, knowing how it felt to be caught in Pate’s stare—how its unwavering and impermeable nature betrayed his docile demeanor. Though he bore the full weight of his chain and mask, Creighton had never felt so disarmed. He tried to steady his racing pulse, unable to ease his nerves due to the sounds of his own breath mimicking the echo of Pate’s voice as it crept on his neck. Never was there such a fervent desire building in Creighton. He wanted more, and it sickened him.

Notes:

I feel like next chapter they will actually bang . but I don't know. even though I'm the one writing this. lol. Badda Boom

Chapter 5

Notes:

i didn't expect anyone would want the continuation of this! it's been some time since my concussion, so i apologize for the delayed shorter releases. thanks for sticking around :)

Pate had seen it undeniable even in the half-light.

Creighton’s tented breeches betrayed him. Frantic and wild thrashing had left his chainmail askew, revealing the strained tunic beneath. The bulge of his arousal pressed heavily against the white linen, leaving a damp, dark indent where flesh weighed on cloth.

Pate hadn’t expected Creighton to still have… function. The undead curse was a fickle thing, much of which was largely left a mystery: Those who could not be emboldened by the pursuit of knowledge would rather have it barred and locked away. As such, not many could fathom that the gradual hollowing process barely whittled away at a person’s basal desires. Sensuality of and with the undead was unheard of, and without saying, taboo. Selfishly, loved ones were shunned and abandoned at the Lost Bastille to be replaced by women of the night. Pate would have admitted to Creighton his occasional indulgences, just to see the disgust—or perhaps jealousy—burn behind the mask. He wanted to stir the fire beneath that lay below, curious to know whether Creighton would envy Pate or the women beneath him. He calculated the risk of his gambits, and anything to do with Creighton had warranted dangerous repercussions. Unlike his other partners, he savored the slow unraveling of his usual process: How sweet half-truths could pick apart a man's reason stitch by stitch. He knew that it wasn't strength, but words that reigned sovereign in the lands between, disarming in their candor. Fools mistook his directness for honesty, and a fool knew nothing to fight back.  

Creighton was so, so endearing.

He could not possibly know how Pate had seen him, but how could he not? And now, he was staring right back.

Even as the twist in his heart lodged his throat, Pate, more practiced in deception that ever before, had effortlessly feigned drowsiness, blinking slow and uneven to sell the act. Yet beneath half-lidded eyes, he studied Creighton’s reactions deeply: How the heave of Creighton’s chest revealed the way his body betrayed his mind, the restless shifting akin to the unconscious desire for friction against his twitching cock. It wouldn’t take much, Pate mused. A calculated press with his foot, shifting the ball of his feet onto the base of Creighton’s shaft to trail up and down thickening veins, that, or he'd look down to see Creighton humping against his leg. Whatever came first.

Without answering Pate, Creighton turned away to Pate’s slight disappointment. No matter. He'd return to the fantasy: Creighton behind bars, chained and yielding before Pate. The thought of tears, snot, and spittle streaking beneath the mask hadcoiled something hot in his groin. Even as Creighton turned away, Pate lingered on the image, savoring it.

He’d have everything back at Tsledora.

---

The wind flung grit and sand against their armor, and neither of them flinched. Their attention laid on the jagged ledges of the Brightstone Cove. The cliff split gaped between them and the rest of their hoarded spoils. The only way out, was through.

Pate pressed a finger to his lips to gesture for silence as he stepped toward the zipline. Creighton hesitated, the more frequent eye contact with Pate beginning to distill unwanted giddiness in him. He felt his chest pound at the view before him, his companion standing before a ledge. If he pushed him off now, he wouldn’t have to endure these bothersome afflictions. Pate only smiled and gave his shoulder a teasing squeeze before kicking off.

He must be completely off his fucking rocker.

He landed with the effortless precision of a man who had long since conquered the gap. A pivot on his left foot, a theatrical brush of dust from his left shoulder, and then that infuriating grin aimed back at Creighton’s poorly concealed distress. The smile deepened, warmer now, at the thought of Creighton’s howls as he plummeted to the rocks below.

Creighton mistook it for encouragement.

Pate continued looking back up at Creighton, his fear growing increasingly palpable. He beckoned to him assuring It’s safe! as if Creighton couldn’t parse the situation himself, knowing he’d be cross for being belittled.

Creighton wasn’t convinced. Heights were one thing when there was solid ground beneath you. It didn't matter if he was undead. This was different. This was nothing but  inevitability.

Pate stood there with that stupid smile, Creighton thought, perhaps Pate was just as afraid and wanted him to think differently. Maybe that was why he looked so pleased with himself, to see Creighton like this. Shutting out the view below, he recalled simpler times between the crumbling prison walls. The undead wards were little more than hobbled limestone and neglect, but they at least had walkways, guarded by much less meddling antagonists.

Pate mouthed something else. Creighton couldn’t parse it out, but he assumed it was more playful mockery. They'd both grown a habit for it. The gall of this knave, knowing Pate could sense his irritation even through the mask. He’d been told by him before how audibly irate he could be—how his teeth ground unknowingly and how the air around him became vacuous. Pate told him many things, most of them useless tidbits about his mannerisms. Because of Pate’s ruinous gaze, he had become deeply self-conscious.

He kept looking.

Was there truly no other path to the abode? Was there no way around?

Pate’s knowing look answered before the words did. Yes, you do have to take the zipline, Creighton. When it became clear hesitation would triumph, Pate spread his arms, as if incentivizing Creighton with embrace as his compensation. Creighton scowled at this. His cowardice stalling their plans was made too obvious that Pate would now openly tease him like this. Everyone knew that a knight of Mirrah did not balk in the face of danger, and he’d rather hollow than have his integrity questioned, even if it was false.

He gripped the handle, steeled his core, and launched himself forward. His legs stretched out in a desperate attempt at control, his body rigid as the wind screamed past. Pate barely had time to register the absurdity of his posture before Creighton barreled into him. The impact sent them both sprawling on the ground. Dust was kicked, spattered between the two. Pebbles skittered into the cracks of nearby ruins and to the rocks below. Creighton blinked to find himself in a familiar posture: He was atop Pate, his forearm planted across Pate’s diaphragm, a scuffed knee wedged between his thighs, accidently pinning the other man down. Creighton felt as if his ribs were being crushed, despite not having landed on them. He lashed out, confused.

"Gragh! Shit!"

"Urgh…Quiet down!" Pate hissed through gritted teeth.

"Right. Are you hurt anywhere?" Creighton barely hushed.

Pate winced at the moronic question, unsure if Creighton was versed in pragmatics or just an endearing but bumbling oaf. Through sharp inhales, he sputtered, "I’ll be fine, Creighton,” pausing to think, “ and you?"

Creighton pushed himself up and offered a hand. When Pate stalled to take it, encumbered, he hauled him up anyway. Without a second thought, he threw the incapacitated man onto his hunched back and lifted him into a fireman’s carry.

“Don’t bother.” He answered. Pate thought to check the previous gash on Creighton's arm and reached towards it. 

"...I mean it." 

Pate instead chose to pat it gently a couple times and ragdolled back into Creighton's hold. 

He began walking towards the rock-cut dwelling that Pate spoke of. As he approached the dim cavate, the coolness of the inner structure bit at the phantom stings and the remaining adrenaline poured through his bloodstream. He liked the weight leaning on him like this, limp and reliant. The pained and shallow grunting Pate made with each bob in his step shouldn’t have sent heat prickling down his neck, but they did.

He glanced at his right shoulder, where he found Pate’s disheveled helmet tilted awkwardly. His brown eyes winced, pain continued to twist his features, no doubt from Creighton’s rough handling. Pate knew he was being watched, then their eyes met.

Pate’s brows lifted. At Creighton, he smiled dimly through furrowed brows; his once cocky demeanor, now battered into shrunken and pathetic resignation.

Creighton was jubilant at the stark contrast, but his fleeting excitement stirred into impending anguish. His chest swelled. Something twisted gnarly in Creighton’s gut, fight or flight raced in his mind, he'd been a cornered animal. He sat Pate down against the ignimbrite walls to alleviate the burden weighing on his conscious. He was convinced that Pate felt the pulse of his neck thrumming—how covetous it was in comparison to his own. Did Pate... know? There’d be no other reason, why else would he have smized at him like that? After sustaining injuries from his negligence? Had he always been like that? No, no. Then, when? How? When had he grown so pliant to Pate’s whims? Creighton thought he might have actually lost his mind. 

On the ground, Pate silently watched the man before him. The corner whites of Creighton’s eyes widened while deep in ruminating, failing to see that his voyeur ceased the act and comfortably adjusted himself. He figured he’d seize the opportunity later that evening.