unjustifiable | 𝙾𝚅𝙴𝚁𝙵𝙻𝙾𝚆

[ Igarak knows, both by instinct and experience, where the most vulnerable arteries and veins are located. He can almost hear them pulsating beneath James' skin, the rush of blood calling to him. He deliberately avoids them, just to prove that he can.

When James begs, he bites harder--then freezes. Doubt suddenly seizes him.

James is thrusting into his hand, breathless, his own hand still moving over Igarak, all signs screaming that he enjoys this. Yet James says it hurts. But he wants it to hurt. But what if it's too much?

The taste of blood hits his tongue.

With a desperate sound, equal parts pleasure and revulsion, he pulls his teeth away, forehead resting heavily on James' throat. He's breathing so hard the words barely make it past his lips. ]

Good... or...?

[ The pain builds to an nigh-unbearable crescendo. He feels something tear. His vision blurs as he blinks away tears, overwhelmed by the crushing wave of sensation.

Then the wave breaks. Igarak pulls away, and the sharp agony fades to a dull ache. A thin red rivulet trickles down his throat, pooling in the divot between his collarbones. He pants, his chest tight with an odd mix relief and disappointment. He's unsure why Igarak has stopped. This isn't enough for either of them. Not nearly enough. ]

Yes, [ he rasps, then winces at the desperation in his voice. The hand around Igarak's cock comes to a stop in the middle of a stroke. He pulls back the foreskin and massages the glans with his thumb. It's a light touch, meant to tease. ] Good. Very good.

[ James' desperate reply is the only encouragement Igarak needs--yet his body tenses for a moment, coiling tight. A whimper nearly escapes him before he manages to choke it back. ]

Gods. James...

[ His glans is painfully sensitive, hovering on the cusp of unbearable. With a shuddering breath, he lifts his head just enough to orient himself. Blood smears his brow where it rested on James' throat. When he looks down, he sees it pooled in the hollow of the man's collarbone, exactly as he'd imagined.

The sight stokes his hunger. He leans in and tastes it, the sweet tang flooding his senses as a groan is torn from his chest. His teeth drag along, none too gently now, sinking in around the curve of bone and tugging at skin. His fingers tighten in James' hair. His hips twitch helplessly in response to the assault on his nerves, and he thrusts, silently pleading with James to stroke him again. ]

[ Igarak smells of blood and sex and looks like something out of a fevered nightmare. James has never wanted anyone so badly. He stares at the smear of fresh blood - his blood - with helpless fascination, feeling like a hare caught in some predator's jaws.

Igarak's tongue burns like a brand. James moans softly as the other man laps up his blood, wondering if Igarak can taste the adrenaline that sets his heart hammering against his ribcage. He begins to move his hand again, the strokes growing frantic and erratic as Igarak resumes gnawing at him. The area around his collarbones is especially sensitive, and it's all he can do to keep from weeping out of pain, desperation, or pleasure - he's not sure which. Maybe some unholy combination of the three. ]

Tell me. How you'd butcher me.

[ He shouldn't ask. But he wants to know. Needs to know. ]

[ The request catches him by off guard and nearly undoes him. His movements falter. He takes a steadying breath and lifts his head again, looking down at James.

Igarak hasn't come close to doing his worst, yet the man's throat is already a mess of red. Marred, beautiful, and divine.

(Not divine. This-- James-- is not some offering to a god Igarak has long since renounced, or to any god for that matter.

Beautiful, however...)

He swallows, his strokes slowing as hesitation grips him, but it doesn't last long. This is only a fantasy, a story, no different from James sharing his dreams.

His fingers untangle from James' hair, his hand sliding along his jaw until coming to rest at his chin. As images take shape in his mind, his gaze unfocuses, becoming wild-eyed and predatory once more. He is a terrible monster staring down at his victim, eyes burning in the dark, blood smeared across his mouth and staining his teeth. ]

I'd take my blade.

[ His voice is a harsh, unsteady whisper. The claw of his index finger presses beneath James' chin, in the fleshy area between his jawbone. ]

And I'd slice you open. From here... [ That same claw slowly traces a line down--over James' throat, over his collarbone, his chest, his abdomen--hard enough to leave a scratch, ending at his navel. ] ...to here.

[ The stern but kindhearted man who pulled James out of the harbor is nothing but a memory now. Something wicked has slipped into his skin. The impostor wears Igarak's face like a grisly trophy - but maybe he's not an impostor at all. Maybe this was always the real Igarak, just as the real James is the man who held a pillow over his wife's face until he heard the death rattle. What a pair they make.

There's a certain satisfaction in being treated exactly as one deserves, and maybe that's why James revels in this abuse. He stares up into Igarak's eyes, every muscle tense, every nerve raw. In his imagination, Igarak's claw becomes the point of a knife, slicing through fat and sinew as it splits him open. He arches into the blade, eagerly offering up his body for butchery. If Igarak were to reach into the wound and caress his insides, would he be able to feel it?

That thought proves to be his undoing. His climax hits him just as Igarak's claw reaches his navel. He comes with a strangled groan, spilling all over his stomach and Igarak's hand. The hand stroking Igarak clenches involuntarily, perhaps even to the point of discomfort. ]

Fuck. Gods above...

[ Igarak's burning gaze never leaves James' face. He watches the pleasure, the pain, sees the man's gaze turn inward as he no doubt imagines something far worse than Igarak's claw dragging down his front.

Igarak imagines it, too. In his mind, his blade parts James with a precise cut, a thin red line of blood following and spilling over. All it would take is a gentle pull, and James would be open to him, warm and vulnerable, his insides laid bare beneath his hands. In that imagined moment, James cries out, an exquisite mix of pain and pleasure and fear, as Iagark touches him in places no one ever has or ever will again.

In reality, James is arching into him. When Igarak's claw reaches his navel, he comes with the most beautiful, strangled cry.

His own ragged breaths soon become all he hears. James' hand tightens around him almost painfully. He abandons the man's navel to close around his wrist, holding it there as he thrusts into his grip, eyes still locked on his face. For one terrible, glorious moment, he imagines this is James' dying cry, imagines the light leaving his eyes as Igarak gives him the gift that he was made to give.

Igarak's eyes squeeze shut. With a broken, guttural sound, he comes harder than he can remember. ]

[ For a few delirious seconds, James can hear nothing but the rush of blood in his ears and feel nothing but the burning of his lungs as he struggles to catch his breath. Then, slowly, his senses return: he becomes acutely aware of the throbbing ache of his wounds, the sound of Igarak's labored breathing, the heat of the other man's body. The fading adrenaline leaves him feeling limp and utterly spent, but the guilt and regret that usually follow his stolen moments of pleasure are conspicuously absent.

He cracks one eye open, wondering how Igarak is faring. ]

...Hey. Are you all right?

[ A somewhat silly question, considering Igarak isn't the one who's bleeding all over the sofa. ]

[ Igarak's breaths come fast and deep. The hand around James' wrist loosens, but he doesn't let go, his thumb instantly finding the man's pulse by instinct. He's fully aware of everything that just transpired. He hears James breathing. He knows he's alive... yet the steady heartbeat beneath his thumb is grounding, irrefutable proof of life. When it slows with the inevitable ebb of adrenaline, Igarak must remind himself that it's a normal biological process and not a slow death due to blood loss.

He opens his eyes when his own breathing begins to slow. He nods faintly, gaze avoiding James' face and instead focusing on the mess he inflicted: bite wounds on his neck and chest, blood smeared throughout. ]

And you? [ His voice is quiet, uncertain. He releases James' wrist to gently trace the unbroken skin around the wounds and swallows. ] Do you feel... alive?

[ James feels rather than sees Igarak check his pulse. He chuckles at the question, then winces when the motion aggravates his wounds. ]

I can dodge questions too, you know.

[ The words come slightly slurred, as though he's just woken up from a dead sleep. ]

But I won't. Yes, I feel alive. More than that. I feel... good. Sore as all hells, but good.

[ He squints, waiting for the blurry red shape to resolve itself into Igarak. Concern creeps through the pleasant post-coital haze. It's easy for James to feel good; he hasn't hurt anyone. If their places were reversed, he would be a nervous wreck right now. He tries to catch the hand that took his pulse, then gives it a weak squeeze. His climax seems to have drained him of all his strength and coordination. ]

I don't regret this, if that's what you're afraid of.

[ It's a relief, however small, to know that James not only feels good but also feels no regrets. At least, he doesn't yet. How he'll feel once the haze of sex wears off is another matter. As for Igarak himself...

He doesn't know. He is... conflicted, sated in a way that he hasn't been in a very long time. That alone feels shameful, as does the comfort he takes in James' hand upon his.

His thumb strokes the skin around the wounds again. How can he feel so satisfied? What right does he have to crave comfort when he's the one who caused such harm?

His gaze remains downcast, unable to meet James'. ]

I'm glad.

[ The skin around his wounds is sensitive, but Igarak's touch is light and careful enough to not cause him any discomfort. James revels in the tender care just as he reveled in the pain. Maybe the two aren't really so different. Igarak is a paladin, after all; healing and hurting are both his domain. ]

Me too.

[ Igarak won't meet his eyes. James knows that look; gods only know he's worn it himself often enough to recognize it. ]

Hey.

[ With a level of confidence that surprises him, he guides Igarak's hand to his left pectoral and presses it over his heart, wincing slightly when the other man's fingers brush against torn skin. ]

You can feel that, can't you? You haven't killed me. You haven't done anything that I didn't ask you to do. When I had enough, you stopped. The person you used to be wouldn't have been capable of that.

[ Something in Igarak's chest tightens painfully. He often tries to keep mastery over himself and his reactions, but there are times, like now, when his defenses are down and he lacks the strength to rebuild them. When he finally looks at James, his eyes betray his fear.. but also the surprise and gratitude for the thoughtfulness of the man's words.

A small, unguarded smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. ]

Thank you.

[ His gaze falls back to the wounds. They're far angrier and certainly more painful than the marks he left on James' arm. He quietly clears his throat. ]

Unfortunately, I can't let you keep these.

[ James has never been any good at consoling the people he cares for. After it became clear that Mary was never going to get better, he still tried to maintain the fiction that there was hope, but all of his words of comfort rang false, like memorized lines that he recited without much spirit or conviction. Eventually, he got tired of lying and dropped the pretense entirely. She could always see right through him, anyway.

He's terrified of making the same mistakes with Igarak, so he's delighted to find that his clumsy reassurances seem to cheer the man up. Even better, James actually meant the words this time. Maybe that's the key. He smiles back, feeling almost giddy. If he embarrasses himself, he can always blame it on the blood loss. ]

It's nothing. Just the truth, that's all.

[ He knows that Igarak is in the right about the wounds. Even discounting their tendency to get fester, bite wounds are more difficult to explain away than the scratches on his arm. ]

I knew that was coming. If it makes you feel any better, they look a lot worse than they feel.

[ But they still feel pretty damn uncomfortable. And besides, he can't deny that some shameful, selfish part of him relishes in being fussed over. There's a certain intimacy in the patient's submission to the healer, whose tools and methods so often overlap with those of the torturer. It seems fitting that Igarak should play both roles. James glances down at the wounds, only slightly reluctant to part with them. ]

It seems a shame to undo your own handiwork. But you're right. They have to go.

[ It does seem a shame, he thinks, still caught in the lingering haze. An indulgent thought follows on its heels, that perhaps next time he should mark some place less conspicuous, somewhere that could be easily hidden.

Sense snaps back to him a moment later, carrying with it a fresh wave of guilt.

He shouldn't leave marks at all. And there shouldn't be a next time.

He doesn't heal James right away, as he knows he should. Instead, he pulls away, though not enough to put distance between them. He remains beside him, leaning into him, as he comes back to himself. His gaze drifts sidelong, drawn again to the wounds. ]

Does it feel good? [ His voice is quiet and uncertain, almost reluctant. ] Right now, I mean.

[ Self-centered in his insecurity, James takes Igarak's sudden withdrawal as a sign of reproach. He frowns, mentally replaying their conversation in an attempt to pinpoint what he said or did wrong, but nothing stands out among his jumbled recollections.

Igarak's question disrupts what might have been the beginning of one of James' (by now routine) guilt spirals. He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he tries to focus on his body, on sensation: the tolerable but constant ache of the wounds, the stickiness of the drying blood on his chest, the warmth of Igarak's body where they touch. As he does so, his lingering anxiety recedes. He thinks he has his answer. ]

It hurts, obviously. But it's not the bad kind of pain, if that makes any sense at all. It feels... grounding. Like something I needed for a while, even though I didn't know it until now.

[ He pauses, then glances shyly at Igarak's face. ]

It makes me feel closer to you, somehow. Like you've claimed me.

[ Claimed me? Really? He winces. ] Gods, just listen to me. Maybe I hit my head harder than I thought.

Edited 2025-12-27 18:53 (UTC)

[ Like you've claimed me.

Blood immediately rushes to Igarak's head, causing the room to blur for a dizzying moment. He swallows hard. He looks at the wounds again, mouth beginning to water before he manages to tear his gaze away.

He feels it, too, that sense of possession. He'd felt it the night before, when James said he wanted to keep the wounds on his arm. But he can't say it. Can he? ]

I know what you mean. About the pain.

[ No. He can't. He mustn't. Wanting what James wants is not the same as wanting what he wants. James is not the monster in this scenario.

The fire is dying once more. He leans down to retrieve the quilt that had slipped off sometime during their entanglement and draws it over them both, leaving the wounds exposed. He settles against James again, worrying his bottom lip. ]

You should rest.

[ James is not particularly observant by nature, but Igarak's reaction (and subsequent attempt at deflection) are obvious enough that even he can't miss them. He lets his head fall back against the hitherto unused pillow, gazing down at the exposed wounds. The simple truth that they keep dancing around is written plainly on his skin. Denying it seems pointless, especially in light of what has just transpired between them. ]

Igarak.

[ The exasperation in his tone is tempered with fondness. He supposes that he'd be worried if Igarak didn't seem at least a little conflicted about this, but he doesn't want the man to torture himself, either. Not when they both want the same thing. ]

Do you really want me to rest, or do you just want to stop talking about this? It isn't going to go away if we ignore it, you know.

[ James' blood is still smeared across his face, drying. Igarak feels it pull as he smiles ruefully. ]

Can't I want both?

[ His gaze then drifts to the wounds one last time. He tells himself he's not memorizing them, but he knows it's a lie; the image is already seared into his mind, ready to be recalled later.

He closes his eyes and lays a hand upon James' chest. Blue light glows beneath his palm and blankets the torn skin, slowly knitting the wounds closed. When he opens his eyes, the skin is smooth and unmarked. He smothers the pang of loss the image incites and forces himself to meet James's eyes. ]

I know you woke not long ago, but this was... It was a lot. Rest now. We can talk later.

𝙾𝚅𝙴𝚁𝙵𝙻𝙾𝚆

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