My entry for Day One of Freeruka Week! Contains a light sprinkle of dub-con because of the madness, so be wary of that. Also, there is a mention of canon attempted suicide (under influence of the madness, but still).
Enjoy!
Free is a werewolf. That is something that he's never forgotten, ever present in his mind, in his body, in his very blood. But there is still a line that separates his being as a creature that is classified as a monster, and actually being a monster.
Not like Azura is.
Not like Medusa is.
And though there's still people that would call him a monster, a beast, and run away terrified, Free himself has never felt the sensation of fear.
Not until now.
Eruka smiles darkly at him from her place in the corner, and even knowing she's nearly half his size and that he's far stronger than she could ever hope to be, Free still finds himself taking a step backward.
"We could go to Shibusen," he stammers out. "Maybe there's something they can do about-"
Eruka lets out a high-pitched bout of laughter. "About the madness, you mean? That lot couldn't even deal with it when it was attacking their own people."
He thinks of how it could have possibly come to this - a stray snake left on her body, perhaps, mixed with too much exposure to black blood and madness and witches' propensity to destructiveness. All he knows is that her eyes have a mad glint to them now, and she's not behaving the same. Free supposes he should be grateful she's not being outright violent, or acting too weirdly, or trying to kill him - or herself, as they both had done under the influence of Azura's madness - but she's not fully acting like herself, either, and he's not too sure about that.
She takes another step towards him, and he backs away further.
"I should freeze you in place," she says conversationally. "But freezing things is your realm of expertise, after all. I don't suppose you'll want to do it yourself."
His back is nearing the wall at an alarming rate, so he switches directions. "Not really."
She sighs disappointedly. "Oh, well." Her eyes are fixed on his, dark and holding something that looks like a promise. His blood runs faster when her gaze doesn't let up, running to places that it probably shouldn't go when he's in a situation such as this.
His knees hit something - probably a box, or a low chair, something, but he's clumsy enough in all his height that it probably doesn't even matter, in the end - and he falls back, cold tile hitting his backside. Eruka's grin curls into something more sinister, more predatory, and he shivers. He shivers, and tries to ignore the lightheadedness that takes hold when she slows to a crawl over him.
Her hands are impossibly tiny, impossibly innocent-looking against the muscles of his chest, and she curls her fingers until the tips of her nails are digging into his flesh. There's a thrill running down his spine, a spike of pure adrenaline - one that tells him to run, to fight, to maybe stay and pull her against him and-
She licks the side of his neck, slow and languid and hot, hot in a way that nearly makes him feel like he's burning inside, and Free groans.
We shouldn't be doing this like this, he wants to say. You're the kind of witch that likes to go slow and this is not it. We should go look for a way to get you back to normal.
"Um," he says instead, and immediately feels like facepalming afterwards. "Eruka-"
But her name comes out as a moan, and now he's caught in her dark eyes once more. "Good doggie knows my name," she coos, and he's torn between laughing and crying out in desperation. Her nails drag downwards, until they reach the uncovered slice of skin between his pants and his shirt, and her gaze becomes all the more attentive as she sinks them into his skin.
He can't help but groan again, and if it comes as a little less pained and a little more pleasured than it should - well, he's been locked away and lonely for longer than he can count, and maybe he has a little more than lingering affection for his silver-haired partner, enough that he has to remind himself again as to why this is a bad idea. His hands fly to hold hers in place; he might be a man, a werewolf, someone who isn't all there anymore, but there's something in his gut that tells him that she's not quite herself either.
And then teeth - sharp teeth, much sharper than he had ever thought they would be in the few moments of quiet consideration every night before he goes to sleep - sink into the junction of his neck with his shoulder, and Free is lost. So, so lost, throwing his head back and howling as if the full moon is out and he's out for a hunt, relishing on the pleasure-pain he's always been weak to.
"Eruka," he pants out, and she seems pleased when she raises her head to look at him again.
"Good boy," she compliments. There is her sharp smile, teeth glinting in the low evening light, drawn on her face as if the best of artists had carved it themselves. He's so, so lost, and she knows it; she relishes in it with the wicked perversion only a witch is capable of. He keeps forgetting that she belongs to such a species, mellow and fearful as she is - was - under Medusa's hand, but there's definitely something in the lines of her face, in the curve of her body, in the very air around her tonight, that makes him remember just why he generally tries to steer clear from witches on his good days.
His partner brings his hands, still holding hers, to her lips. They're thin, dark, as if stained with berry juices, and they caress the back of his hands softly enough that it deceives him into loosening his hold on hers. A glint of teeth; they scrape across his skin and he feels hot, too hot, like his very blood is liquid fire trying to escape from within him - maybe it's something to do with how messed up he is after years of solitary confinement, maybe it's from his nature as a werewolf, but his eyes turn as dark as hers and he finds himself licking his own lips in anticipation.
No, the few parts of his brain still functioning protest. You need to do something. But then her tongue is curling against her teeth in a sinful manner, one he'd never thought he'd see from the tiny witch always at his side, and his thoughts become even hazier.
A freed hand makes its way to his face, caressing his jawline, caressing the slope of his cheekbones, caressing the tattoo where his left eyebrow should be-
And caressing his lips, as softly as the flutter of a butterfly's wing.
"Eruka," he mutters again, the only word he seems capable of saying.
"Shhh," she chides, as if he's her loyal, faithful dog, and slices his lower lip with the sharpness of her nails.
He wants to protest, but she's leaning down - down, down, so close that he can see the freckles that are dusted across her skin, nearly invisible, so close that he can admire the whiteness of her lashes-
Her tongue, pink and hot and tiny, as tiny as the rest of her, slides out from between her lips. He's transfixed, nearly going cross-eyed as he watches, hypnotized by her dark gaze and pretty lips and soft skin - and then her tongue swipes across his lower lip, tasting blood and skin and him, and it's a slow torture that he never wants to end.
And then she's slanting her lips over his, or maybe he's slanting his lips over hers, and his hips might be nudging against hers a little too desperately, and his blood sings her name, Eruka Eruka Eruka, as if it's the very beat of his heart, and he wants this; he wants this so bad, so much, so fiercely that he can feel himself going mad over it.
"Wolf wolves, wolf wolves," he chokes out, and she freezes above him.
It's hard getting himself from beneath her. Their legs are tangled together, and the last thing he wants to do is hurt his tiny partner, so it's a slow, painful process that gives him no pleasure at all.
"Sorry," he mutters to her frozen form, a hand lifting to caress the air in front of her; he drops it quickly. Free has an odd urge to justify himself, to tell her why he'd allowed her to get so far when they only skirt around the very subject of a relationship when they're both sane and sober; he decides that having a conscience and actually liking someone is a lot of work. "We'll get you back to normal, I promise."
You're not a monster, Eruka has said to him more than once, and he's never been too sure about it until now.
Because he is a beast, a monster on the literal sense of the word, and he's always been aware of that. But now Free knows it's not that simple; he knows he'll submit himself to another millennia or so of darkness and solitude and imprisonment before he allows himself to also become more of a monster on the inside. Eruka's open, frozen eyes are still fixed on him; he wants to imagine that she looks a little proud.
