#chrysacr

Elijah walks into his apartment with a pep to his step, now that he has gotten his solomon ring from Bebe. One problem solved, he can now focus on bugging Chrysaor into admitting out loud that he now loves him even more because he got the ring. Snickering softly to himself, he moves deeper into his apartment, his feet taking him towards the banshee without hesitation. He ends up leaning against the doorframe leading to his bedroom, arms crossed and lips tilted into a fond smile as he sees Chrys lying on the bed.

"You know? I don't think I will ever tire of looking at you," he admits softly, voice warm. "You are beautiful no matter what, but in my bed? You look like you belong here, with me. I almost want to take a photo."

where? woven

The aftermath of Mercuralia had been complicated beyond belief. Between dealing with the fallout, the loss of strength esteeming from the weird Labyrinth he had found himself on, travel plans to feed and ensuring that there was someone to cover his shifts on Il Cane Nero while he is out, Elijah had little to no time to himself. A constant barrage of texts had kept him in contact with Chrysaor through it all, but he missed his hero. Desperately. He had gone millennia without his presence, but now that he is back in his life, not a second goes by in which he does not miss him when he is not by his side. He would consider himself pathetic at the need to keep the other close, but truly, he had long since admitted his vices to himself. He is a greedy individual, and he wants all the time Chrysaor is willing to give him.

It’s that desire that drives him towards Woven as soon as he is back in Rome, the route familiar. Last Chrysaor had told him, he had a shift during the day, and he is hoping to see him briefly before he is kicked out so his hero can go back to work. Opening the door to the shop, he nods at the person behind the counter and steps further in towards Chrysaor’s presence.

“Chrys?” He asks softly, as he comes to stand next to him and watches him weave. “I am back.”

where? mercuralia, near the casino area

notes: before plot drop two because i want something sweet <3

It had been his idea to meet at Mercuralia rather than leave together, an attempt to surprise Chrysaor with his outfit and a desire to build up his own anticipation to see Chrysaor’s choice of dress. Finding him amidst the crowds have been easy, the banshee’s presence a siren’s call amidst the thousands of supernaturals and humans enjoying the festivities. Elijah approaches Chrys from the back, a fond smile on his lips as he takes in the cowboy hat and the leather jacket, throat drying when he notices the leather pants and the way they hugged his ass. Clearing his throat, he drags his eyes away and surges forward, and arm coming around Chrysaor’s shoulder while he places a kiss on his cheek as a greeting.

where? an undisclosed location

notes: hehehehehHEHEHEHEHHE

The moment between a pleasant dream and the weight of reality tends to lingers, the memories of a better time pressing themselves forward before the weight of a tragic reality pushed itself forward. Elijah wakes in such a manner, the memories of resting his head in Chrysaor’s shoulder sweeping over him. It’s almost pleasant despite the echoing ache of paint he feels through the last wisps of a dream. As all good things that happen to Elijah, however, dreams have to end too. The echoing distant ache slowly intensifies, the dream wiped away by slow building agony that startles him awake with a gasp that is paired by the sound of rattling chains, and suddenly it burns. A scream slips unencumbered from his lips, the burning taking him by surprise before he realizes what it beans. His eyes snap open, the shiver of realization falling upon him as he takes in his surroundings.

Dank, musty and dark. The perfect combination for something he would call a bad time altogether.

Brown eyes narrowing, he moves to stand, only for the burning to reassert itself around his wrists and lower legs. A glance tells him all he needs to know, iron chains burn like a motherfucker and he won’t forget the pain anytime soon. There is a small indent on each, and if he could have anything small and sharp he could pick it. Maybe use his telekinesis to open the inner mechanisms of the cuff. Elijah’s mind is racing as fast as he can, an unknown variable making the process seem more sluggish than usual. There are multiple escapes plan crossing his mind and being discarded one after the other as he examines the room, but he gets no time to implement any of them as he hears the sound of a door creaking open and the sounds of steps. Unthinkingly, he pulls himself back, hissing at the burning touch of iron even as he presses his back against the wall he is chained to.

The individual that steps into the light is not one that he recognizes, not one that he knows, and that makes things much more difficult. They had planned this, that much is clear by the iron chains, by the environment he has find himself into. The last thing that he remembers before the dream is drinking from his water bottle on his way back from the gym and then, nothing.

They had managed to subdue him rather easily, and that is no easy feat. Whoever this stranger is, they had time, they had planned it. There is nothing reassuring about this knowledge, not when it leads to a simple direction. What does someone do with a captured demon? They exorcise them.

Elijah cannot go back to the pits.

“Now, not to say that this isn’t pleasant, but might I ask for better accommodations,” he asks, teeth bared into a dangerous grin as he looks at the other. There is no use hiding who he is, what he is. Not when the skin underneath the cuffs is burning and bristling, the soft sound of sizzling filling the room as the stranger just watches. Elijah can’t quite get to gather his thoughts, not enough to use his telekinesis, not enough to do do anything and a weight falls upon his chest as he finally connects the feeling to a cause. The last time he had felt this way had been when he had been bitten by a lycan.

He is poisoned. He is panicking. His captor is prepared, but perhaps if he angers him enough, perhaps if he distracts him —  Perhaps he can escape. No, he has to escape. He has to. He can’t go back to the inferno, back to the snakes —  He can’t, he would not survive it — 

His slow descent into panic is cut short by the sound of the man that had chained him moving, and Elijah looks up just in time to see the other grab a bucket filled to the brim with — . With what looks to be iron scraps filed into razor sharp corners. Elijah has enough presence of mind to turn away just as the man upends the buckets over him, enough keenest to cover his face and attempt to curl into a ball to minimize the damage.

It’s not enough.

where? road to Korinthos

when? sometime BCE

notes: what happens in the road to Korinthos stays in the road to Korinthos

If anything in this world of theirs is magical, it’s the way when he is with his hero. Divine providence would not be as sweet as Chrysaor’s smile is to him, the nectar he had heard the gods possessed, nothing compared to the sound of his hero’s laugh. It’s painstakingly ridiculous, how easy it had been for Elijah to fall in love with the Hero of the Halfblooded, how easy had it been for him to take one look into his eyes and realize he never wanted to be far. For someone with a wandering soul as Elijah’s, the thought of settling done had been a foreign dream, something others desired but not him. Never him. Or at least, never him until Chrysaor. Now all he wants is to remain at his side, go where he goes and feel his warmth close, the hero, this hero of his. The love of his life that does not know it, the salvation that he had not asked him but had received. Nothing made him want to be a better man than the other, nothing made him want to let go of his tricks and cons and become the person he saw reflected in Chrysaor’s eyes.

Elijah wanted and wanted and wanted, but he is too much of a coward to take the leap. He had seen Chrysaor’s disgust at criminals, and he worries that he will see the same face staring back at him when he tells him of his cons. Elijah has never hurt anyone, but the idea of Chrysaor looking at him in disgust is too much for him to bear. So he doesn’t tell him, instead he keeps closer to him, his hero his sun, and builds up the only lie he has ever told him: that he is merely a merchant traveling between regions. He builds a foundation of truth above that, carefully funding a merchant company and making it legitimate, but he can’t stop himself from stealing from noblemen and merchant that curl his gut in disgust, depriving them from what they desire because they have plenty.

And then, like a planet orbiting the sun, he returns to Chrysaor, the weight of shame hidden beneath the joy he feels at his smile. He returns to Chrysaor and follows him around like the lovesick fool that he is, knowing his love will never be returned.

“I still don’t understand how I was convinced to do this,” he comments, amusement dancing on his eyes as he throws a hand around Chrysaor’s shoulders as they continue their journey. “All I do is travel, and when I get the time to visit my favorite hero, what does he convince me to do? Travel some more. What is in Korinthos that has caught your attention, Chrys?”

where? il cane nero

notes: pain pain pain pain PAIN

Chrysaor’s image haunts him after that, the absence of his presence felt more keenly now that Elijah knows he could find relief between woven tapestries. Could find relief, if he were just a tad less stubborn, slightly more willing to bend, but that is the thing, isn’t it? He had never been one for giving until he was forced to, not when it came to his love for Chrysaor, not when it came to his secrets, not when it came to his desire to leave up to his father legacy of the divine. He had always been too stubborn for his own, and all that has gotten him were the deepest pits of hell. At least this time —  At least this time his stubbornness had been selfless, the stubborn commitment to avoid Woven and Chrysaor to give his hero peace of mind, to give him a respite of the fear that he felt for him as a demon, from the disappointment Chrysaor surely felt every time he laid his eyes on what Elijah had become.

It’s a shame he can’t turn to drinking to escape his problems, but his only vice has always been envy, and he did not envy the drunkards he sees walking through the streets at night. That, and he truly does enjoy his work at Il Cane Nero, enjoys enough he does not want to risk it to vice. There is a freedom to performing on the stage that he rarely feels anywhere else, a sense of exaltation and joy that comes from performing a particularly difficult routine on heels without faltering. Professional pride, knowing he can use his skills and gather information on possible victims alike. He is finishing a particularly hard routine under the sweltering lights of the stage when he swears he feels a familiar presence enter the room, but he brushes it off as his own middling hopes rather than anything else, because as his eyes scan the room, they do not find the person that he is hoping for. Joyous smile remains in place for the rest of the act, even if the joy on his eyes dim, and when his act ends, he bows and exists for his changing room faster than usual. Elijah has fed recently and does not need to worry about scoping out for a prey — And although a one night stand would help him forget for the night, he is not in the mood for one either.

Elijah enters his changing room with a sigh, looking the door behind him as he makes his way to the mirrors and examines himself critically under the light. The attire had come along nicely, he must admit, the long purple coat with gold trimmings serving to draw the eye to him before he drops it on the floor to allow them to see the full outfit. The modified purple vest doing an excellent job accentuating his strong shoulders, tight purple booty shorts framing his ass with the shimmering stockings drawing an eye to his powerful thighs and further down to the dangerously high black heels leather boots coming up to under his knees. One last check ensures that his outfit hasn’t teared during the dance and he nods to himself as he sets the coat on it’s hanger before making it to the chair in front of the vanity and sitting there, one of his boot clad heels coming to rest in the vanity as he begins undoing the clasps as he hums to himself the song of his act.

I've waited a hundred years But I'd wait a million more for you

Nothing prepared me for What the privilege of being yours would do