So, I've decided to de-anon this fic. It's originally from the second 07-Ghost kink meme, found here: http : / bishopbash . Livejournal . Com / 719 . html [Remember to take out the spaces!]. I wrote this a good length of time ago, and I haven't really managed to get out a good next chapter yet. I'm hopeful, though! Also, my apologies to the kind anon who posted the request, if you read this. It will be updated! I just don't know when ;). So, with only a little further ado, I give you Like A Moth.
Disclaimer: If I owned 07-Ghost, why would I be writing fanfiction?
The day had been normal until now. Mass had gone well, and the flowers had been eager to grow. They had whispered of simple things while he cut, pruned, watered; Castor had even come down to talk and was now sitting just feet from him... and then the plants had enlightened him of a nightmare.
Castor's head popped up when the steady rhythm - snip, snip, snip - had faltered. Labrador had stiffened, eyes distant. Another prophecy, then.
"Lab... are you alright?" No answer. Normally the small bishop would at least acknowledge hearing his companion...
Labrador's head dropped slowly, staring at the flowers in front of him. This not being one of the public greenhouses, but one to store and raise the flowers if they should be needed, it was a motley bunch. There were marigolds and some Eglantine Rose, intermixed among Lobelia and Love lies Bleeding. It was a strange collection for sure.
"C-castor..." Labrador sounded lost, or broken, or...hurt? Whatever the prophecy had been, it had been traumatic for the bishop. Castor rose swiftly and placed his hands on his friend's shoulders.
"Lab, what is it? What's wrong?" Castor anxiously noticed the violent shaking of his friend.
"It's...I..." Labrador couldn't finish the sentence.
"Labrador, tell me. What did you see? Whatever it is, it cannot harm you until it happens." Leading his friend by his shoulders, Castor pulled him back onto the small wooden bench, half hidden under the surrounding plants. As he sat, he let his hands drop, and only vaguely noticed the dull clank of his replacement arm against the bench.
"It...he..." Labrador took a breath to calm himself. "I can't be sure, but...Verloren. In the church. It was night, and very dark, so around the New Moon. He...he was in the gardens, and had someone trapped under him on the ground. I couldn't see...Who was it? It was such a dark scene... I'm sorry. It stunned me for a moment." The bishop shook his head as if to clear the strange fragmented prophecy from his mind.
Castor, satisfied with the answer, turned his eyes to the flowers across from them. "How troubling. Why would he be returning here? This must be far in the future. We injured him too badly for him to be strong enough to challenge us for a while."
"Yes, well... I can't help but feel that this could be something very sudden... ah well. Maybe I'll have a continuation of the prophecy later. You have no idea of how annoying fragmented prophecies are," Labrador said with a faint, half-hearted laugh. He stood slowly and once again lifted the scissors. Gradually, the rhythm of the cutting became steady once more, this time filling a contemplative silence.
Behind them, a single Begonia bloomed.
It was dark out, no moon available to light the sky. He was anxious - something dire had happened. He ran through the gardens, searching... A turn around a corner found Labrador ensnared in a net of strings. They wrapped around him, binding, suffocating... A steely voice rang out, "Hmm. Like a moth to a flame." Cold hands gripped the bishop's shoulders. The strings tightened, then vanished. The hands slid forward and pulled Labrador back into a cold body. With a shriek of alarm, the bishop called forth multiple vines, directing them to strike his attacker. With a low chuckle, the man countered the attack with those vicious strings, so similar to Castor's. The vines were pressed against the ground, restrained. "If you fight, you'll only get hurt. We wouldn't want that, would we, Profe?" The voice, now known to the bishop as Verloren, was dripping with mock concern. The arms around him tightened, trapping Labrador to the demon's chest. "Ngh... get away from me!" As the bishop cried out, he renewed his struggles, flailing in the tight grip. Verloren stood like a rock, however, completely unmovable. With a snort of derision, Verloren shoved the small bishop forward, slamming him into the wall of the church through the line of plants. He approached again, bracing his right arm against the wall near Labradors' head and and placing the other tightly against his throat. "Now, what should I do with this moth which has so naïvely flown to close to the flame? Perhaps I should give it something to remind it to stay away from the fire." The constricting hand slid to grasp Labrador's chin, forcing his head back. Violet eyes met a similar gaze as cold lips grazed over a pale cheek. With just a small adjustment, the lips sealed themselves over Labradors', inciting another struggle. With his body trapped between the wall and the dominating body behind him, his squirming was useless. As a tongue slid over his lips, he gave a disgusted sound. The tongue did not stop it's assault on the fair bishops' mouth. It pressed insistently against the others' lips until Verloren's hand forced his jaw to open, allowing the questing tongue. Another cry, another struggle. His mouth defiled in such a manner, Labradors' eyes filled with tears. Why was this happening? Verloren pulled back slowly, drawing his lips down to the bishops' jaw, following the lines of his throat down, down... Pulling back sharply, Verloren jerked the man off balance, making it easy to force his body to the ground. The larger man straddled Labrador, pinning his arms above his head with more of that vile string. A hand reached out and dragged against the bishops' clothed chest, drawing a wail from his lips. "Let me GO! Get off me!" Verloren ignored the outburst in favor of slowly, torturously uncliping the silver clasp holding the top layer of the bishops' robes together. Hands slowly slid into the gap in the material, carefully pushing it out of the way. Next went the dark lower robes, both layers of cloth falling to Labrador's side. The bishop jerked and fought, but with his hands bound and body trapped, not much could be done. With a grim smile, Verloren's hands slid against the material of the undershirt, all that was left between Labrador's chest and those questing fingers. With a gasped breath, Labrador grew perfectly still as the material was pulled aside, leaving his upper body bare for the world to see. "Well, aren't you sweet," Verloren murmured darkly, "I was not faulted for calling you beautiful." With a curious detachment, a finger rolled over a nipple, coaxing it to respond to touch. With a hissed breath, Labrador bucked, trying to dislodge his tormentor. "Stop," he whispered, a last complaint against his treatment. Despite his efforts, the God of Death remained poised above him, a shadow in the darkness. He leaned down slowly, his lips meeting chilling skin smoothly, dragging across Labrador's pale chest. The nipple was lightly bitten, then soothed with a lick. The same was repeated to the other nipple before the mouth trailed farther down the bishop's body. The tongue flicked lightly into the small man's navel and wriggled, making Labrador's stomach twitch.
Labrador's eyes, held tightly shut once the slow exploration had begun, flew open as a hand delicately slid down over the crotch of his pants. A whimper escaped his throat as he realized that his body, ever faithful, had finally betrayed him, having grown hard and aching at the stimulation to his body. "No..." he whined quietly, trying to pull away from the hand. Verloren's eyes drifted back up the slender torso of the bishop, meeting the bishop's eyes with a mocking coldness. Tears had begun to trace paths down his face, making his cheeks glimmer in the darkness. The demon's fingers slowly curled over the waistband of the pants hiding the bishop's most private areas, slowly tormenting him with the knowledge of what was to come. Then, violently, brutally, he jerked the pants over slender hips, tearing the material in some places. The mauve haired man winced at the sound, fresh tears streaming across his face as he squeezed his eyes shut. "No..."
With a scream, Labrador awoke, his hands flying out to slam into the closed lid of the coffin in which he had been sleeping. The lid flew open, and the bishop crawled shakily out of the coffin, pulling himself toward the window.
Labrador pressed his cheek against the cool glass, sobbing as he desperately curled himself up. White Heather grew up from the pot nearest to him, lending silent support to it's ghostly master. From the corner of the room, a wooden figure righted itself and sent out a silent call to Fiest through the intricate series of ties.
Before to much time had passed, a soft knock echoed through the room, followed by the click of the door opening.
"Lab?" The question was hesitant, unsure of itself. Castor paced forward slowly, extending his arms to the smaller bishop.
"C-castor..." came the returning whine, and the small form pulled itself into the arms of his friend, his anchor to reality. Burying his face in the soft cloth of Castor's nightshirt, Labrador cried himself slowly to sleep, cradled in the arms of his protector.
And far away, unseen to any, a smile crept over the face of a demon.