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Datura [Sep. 21st, 2012|05:18 pm]
[mood |thirstythirsty]
[music |Seether feat. Amy Lee: Broken]

I just sat down at the computer in voiceof10kangel's house intending to look something up, and instead did some reorientation of plant geek stuff and... and... I wrote a drabble in the In Hell verse! So... enough , here we go:

Title: Datura
Verse: In Hell (Nolan/Carey crossverse with Amazonian hallucinogenics)
Disclaimer: Not mine, in the beginning. In this shadow world, everything except trademarks is straight from my brain.

With one calloused finger, he traced a curling path over her shoulder, across her collarbone, filigree, almost, delicate touch by hands much more used to force, blunt-edged nail not even biting in, and with this action, the whisper left rough full lips to land on her ear like the smallest, most persistent, of gnats, of beautiful poisonous pain, ever so quietly, ever so rough and faintly distorted, metallic, truth:
Do you like that picture, my friend? Shall I hold the needle and point it into your flesh? Shall we mark you with the patterns of a warrior, little Talia? Or...
He traces her spine now, roses with thorns sketching as only nails on skin can, down her back, flares of nerves as he touches, as he presses just a bit too hard, there, and every centimetre of skin awakened...
Shall we create you your own House, my girl? Shall we say, ah... But which House would you wear the insignia of, ah?
Patterns turning jagged, darker, shadows beyond the pale, legends and thunder building into these histories, the powers he speaks of stirring deep inside blood, awakening, remembering. The House of Gold might be halfway across the world and only a small surviving group, but, there were still a few left, and she was, after all, royal blood.
He asks, again, but this time with every weight of a decision which, now brought to thought, must be brought to bear,
What House shall we create in your image, my friend.
As he asks, as he does this, he bows, ever.so.slightly, to her. An admission, a gift unlooked for, an action she never expected to see and he certainly had not expected to perform, spur of the moment, and now something never to be erased or taken back. As he did such, so must she answer, the new balance shifting, a dimension ignored brought full into the fold.
As he straightens, still holding her gaze, hands now too far as they're not touching her skin,
she answers.
Datura. One word, low, her voice almost savage, counterpoint to the longing in her eyes, something steel slipping forward, shutters coming down, a smile he had never before seen - and almost feared, even on this slip of a girl, just for a moment. Of all the House names she might have wanted - Opuntia, Curare, Ayahuasca - for he'd known beyond a doubt that their history would wind its way into her future, into her House, after all, that night... That night... In Hell.
--Datura. And then we shall see what I make of it, no?
Yes, my friend. Yes. We shall. The world shall be very afeared of you one day, I should think.
--No, they shall fear you. I shall not leave myself open to be feared or hated. Perhaps obeyed. I must think on the laws for this new House, this line I shall lead, into -- Well, into where ever I desire them to go.

He nods. Their eyes meet again, and she slips her collar down, baring herself to the waist, sitting up straighter, one eyebrow raised.
And where is your device, my friend? I require your hands to imprint this upon me.