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[ghostiesnightmare]

The Rules We Break

Pairing: Brahms Heelshire x Female Reader Summary: Trapped within the walls of the Heelshire Manor, you thought that the rules kept you safe. But secrets don't stay buried, and Brahms has found yours. Now there are no more lies, no escape, and no pretending– only a reality where desire is control, and submission is the only way to survive. TW: DARK content, dubcon/noncon, power imbalance, rough sex, foul language, choking, spanking, pussy slapping, overstimulation, orgasm denial, abuse, nudity, violence, creampies, manipulation, degradation, paranoia, unprotected sex, and more. Word Count: 8,157 MDNI- NSFW- read at your own risk. A/N: The long awaited Part 2 of The Rules We Keep is finally here! Inspired by this ask. Enjoy ;) [part one]

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The Heelshire manor was quiet. 

In the late hours, there was no familiar shift in the floorboards, no hum throughout the ancient pipes, no groan in the weathered shutters that flapped in the wind– just silence. If it had been a few weeks ago you would have welcomed the lack of sound, relishing in the privacy of the spacious house. 

But there is no privacy in the Heelshire manor– you know that now. Not when he’s there, watching your every move, waiting for you to slip. Always two steps ahead before you even realize you’ve fallen into another twisted game of his. The idea alone of your own personal boogeyman would have made you laugh at the stupidity of it all, but Brahms Heelshire was very much real. 

That godforsaken night in the bowels beneath the manor proved it. Forged in sweat and blood and dirt, a piece of you was forever bound to him– a fact that you knew he relished in. The power held over your head, the fact that your survival entirely depended on a childish whim was a trophy most men would hold dearly. But Brahms was no man– he was something far worse. 

The shrill scream of the kettle jolts you from your thoughts, heart almost leaping from your chest at the sudden noise. Fear was a common occurrence these days. It was if the house itself enjoyed basking in your fear, all too similar to its owner. Trying to slow your racing pulse, you push away from the kitchen counter to attend to yet another chore on the seemingly endless list. 

Wrapping a towel around the handle, you balance a porcelain teacup in your palm– trying to steel the tremble in your hands as you pour the boiling water. Small raised welts dotted the flesh of your knuckles, sending needles of pain shooting through your fingers as you moved. Another token of Brahms’ love, a teaching moment that showed just how particular he was about his evening beverage.

Loose tea, never bagged. Silver spoon, polished to perfection so it gleamed against the dim lighting. A singular sugar cube placed on the tea saucer– just how he liked it. 

The whole ordeal made you want to scream.

Yet, you swallow the anger threatening to tear through your throat, setting the kettle back on the stove top. Some battles are best fought silently– you knew that, learned that from him. The toast pops up from the toaster, one of the only modern appliances left in the kitchen, golden brown and ready to be buttered. Rummaging through the silverware drawer, you imagine raking the blunt knife across his skin rather than the toast, digging it into his flesh so hard it would draw blood. 

Of course, there were no knives sharp enough for you to cause him harm– he made sure of that after your first encounter. You had to beg to be trusted with butter knives, the savor of the win almost shifting you away from the reason you were banned from them in the first place. 

Evening tea ready, you brush your hands on the scratchy material of the apron, your first gift you had received due to good behavior. Placing the saucer and plate on a tray, you straighten– fear wedging in your throat momentarily as you gather the courage to turn. 

The doll sits at the table, like always. Lifeless eyes stare absentmindedly forward, hanging an eerie sense of dread through the air. His assigned chair is pulled back just a bit further than usual, and the doll teeters slightly from the gap. 

Someone’s impatient. 

“Brahms… your tea is ready.”

A pause. The wall opposite of the kitchen countertop rattles oh so slightly as something– no, someone shifts within the passageways. Your jaw clenches, yet you push onwards. “Brahms. It won’t stay hot forever.” The floorboards creak as a section of the wall pushes outwards, revealing a void of black that sends memories flooding back through your mind. 

The tunnels. The fallen beams. Your desperate attempt at escape. Him.

A hand shoots out of the darkness, and your teeth sink into the flesh of your cheek. Planting himself against the wall, your own personal hell emerges from the shadows. Hulking form towering over you with brute strength you knew better than to fight against, Brahms Heelshire crept into the light. 

The porcelain mask almost glowed under the haze of the overhead chandelier, and a knot of nausea settles like a pit in your stomach. That mask– the very object of your nightmares in a way that sends a chill down your spine, no matter how many times you see it. It was too smooth, too perfect to be attached to the monster that hid beneath it. 

Calloused fingers twitch at his sides, and you swallow the lump that had formed in your throat. “Tea,” You murmur, voice practiced– poised. Just like he taught you. Brahms took a weighted step forward, then two. You fought the urge to flinch as he approached. 

He didn’t speak, preferring to drink in your every move– ever the observer. Your knuckles whiten as you grip the tray like a lifeline, offering it to him. You expected a barked order, a tilted head, some sort of reaction as he stalked towards you, yet he simply plucked the tray from your hands with eerie precision. 

Hands folding at your front, you bow your head ever so slightly as a show of feigned reverence. He liked you best that way– small, submissive, perfectly playing the part as a piece to his game. Pretty little housewife, you knew the whole ordeal turned him on like nothing else. 

Brahms sighed, mask lifting as he silently sipped the tea. Chiseled jawline, dark curly scruff adorning his cheeks under smooth, silky skin– if you had known any better, you would have thought he was attractive. Brahms shifted under your gaze, turning to look in your direction, haphazardly chewing a piece of toast. 

There it was– the monster hidden beneath the mask. 

Deformed, uneven puckers of flesh blossomed across the hidden side of his face. Shriveled wrinkles warped the entirety of his cheek, the hollow of his cheekbones almost protruding against the mass of pink and white. The burn scars that reached the edge of his jaw left his beard in shambles, tufts of unruly hair patching across where the scars had partially healed. Your fingers twitch at your sides. 

You knew about the story, whispered between your brief grocery drop offs from Malcolm– the fire that almost engulfed the manor. The fire that was supposed to kill him. Yet, there he stood, a monster born from the flames that only left behind scar tissue and violence. A piece of you wondered what Brahms would have become without that fateful day– the man he was meant to be. 

Deft fingers set the tray back down on the table.

The same ones that wedged their way between your thighs. 

Your mouth went dry at the sight. You feel the weight of his gaze, stripping you of all defences like he knew exactly what you were thinking. Something you couldn't quite place swirled in those chocolate orbs, and it was almost shameful that the sudden flush in your cheeks gave you away. The rapid pounding of your heartbeat was thunder in your ears, and all you could muster was a wobbled, “Bedtime, Brahms.”

It was pathetic, really, to be plagued day and night by the very soul who ruined you. Yet, here you were– a collection of the broken pieces he created molded into his perfect little maid.

If Brahms spotted your little slip, he didn’t show it. Simply tilting his head in your direction before reaching out his hand, mask secured back in place. Tea abandoned on the kitchen countertop, your toes curl in defiance within your boots before relenting. Forcing your feet to drag across the hardwood floor, you slip your hand into his grasp– trying to ignore the shiver it sends down your spine. Immediately, his fingers wrapped around yours, trapping you in his grip. 

Fighting the urge to pull away, you lead him upstairs, each step feeling like a guilty verdict hanging over your head. Though his skin felt warm to the touch, Brahms radiated the cold, an icy sense of anticipation crackling in the air. His presence haunts the manor like a ghost– lurking, watching, entirely inevitable. You feel the telltale chill settle in your bones and wrap around your heart in a vice-like grip.

No matter how much you dreaded it, despised it, you knew what was expected of you. Worst of all, he knew it too. 

The double doors glared at you like the jowls of a hungry beast, daring you to venture closer in order to swallow you whole. The attic laid untouched since your unexpected arrival– a time capsule of your demise, another trophy of your loss of freedom. Brahms didn’t seem to mind abandoning his self-made home, however, more content to have you wait on him hand and foot in the comfort of his late parents’ abode rather than within the walls. 

Opening the doors like a servant would royalty, you drop your hand from Brahms’ hold. The air here was different, tainted with the sins of the Heelshires– a price you were now forced to pay in full. The floral wallpaper had faded over the decades, the mahogany four-poster bed dwarfing the other lavish furnishings in comparison, the desks coated in a fine layer of dust. You weren’t allowed to clean here, the disarray of the bedroom providing Brahms with an unknown comfort you couldn’t quite place. 

The bed was a different story, however. Perfectly made with washed sheets, fluffed pillows, and creased comforters made of the finest goose down– just the way he liked it. 

You go through the motions, anxiety washing away as you take part in the nightly routine that feels much more like a ritual. Pulling back the covers, dimming the lights, filling the carafe with cool water, folding the morning robe with utmost care. Through it all, Brahms sat on the edge of the bed, gaze searing your every move��� watching. 

Ushering the much larger male into bed, you fluff the pillows, tucking the blankets around him with almost motherlike devotion. As if tucking a child into bed, your fingers brush Brahm’s shoulder, his skin burning beneath your touch. You fought the urge to recoil.

“Goodnight, Brahms”, you whisper, the words sounding so doting it made your head spin. It sounded so genuine you could have believed there was devotion in them. You knew the final rule, the very one he altered on that fateful night in a way that twisted even your final moments to revolve only around him. Swallowing any semblance of pride you had remaining, you duck down, forehead brushing against the cool porcelain of his mask. 

Waiting, expectant– just like he taught you. 

Brahms pushed upwards, the icy touch of the glass brushing against your lips. Bile rose in your throat– it was sickening. This routine, the role you had learned to play so well. Spine stiffening, you straightened, hands fumbling with the sheets as you smoothed them over his torso. 

Brahms turned towards you, head tilted– the light catching his eyes as he met your gaze. You freeze, hands hovering over the blankets as your blood turns to ice. You knew that look, the one filled with warning in a way that only meant one thing. 

Something was coming. Something horrible, just not tonight. 

Breaking his gaze, Brahms settled into the blankets– your queue to leave. Sharply turning on your heel, you flee the room, relieved of your duties for the day. In your haste to leave, you almost trip over the doorway, stumbling as you slowly close the doors.

You were safe, for now. 

Scurrying down the hallway draped in ornate rugs and antique paintings, you pause at the threshold of the guest room– no, your room. Sighing, you duck past the door, sliding the door into place before locking it with a satisfying click. Only then could you relax. 

Spine pressed against the wood, you took what felt like the first breath in hours. Fingers rubbing your temples, you try to shake the lump forming in your throat. You couldn’t cry– that had stopped weeks ago, resulting in nothing but more lessons. Now all that was left was the breathless terror when awaiting punishment.

Trembling fingers undo the ties of your apron, the article of clothing falling to the floor as you creep towards the only safe space you know– the wardrobe. The mahogany structure towers over you as you slowly open the door, shoving pairs of shoes and papers out of the way in order to reach your deepest, darkest secret. 

Hidden beneath the rubbish, the false bottom creaks as you remove the heavy pane of wood, revealing your journal. The paper crinkles under your fingertips as you hold it to your chest like the most precious jewels in the world– the only saving grace of your sanity. The smell of dust and ink invades your senses as you flip through the pages, filled with the secrets you didn’t dare to speak out loud. 

It was the only place you told the truth, yet somehow as you write under the cover of moonlight, the walls had never felt so thin. 

Like it had already betrayed you. 

__

The morning is eerily quiet. 

The raps on the master bedroom door go unanswered, bed haphazardly made upon forced entry– sheets crumpled with almost laughable amateurity. At first, you welcom the help, any and all semblance of freeing up your busy schedule seeming like a kind gesture. As the morning went on, however, the chill of silence began to creep into your bones. 

The breakfast you tirelessly poured over for an hour sat untouched on the kitchen counter.  Brahm’s favorite morning tea lay forgotten on the porcelain saucer, sugar cube and all. The bathwater you had drawn per usual request had long gone cold. Even the ancient phonograph, recently dusted to perfection, lay silent without a choice of records to pass the time. Through it all, there was no sign of Brahms– no telltale rustle behind the walls, no groaning of the pipes, no suffocating gaze weighing down on your every move.

It was as if he had vanished into thin air. Yet, for some odd reason, you couldn’t place the pit forming in your stomach. 

As the morning turned into the afternoon, your calls towards him to respond, to eat, to do something became more urgent. The initial annoyance at the childish act of a cold shoulder quickly turning sour as the minutes tick by on the grandfather clock, a sense of worry washing over you. Throughout your chores, you catch yourself straining ever so slightly at every sound within the manor, trying to pinpoint whether Brahms had created the sound. 

As much as you hated to admit it, thoughts of dread immediately began to swirl in your mind– each imaginative scenario overanalyzing what could possibly be the root of the strange behavior. 

Did something happen? Had he fallen ill? Was he angry with you?

The silence should have brought you some sort of solace, the lack of constant attention and unyielding amount of chores finally bringing you a sense of freedom. But it didn’t, the daily routine completely shattered, leaving you to do nothing more than wander the very manor you were trapped in. 

Unless…

You pause in your pursuit of dusting off the banister, eyes flickering towards the grand entryway like a child yearning for a stolen sweet. The treacherous voice in your head screamed at you to move, to take the chance now that you were alone and leave this horrid place behind you. But as you gaze past the ornate stained glass windows into the surrounding fields, something roots you in place. 

Was it loyalty– something beaten to submission within you? Had you grown so accustomed to the life you have lived that you couldn’t go forward without it? Or, by some laughable act of fate, did you not want to leave?

Shaking the thoughts from your head, you look down, dusting so furiously that the dark wood gleams back at you. You had work to do whether Brahms was watching or not, there was no denying that there were more important things than planning escape– another rule you learned the hard way. 

Eyes shifting towards a hidden panel in the wall, the hair on the back of your neck prickles as the images of that fateful evening flash through your mind. Those godforsaken tunnels were the root of your very downfall, resulting in far worse consequences than a battered ego and failed escape attempt. 

Consequences you try not to think about when you lay in bed at night. 

Your fists wound themselves around your apron– another nervous bad habit that Brahms hadn't yet broken, knuckles turning white as the scene replayed in your head like a broken record player. It was wrong, so completely lewd to even think about it, yet the shame blossoming in your stomach as you peered into the tunnel was enough to shatter any hope of reasoning with yourself. 

You hadn’t been in the tunnels for weeks, fear seizing your heart as the walls would seemingly shrink around you– caging you in place. The idea alone of being back in them, with him, sends a shudder down your spine. 

If Brahms didn’t want to come out of the tunnels by his own free will, fine. It was less distracting this way. 

Rummaging through the cleaning bucket on the stairs, you produce a worn rag and a bottle of metal polish. Scrubbing the seemingly infinite amount of bronze plaques adorning the walls, you huff– irritation growing as the silence continued to weigh down on you like a wet blanket. 

Maybe Brahms was in one of his foul moods, often ignoring you when things weren’t perfectly set to his expectations. The silent treatment only worked for so long, until he ran out of patience. Your hand pauses in its ministrations, realization suddenly tearing through you like a gunshot. 

Patience– the deliberate, calculated kind he only savoured when he was planning the best way to punish you during another lesson. 

You stiffen instinctively, not from fear exactly– but a sense of adrenaline from the horrific possibility that you were right. The silence became suffocating, the walls of the manor closing in around you as you fought to keep your gaze on the rag in front of you.

You feel it in the air then– something is definitely wrong, and Brahms is waiting for you to realize what it is. Yet for the life of you, there isn’t any semblance of a clue why. 

He knows something. 

Hoping to shake the impending sense of doom, you move upstairs– trying to scrub away the anxiety like the tarnish on the brass and bronze. Legs filled with lead, the trek down the hallway seemed to become more daunting with each step. You had the sudden urge to flee to your room and hide away from it all until it boiled over, only to return and beg for forgiveness after the anger passed. 

The rag falls from your hand as you halt in place. 

Your room– you hadn’t checked on the wardrobe since late last night. Your journal. The one place you dare to let your true feelings show in order to keep sane in order to dream of a life beyond the manor. Thoughts you had written beneath the guise of safety, of privacy. 

But there is no privacy in Heelshire manor– you idiot.

Blind panic short circuits your nervous system, adrenaline pumping through your veins as you bolt to your room. It was a simple slip– just one, a small mistake easily outshadowed by the great feats you had accomplished on the daily to prove your undying devotion. Surely, your only secret was safe from prying eyes. Surely, he hadn’t found it. 

The bedroom door slams against the wall from the force of being ripped open, the sound rattling against your eardrums as you dive for the false compartment hidden within the wardrobe. Trembling hands fumble with the latch– papers, half folded clothes, and shoes scatter along the hardwood floor as you tear the wardrobe apart. 

Empty. 

No crumpled papers, no half-smudged ink drying along the leather-bound journal, no ballpoint pen waiting to be written with– just the mahogany floor of the dresser gaping back at you. A nauseating wave of horror washes over you, denial tightening around your throat like hot embers. Frantically, you dart around the room like a woman gone mad, caution thrown to the wind as you search for the missing journal. 

Sheets are ripped from the bed, duvet overturned. Desk drawers are rifled through with utmost precision. The chaise lounge scraps against the floor, lopsided with the hope of the book hidden between the cushions. But no matter how feverishly you searched, the journal was gone– seemingly vanished into thin air. 

But you knew better. You knew Brahms– the weight of the world crumbling around you as tears well in your eyes. That horrible, sinking feeling in your gut twists like a knife– finally revealing its godforsaken name. 

Retribution.

The sound of glass shattering echoes through the house with the force of a gunshot, sharp and violent. Then, another. Your bones rattle as the crashes clatter throughout the first floor. Something heavy topples, metal screeches, weighted footsteps stomp through the floorboards beneath you. Before you can think you jolt to your feet, legs pumping as panic rushes towards the chaos. 

In your haste, you almost trip over the cleaning bucket in the hallway– now discarded. Lurching down the stairs, blood pounds in your ears as you approach the destruction. That telltale saying engraved into your very being plays like a broken record in your mind. 

Break a rule, pay the price. Break a rule, pay the price. Break a rule, pay the–

As you round the corner into the foyer, the breath is ripped straight from your lungs. 

The floor is littered in torn pages, every surface coated in paper and ink. Your words, your secrets, once scrawled within the false comfort of your room were now displayed like war trophies across the room– each screaming one word: guilty. 

Sentences you never imagined to see the light of day were underlined in crimson, at least– what you prayed was red ink. Words torn from the deepest recesses of your mind stare back at you, a cruel act of vengeance on display. 

“I hate him. I wish he were dead.”

Below it, another. 

“He treats me like a slave. He’s a monster.”

The words taunt you, coated in a laughable cruel twist of fate. The scene made you sick. 

“The punishments are the closest thing he will ever get to love. It’s sadistic.”

“He looks at me like he owns me, yet for some reason I can’t shake that feeling from my mind.”“I dreamt of the tunnels again… I don’t think I’ll ever be able to scrub the sins of that night from my skin.”

“I hope he rots in hell.”

“Why do I ache to be scolded? The silence is the worst of it all. What is wrong with me?”

And the final nail in your coffin, the passage you wrote just hours ago– your confession.

“I hate that through it all, I like it. I like him. It’s disgusting– what does that say about me?”

You almost choke on your breath at the words. You had written that in the still moments of the early hours, when you were faced with nothing but the truth. Now, it was being used against you. 

The gutted leather of the journal meets your gaze, turning your blood to ice. There, in the center of the foyer’s fireplace, stabbed through by a rusted poker like a slaughtered animal. It was a crime scene, your fate held in the balance by the judge, jury, and executioner– Brahms Heelshire. 

Your knees wobble, legs threatening to give out beneath you as you gape forward. This wasn’t just an act of revenge, it was a message. A twisted celebration of your betrayal, now on full display. It wasn’t about the journal– it was about what you said. He had read every word, and now?

You had to pay the price.

Lips trembling, the silence of the manor feels stifling. The walls seem to close in around you, much more akin to chains– caging you in. Fists clenching, you turn on your heel, fully prepared to flee the scene and pray for forgiveness later. 

His voice cuts through the silence: cold, low– halting you mid stride.

“So that’s what you really think of me.” Brahms emerges from the hallway, light glistening across that haunting mask, fingers twiddling around something as he set the stage for your downfall. Your pen. Stalking into the room with calculated steps, you shrink against his gaze– dread weighing you to the floor like prison shackles. 

“You think I’m some kind of monster,” He seethes, ragged breaths so strong they shake his broad shoulders. “-some thing you hate.” Fingers flex, the subtle notion too terrifying to interpret as his fiery gaze sears your skin. He’s relishing in your fear, you realize. Basking in the blind panic like a predator stalking its prey. 

“You’re mine!” A fist crashes into the wall, punching into the drywall and rattling the foyer. You flinch, heart leaping into your throat at the weighted words. You want to cry, want to beg, want to fall to your knees and pray for forgiveness and swear you would never do it again– but you can’t. You know there’s nowhere to run, you’re trapped. 

Stepping forward, Brahms snatches the nearest page to him– jutting it towards you like a court verdict. “Do you remember writing these things?” His voice drops to a whisper, words strained. “Do you remember thinking them, practically saying them out loud?” You swallow thickly, response dying on your tongue as you fight back tears. 

“I know you meant it– every word.” Closing the gap between you, Brahms towers over your trembling form. The cool porcelain of the mask brushes against your forehead as he leans closer, breath fanning across your skin. “-Now, I’ll make you prove it.”

You don’t know if he means your hatred, your desire, or both. 

With that, Brahms crumples the paper between his hands, tossing it towards the fireplace. There were no flames, but you swear you could feel your soul burning before your very eyes. Turning towards you once more, calloused fingertips wind around your forearm, pulling you into his chest. You stumble, fumbling as you try to pry your eyes away from the chocolate orbs that burned with something you couldn’t quite place.

Something like anticipation. 

“No more games,” Voice dropping, the grip on your arm tightens with a bruising force, causing you to flinch. “-no more pretending.” Brahms moves at that, stalking out of the room and pulling you in tow. Ducking towards a false panel in the wall, your eyes widen– knees locking as the panel is opened and the darkness of the tunnels stare back at you. 

Oh god, the tunnels. 

The tears fall at the sight, dripping onto the hardwood floor as you thrash in his grip. Broken pleas fell from your lips as you squirm, begging to go anywhere else. You sob out apologies, praying for forgiveness you knew would never come. Brahms paid your outburst no mind, simply digging blunt nails into your skin so roughly you were sure he drew blood– like he was marking you. 

The dark swallows you whole as you are dragged into the tunnels. Your pleas fill the space as if it would save you, but they drown in the void. The tunnels seem narrower now, the smell of dust and sweat and mold raking through your lungs as the walls threaten to reach out and grab you. You try to shake the memories that hang on the tattered walls like a coat of wet paint.

The chase. Fallen beams crushing you in place. Your jeans caught around your ankles. Brahms ruining you for all others. 

Breaths coming out in shallow huffs, and you try to slow your racing heartbeat. The air was damp, sending a chill straight through your bones– any semblance of comfort abandoned within the bowels of the manor. Each step dragged behind Brahms, your legs struggling to keep up with his pace as he expertly navigated the tunnels. 

The very tunnels he fucked you in. 

Heart hammering so loud you were sure he could hear it, you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to memorize the twists and turns through the narrow passageway. It wasn’t until the familiar creak of the narrow stairs that you realize where you are. No– not here. 

The attic. 

Brahms pauses at the threshold, the door swinging open as you lock into place. The blood drains from your face as your gaze is met with the gloom of his hidden sanctuary– the very place you first met on that fateful night. Dust coats every surface like ash, casting long shadows across the rotting wooden floor. Your stomach lurches as the bed comes into frame. 

“Remember this moment.” he mumbles, the words weighing heavy in the dim room. “This is the moment that you stopped lying to yourself. The moment you admitted how much you really hate me.”

He doesn’t wait for your response, shoving you towards the bed so quickly you crumple onto the mattress in a heap of twisted limbs. Squirming like an overturned bug, you try to push yourself upwards onto your elbows only to be forced back down. The warped bed frame groans under the weight, the mattress dipping as Brahms crawls on top of you– knees effectively locking you into place as he straddles you. 

“You write that I am a monster. That I hurt you– scare you.” He taunts, any and all reason stripped away as a finger ghosts your cheek. You try to fight the flinch rising in your spine, dread mixing with the chill of his words. “You don’t get to lie and keep secrets,” he continued, bitterness stabbing into you like a rusty knife. “-Now? I’m going to show you exactly what it really means to hate me.”

A hand wraps around your throat, and it’s shameful how your cheeks flush at the touch. Your silent betrayal only eggs him on, grip tightening– not so much to hurt, but as a reminder of who exactly you belong to. “Don’t lie now,” He hisses. “You wanted me angry, wanted this.”

You shake your head weakly, a final plea for mercy. It goes unanswered. 

“Tell me the things you wrote. Out loud… I’m sure you remember.” You blink at the order, guilt scrambling your stomach into knots. “Brahms, please–” “Tell me. You wanted to confess so badly, so now you will.”

Trying to ignore the hand shifting from your throat to the collar of your shirt, your lips tremble as you think of the gutted pages in the foyer– the ones that damned you.

“I… I hate him. I wish he were dead.” you whisper, fingers scraping against your clavicle as your buttons are hurriedly undone. 

“Louder.”

Voice cracking, you obey– reciting every horrible thought, every twisted confession. Every word exposing you in ways you wished you were never seen. Even as you fumble, you could practically feel Brahms’ smile through the mask as he absorbed your corrupted betrayal. 

“Say the one about the punishments… I liked that one.” You swallow thickly, hot tears trailing down your cheeks, throat burning with shame. Your tears are wiped away with such devotion it mocks you, shirt undone and exposing your trembling torso. 

“I hate that through it all, I like it. I… like him. It’s disgusting– what does that say about me?” 

Porcelain rubs against the column of your neck and Brahms leans down, sending goosebumps down your spine. “What does that say about you, hm?” He murmurs, voice too soft– too calm, breath wafting along your skin, dripping with less than pure intentions. 

“It says you’re mine– and that you were always going to be punished.” You know you should protest, fight the ridiculous notion, but deep down you know he was right. “So now, little liar… I think your lesson is long overdue.”

A yelp tears itself from your throat as your wrists are forced upwards, something metallic winding around them– binding you to the bed frame. Insticintly, you tug, struggling against the thin wire securing them in place. 

You’re shaking now, blood simmering as your wrists go raw from the friction, the prospect of escape dwindling as the pads of Brahms’ thumbs draw slow, calculated circles into your lower rib cage. If you had known any better, you would have considered the action soothing– but as his gaze burned into you, it felt anything but. 

“Comfortable?” He’s mocking you, hidden smirk dripping in pride. His touch feels like ice, but you jolt as if you were burned. You shake your head, breath catching as you tug on the restraints— but he only laughs, the sound coated in bitter disappointment.

“Still lying, like you hadn’t dreamed about this before. But it’s alright– after tonight you’ll never be able to lie again.” A hand lazily palms at your clothed breast, the chill in his touch stiffening your nipples. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to slow your breathing as your bra is ripped away from your chest, straps digging into the flesh of your back before snapping from the force. 

Teeth sinking into your bottom lip, you suck on the flesh for comfort, willing yourself to not squirm as the frigid touch brushes your nipples. Brahms sighs in contemptment, the sight of your undressed torso unexplored territory. 

After all, he would actually be able to see your reactions this time. The thought alone sends electricity sparking through the air, realization dawning on you as your nipples are roughly rolled beneath his fingertips. 

You jolt, trying to twist away from the borderline painful touch, but Brahms continues his methodical exploration of your breasts. Thumbs tracing the underside of the mounds of flesh, his hands seem to swallow you whole. A taunt whimper slips, and you want to sink into the mattress and disappear forever– embarrassment heating your cheeks. 

Brahms pauses, fingers frozen above your skin. You glance upwards, blood turning to ice as those chocolate orbs swirl with an idea. Brahms shuffles, producing a long strip of fabric. Your eyes widen as he leans forward, tying the fabric behind your head– effectively cutting off your sight. 

No.

The memories of the tunnel come flooding back. The dirt needling into your knees as you clawed at the floor, the ache in your ribs as they scraped against the fallen beams. The feeling of Brahms’ nails digging into your hips as he defiled you. 

Darkness coats your vision, and you strain against the fabric. “Brahms, please–”

Something rough scraps against your shoulder, curls tickling your jaw. Uneven, puckered skin brushes downwards towards your breasts, and you shudder at the sensation. Oh god, he wasn’t wearing his mask. Stubble needles into your skin, followed by something wet. 

Brahms breathes against your skin, burrowing his face between the valley of your breasts. You cringe at the feeling of his scars digging into you, lip trembling as his mouth latches onto one of your peaks. Teeth sink into your nipple, and you whimper– jaw clenching as his tongue flicks across the sensitive skin. 

“No more pretending to be good, you want to be punished. You wrote it countless times, so now I will.” He murmurs, barely audible as he peppers your breasts with heated kisses. It was so wrong, the mixture of the roughness of his deformity and the softness of his tongue sending heat flickering through your stomach. 

Exposed, humiliated, and completely at his mercy– just the way he taught you. 

Spit coats your chest as Brahms drools over you, hands tenderly gripping your breasts before giving them a harsh squeeze. Your spine straightens, and Brahms chuckles at the reaction. Eager in the pursuit to enjoy your skin unprohibited by the mask, fingers trace down your sternum, creeping towards the edge of your waistline. 

The fabric of your jeans catches on your hip bones as they are pulled down, gathering around your knees. You shudder as the cold air sinks into your naked skin, stomach clenching as you go gooseflesh in the chill. Dexterous fingers press onto your unclothed pussy, and you gasp. 

“Poor thing,” Brahms muses. “What happened to that pesky backbone of yours?”

Fingers slip into your folds ever so slightly, and you pull so hard against the wire the bed frame creaks. “You’re wet– disgusting little liar. Pretending you hate me while you drip on my fingers.” Course pads swirl against your clit, and you moan. “Say it. Say you want your punishment.”

You clamp your jaw shut, refusing to give him the benefit of your words. A sharp sting jolts through your pussy, causing a pained cry to rip from your chest– he slapped you. Tears threaten to fall as Brahms rubs the tender flesh. “Say it.”

A pause. “I… I want it.” You swallow thickly, surprised at the submissive tone in your shaky voice. 

“You need it.” 

“I–” You hiccup, snot running down your nose.. “I need it.”

Two fingers plunge into you so abruptly you whine, stretching you uncomfortably and scissoring. There was no tenderness, but something much worse– cruel indulgence. You clench around his fingers as they fuck into you. Sinking further into the mattress, you try to slow the merciless pace Brahms set for you. The hand that wasn’t making you soak his fingers digs into your waist, nails sinking into your flesh and leaving red crescents in their wake.

You shudder, hips twitching as the brutal pace massages your gummy walls. The cloth digs into your temples as you squirm– hot, heated breaths quickly filling the space as the telltale warmth grows in the pit of your stomach. 

“I own your body, your mind. Even your pathetic fantasies– there’s nothing left that’s yours.” Brahms growls, jaw scraping against your collarbone as he sinks his teeth into the column of your neck. A broken moan tears from your throat, saliva coating your skin as Brahms laps up the assaulted flesh. You clench around his fingers, stomach tightening as his fingers sinfully plunge knuckle deep. 

Lewd squelches, another betrayal of your body, ring in your ears. Your cheeks flush as the pads of his fingers drill against the spongy spot that makes your head spin, fingers twitching within the bonds of the wire. Your hands were going numb from the pressure, tingling spiking its way down your spine with every rough thrust of his fingers. Your knees burn, scraping against the scratchy material of your jeans due to your incessant squirming. 

The stoked embers within your stomach only grew, heightened by your shame. Every movement, every sound dilated under the darkness of the cloth covering your eyes. You strain your ears to hear something, anything that could distract you from the growing ache between your legs. It felt as if you were on fire, a sheen of sweat coating your skin and  dripping down the valley of your breasts. 

It was all too much, too hard– your pussy clenching around those godforsaken fingers in a vice-like grip. His fingers claim you in a way that your own could never fight against, pushing within you so desperately that your eyes flutter behind the makeshift blindfold. A third finger slips alongside the others, and you feel like you’re going to burst. 

“Brahms, hah–”

“That’s it.” He breathes, “-Make those sounds for the monster you hate.” As much as you want to burrow your face into the mattress and crawl within your skin, your body falls into the dizzying feeling of falling from grace. Brahms, ever eager to coax more noises from you, thrusts his fingers upwards abruptly, thumb drawing hard circles on your clit.

Oh god, you were going to squirt at this point. 

“Brahms, I’m sorry, please–” Toes clenching, your spine straightens, head knocking against the bed frame as your back arches, hips begging to chase the high that was threatening to spill over. You were so close it hurt, breath coming out in strained huffs– another low, needy moan escaping. 

Then it was gone. 

Brahms retreats his fingers right before the climax comes crashing down, any sense of relief spoiled as you clench around nothing. Your eyes widen beneath the blindfold, forearms aching as you wriggle against the wire, knuckles white as you bite back the sour taste of dissatisfaction. Trying but failing to stifle the groan of anger building in your chest, your jaw groans from the pressure of choking down your pride. 

“What was it you said?” His voice cuts through the air, “-that my punishments were… sadistic?” 

The blindfold feels cold and wet against your face, and you realize you were crying. The punishment was clear now, he was going to have you fall apart on his fingers only to take away the release you craved for– and there was nothing you could do about it. 

Just the way he likes it. 

The cycle began after that. He wouldn’t ask, or coax– just claim you with his fingers, dragging your body to the depth of hell so you were begging for him, for mercy. Bring you to the tipping point just to rip away your climax, only to start over again. Tears turned to screams, prayers to begs, yet the cycle would just repeat itself. 

Over, and over, and over. 

You couldn’t even count the amount of times he had tormented you at this point, certain you had blacked out after the first four cycles. Wrists hanging weakly from the wire were red and raw from your struggles. The blindfold was soaked through, a mixture of your tears and sweat clinging to your feverish skin as you blankly stared into the darkness. Throat hoarse from your pleas, you could only let out a strained croak as Brahms’ fingers slid out of your convulsing body once more. 

“Please, no more.” You sob, entire being full of  an ache you knew only he could fix– yet you knew better than to beg. “Please, I can’t–”

“Tell me you hate me.”

You freeze at that. Fingers dig into the fat of your ass so roughly you cry out in pain, but Brahms only sighs.

“Tell me you hate me.” He repeats, fingers moving dangerously close to your aching pussy. Terrified of another torturous cycle, all you could do was obey.

“I…” you swallow. “I hate you.”

It was true, you did hate him. You hate how through all of the pain and the hurt and the betrayal, you still crave nothing but him. It disgusts you. Worst of all– he knows it too. 

“You wrote that I ruin you– let me finish the job.” Hands grip your hips, effectively flipping you over with utmost ease. You groan, arms twisting uncomfortably in front of your head as your shaking knees meet the mattress. Trying to push yourself up on your crooked elbows, the crown of your head is shoved into the pillow, the taste of mildew and sweat filling your nostrils. You squirm uncomfortably, taking in greedy gulps of air against the damp pillow– trying to ignore the brush of Brahms’ hips meeting the fat of your ass. Without warning, Brahms drives forward, spearing you on his cock so quickly a pain-riddled gasp falls from your lips. 

Allowing you no time to adjust, Brahms steels forward, rocking his hips against you so vigorously the bed frame rattles against the wires– forcing you to bow against him. The ache in your pussy screams against the much bigger intrusion, and with every thrust short, quick gasps melt into the pillow beneath you. 

Toes curling at the force of the brutal pace, your jaw slacks– drool running down your neck as Brahms filled every inch of space you might’ve used to resist him, hate him. You flutter around his incessant thrusts, trying to alleviate the pressure that had been building within your stomach for the past few hours. 

“You know, sometimes I hate you too.” A rigged smack against your ass jostles you against the mattress, pain needling down your leg as Brahms rubs the inflamed area. Continuing to bully his way into your sore walls, Brahms groans at the sensation of you falling apart due to his ministrations– how ironic. 

“I hate the way you lie to me.” A strike.

“I hate when you smile at me like you aren’t scared of me.” Another one. 

“I hate that you look at the walls instead of me when you speak.” His breath is hot against your lower back, feeding the fire growing against your skin as another strike rings out through the attic. “-Like, mmh– you’re thinking of ways to escape.” 

You’re sobbing now, knees wobbling as blow after blow ripples against the fat of your ass, no doubt leaving it an angry red. “I hate that you wrote about running away– about leaving me like I wouldn’t find out.” A strike so heavy it almost topples you lands, and you scream. 

“I hate that even now, you’re pretending you don’t want this.” He presses deeper with every word, rutting against your cervix– making your eyes roll back into their sockets. “-That you don’t want me.”

Another strike.

Babbled apologies rattle your rib cage tainted with shame and guilt, prayers of gentleness left with no response. “But worst of all, I love the way you hate me.” He shudders, wrapping a fist around your hair and forcing you to arch against him. Teeth sink into the unmarked junction of your neck as he bottoms out inside of you. 

“It means I’ve ruined you the way you’ve ruined me.”

You break then– a silent scream filled not with relief, but shame. Sparks fly across your vision as you orgasm, overstimulation racking through your limbs and shaking you to your core. Head reeling, your nails dig into the flesh of your palms, drawing blood. A scream echoes through the room, raw and heated and divine– and you realize it was coming from you.

Brahms devours it, the essence of your ruin sweeter than any other victory. Hips stuttering against you, his nails dig into your hips– holding you against him as he climaxes. Thick, hot ropes of cum coat your sore insides, and you clench at the feeling. Shallowly thrusting his orgasm into you, Brahms lets out a sigh of relief before stilling completely. 

You flinch at the sensation, overstimulated pussy screaming for solace– for mercy. Yet, Brahms Heelshire is not a merciful man, opting to reach over you and undue the wires holding your wrists taunt. Limbs free, you all but collapse onto the mattress, earning a chuckle from the male behind you. 

Mirroring your movements, Brahms pulls you into his arms– the very ones that tormented you for hours on end. Spooning you in bed, Brahms refuses to leave the warmth of your pussy, another testament to your punishment. Holding you with the reverence of a lover, the blindfold is stripped away from your gaze, revealing the dark gloom of the attic once more. 

A thumb wipes away a stray tear, drawing circles on your cheek as if you were the most precious thing in the world. The action makes your stomach lurch with dread. “You’ll learn to love me properly now, without the lies.” Brahms hums, tucking his scarred flesh into the crevice of your neck. 

A pause. 

“...the way I love you.” He finishes. If it was a threat, you didn’t care. You were too tired, too broken to think about anything other than the dull ache between your thighs. A hand intertwines with yours, held over your stomach where you could still feel the outline of him buried inside of you. If you knew any better, the action almost seemed holy– a vow, a promise to you. 

“From now on, no more pretending. You’re mine– forever.” You know he doesn’t mean romantically. He means you’ll never leave this godforsaken house, never have a single thought that doesn’t already belong to him, never leave him alone again. 

As you lay in the attic, the air still smelling of sex and sweat, darkness begins to overcome you. While Brahms nods off in the late hours of the night, the sweet release of sleep doesn’t come. 

Because when you sleep beside a monster in a house that holds no secrets, you learn not to dream.

[part 3]

[after-witch]

Damn Your Eyes [Chapter One] [Yandere Ren Hana x Reader]

Title: Damn Your Eyes [Chapter One: The Last Day] [Yandere Ren Hana x Reader]

Synopsis: Years ago, you were the captive of a serial killer named Strade. And you weren't the only one he kept. After Strade was killed by one of his victims, you ran away--and now your past is finally catching up with you. Chapter one is set during Boyfriend to Death.

Word count: 6352

Chapter notes: Yandere, kidnapped reader, past noncon, graphic violence, descriptions of blood, violence and gore, descriptions of death (not reader)

AO3 LINK

She was crying again. Well, no wonder. There were holes in her feet, dotting the top of her thighs. Blood had dribbled down from the gored holes in her flesh like little streams, then dried out. 

The thin, wavy dried out trickles made you think, abruptly, of unfettered period blood, then of Carrie by Stephen King. The scene in the shower, where she gets her period and freaks out. The other girls threw tampons and sticky pads at her and shrieked, chanting, bonded by a morbid commiseration of the entrance to so-called womanhood: Plug it up! Plug it up! Plug it up!

Plug it up, you thought.

But she couldn’t, even if she wanted to. Her hands were bound behind her. Did he tie them back like that so that she couldn’t try to hurt him, or because it gave him easier access to her flesh? Maybe a bit of both.

She looked uglier when she cried. Snot bubbled out of her nose and joined a dried streak of blood that went from her nose down to her chin. Her nose was probably broken, hence the blood; the flesh of it was black and blue and an awful shade of green.

One part of you longed to retrieve an ice pack from the freezer and hold it to the bruised, swollen flesh. Hush her cries. Give her an ounce of humanity that might carry her for another few hours, the way Ren once did to you. 

Another part of you, the new you forged under Strade’s knife (and boots and hammers and power drill) wished she’d just die already, so you wouldn’t have to hear her cry or be standing here obediently, waiting for Strade to come back down. You were probably going to have to participate in this next stream–why else would he call you down in the middle of one of his “projects”? 

Unless he was lonely. But even so, he could always kill two birds with one stone. You, here to give him company; and you, here to entertain his horrid audience. And himself, above all. Himself, always.

 The basement door at the top of the stairs creaked open and you heard his heavy bootsteps–thump, thump, thump–before he called out jovially.

“Are you still there, Liebling? You didn’t run off, did you?” 

As if you were stupid enough to do that. You were many things now. Stressed. Afraid. Desperate. Tired. More selfish. Maybe a little bit masochistic, a trick of your brain to keep you from totally losing your mind as you were tortured. All these things and more besides, but stupid was not one of them. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it!” You called back, lightening your tone. It was important not to sound too scared. Strade wanted you scared, yes, but he didn’t want you to be some obedient, squeaky little mouse. That was too boring. It was best to act as normally as you could, considering the circumstances. That seemed to please him more, at least on most days. Some days nothing you did was right and you went to bed with a swollen eye and broken fingers, eased by frozen peas that Ren snuck you from the kitchen before he went to sleep. 

You’re not the only one who noticed him coming down. The woman in front of you began to tremble and sob more violently, pulling at her bound wrists. It wouldn’t do any good. It never did. How long did she have to live? How long did any of you in this house have to live? 

By the time Strade made it down the stairs, her cries were practically at a fever-pitch. You didn’t want to look to see what he’d run off to fetch, but he didn’t give you a choice.

He called your name. “Come here, darling, I need your help with this.” And oh, you kept your eyes downcast until all you could see was his boots. But then it was time to look up, and you did, and no matter how many times you witnessed him preparing to torture another person, it still made your stomach roil.

He’d brought down a p[ot of boiling water, which he carefully held by the handle with both hands. Tucked underneath his armpit was the bag of frozen peas. The bag, you thought, because for as long as you’d been here, no one ever cooked them. They got passed around between you and Ren under cover of night.

Here they were, in the light of day. You suspect you wouldn’t want to re-use them after this. 

“Be my Lamm and take the peas, won’t you?” The sensible part of you eyed him warily; it wouldn’t be below him to toss the pot of boiling water at you while you reached for them, just to fuck with you. But you didn’t disobey him, either. You carefully leaned over and slid the bag from underneath his armpit, and held it in your hand.

He smiled. Grinned, really, which was a bad sign for the sobbing woman tied to the pole. His good moods and bad moods were both equally shitty, but in your unfortunately well-experienced opinion, it was his good moods that produced the most painful scenarios.

“Now!” He crouched down in front of the crying woman and grabbed her chin. She shrieked and tried to jerk her face away, but he held her tight. “I’m sure your wounds are sore, aren’t they?” She sobbed out something–meaningless pleading that you’d long since lost the ability to discern–and he tsked.

“Oh, poor thing. I know just what might help!” He snapped his fingers and looked back at you. “My lovely friend here will give you some ice to help you feel better. Won’t you?” He grinned wider and you nodded, feeling both scared and numb in a confusingly equal measure, as you crouched down next to him.

She yelped when you placed the frozen bag on a group of puncture wounds on her thigh, but you held it fast. It probably hurt more than it soothed. An icy bag right up against wounded skin didn’t sound pleasant. But maybe it would numb it a little. That might be better than nothing. 

“Perfect! Now…” He reached over and picked up the steaming pot of water, still bubbling from its boil on the stove. “Hold still, my Lamm… wouldn’t want to splash you.” 

It was so strange, the way that your time with Strade had made it possible for you to actually keep your hand there, despite the fact that you knew he was about to pour boiling water on the skin of this poor woman. Pour it right where it would surely splash on you a little, if not a lot. Probably a lot. Two birds, one stone, and all that.

It didn’t matter if it was strange. Your fingers flexed and your muscles tensed as you saw him turn the pot over slowly, and steaming water came flying down, pouring over the woman’s wounds.

She screamed. It was loud. It hurt your ears. The irritation of it distracted you from seeing Strade move the pot around so that the water trailed over the frozen peas–and your hand keeping it pressed against her–as he covered her thigh in the water.

“Fuck!” You said, biting your cheek hard. Your fingers danced on the bag but you didn’t dare pull away. You could see your own skin turning a shade of red. Her thighs had taken the brunt of it, though. There were even blisters forming on her skin already as she sobbed and cried and begged for someone, anyone, to help her.

You were someone.  You were anyone.

You couldn’t help her.

“Language, liebchen,” Strade said, teasingly. You mumbled out an apology, although you doubt he actually cared. 

He sighed when the pot was emptied, and tossed it on the floor.

“I don’t know… I just don’t think it’s enough. Do you?” He grasped your burned hand and you couldn’t stifle the sound of yelping pain as he gripped it hard. Your skin would blister too–it was already peeling a little. 

“What…whatever you think is best,” you stammered. 

“That’s right,” he said, grinning. He gave your hand a squeeze and you groaned. “I think I’ll work a little more on this project myself before dinner.” He let your fingers go, and you cradled your hand against your chest. “Have Ren take care of that. Come back down when it’s wrapped up.” his free hand grabbed the chin of the sobbing, bleeding, blistered woman again. “I think we’ll make a movie, and I need my prettiest co-star to help me out.”

“Of course.” You gave her one half-pitiful glance–the way her frightened, bloodshot eyes darted to you with a mixture of anger and pity made you want to hurl–and went up the stairs.

By the time you’d made it to the top, you already heard Strade pulling out his video equipment.

—

“It… doesn’t look too bad,” Ren said quietly. He held your hand underneath the sink, letting the cold water soothe your burn. But every time your hand trembled and the stream went just out of reach, it burned again, and you winced.

“Most of it hit her thigh,” you whispered. Though you didn’t need to, since both of you were well aware that Strade was busy in the basement. Old habits die hard, however. “She got it worse.”

Ren hummed. “They usually do.” He told you to keep your hand in place while he fumbled in the cabinet under the sink, looking for supplies. “I don’t know if he has–oh!” His ears twitched and perked up as he found what he’d been looking for.

It was a tube of burn relief ointment. He flipped it over and read the back, mumbling all the while. “It’s expired but…”

You smiled, just a little, and finished his sentence for him.

“Better than nothing, right?”

Ren smiled, and you caught sight of his tail curling behind him as he turned off the sink and told you to sit down on the toilet so she could wrap you up.

Was it wrong that some of the most pleasant moments in this house, if you could call them pleasant, were with Ren? Especially quiet moments like this, where he took care of you, or you took care of him. You were both well acquainted with fixing up the results of your time with Strade by now. 

He’d cleaned out deep cuts on your back, and you’d iced and splinted his broken toes. He let you curl up in his nest of a bed after a particularly awful night of torture, and you let him slide under your covers when he’d had an nightmare about the last time Strade made him kill someone.

It was transactional in some ways, you supposed. But when you saw his ears perk up or his tail swoosh or the way his eyes seemed to light with something genuine behind them while you talked with him, you realized it wasn’t all practical. It couldn’t be. Not when you were in this together.

Ren made quick work of bandaging your hand. The cream was smoothed over the reddened, flaking parts of your skin and he wrapped your hand up with a bandage. It hurt, still, but nothing to write home about. Hah! As if you’d ever be allowed to write home.

Hell, if by some miracle  you could write home, how would you even word the letter? 

“Dear mom and dad, last night my captor-who-also-fucks me made me keep my hand on a table while he hammered nails underneath my fingernails and asked me which one hurt the most. P.S. The milk in the fridge is expired and he’s threatening to make me or Ren drink it because of the waste.”

The thought made you snort. Ren looked up from his spot on the floor, where he’d taken to impromptu digging through the cabinet to look for some undisclosed item. 

“What’s funny?”

You mulled it over. Sometimes, you didn’t like to tell Ren what you were thinking. You trusted him, to an extent. You liked him, to an extent. You were friends, to an extent. How far did that extent go? It depended. 

He was here first, and sometimes, the tension between the two of you was too taut and fraught to ignore. There was always that underlying worry, an electric buzz you couldn’t turn off all the way: what if Strade decided he didn’t want two captives? Or what if he felt two was his limit, and he wanted to bring someone new in?

Which one of you would get the ax–literally?

But this was maybe not the type of thing that Ren might murmur to Strade in a moment of weakness. It was harmless, wasn’t it, to make a joke about writing home?

“I was just imagining what I might write home in a letter to my parents.” You flexed your bandaged hand. “I mean, if we were allowed to write home.”

“Like from a summer camp?” Ren asked. He pulled his knees up and rested his chin on them. 

“I guess,” you replied, smiling a little. “Although this would be one…” Fucked up, disgusting, hellish– “Specialty summer camp.”

Ren snorted a little. “Definitely not like the ones in movies.”

“Maybe horror movies,” you added with a grin. One of your front teeth–not from the center two, thank hell–was missing now, so you rarely grinned. But it felt different when it was just you and Ren alone. It was okay to let him see those imperfections, because he had them too. Maybe not missing teeth, but…

“Sleepaway Camp!” He blurted. “Or Friday the 13th…” 

You started to open your mouth, ready to tell him that you once saw a screening of the first Friday the 13th at a summer camp, when an all-too-familiar sound came wafting up from the cracked open basement door.

“Liebling! It doesn’t take that long to bandage a little burn! I hope I don't have to come get you.”

Ren’s tail went straight up at the sound of Strade’s voice. The sing-song nature of his words did not hide the danger in them. If you had a tail, yours would be standing stock straight too. But your body had to make do with your muscles tensing and your bowels clenching hard.

“I have to go,” you murmured, hopping off the toilet seat. 

You paused in the doorway. Ren had his knees hugged to his chest, his ears flat against his head. No doubt he was wondering if Strade would call him down, too. Or if he’d be pissed off about something and take it out on Ren later.

“Thanks for patching me up, Ren.” His ears twitched, and he glanced up at you. “Really, I mean it.” You smiled–grinned, showing off one of your missing teeth. “I’m glad you’re here with me.”

His tail relaxed a little and he smiled back, an almost puppy-like grin crossing his expression for a moment, and it was enough to give you some vague emotional relief as you left the bathroom before Strade was forced to come up the stairs and retrieve you. 

–

She wouldn’t last another day. That much was clear. Her blood was everywhere now. On the floor. Smeared on her skin. On Strade’s hands–on yours.

Of course he’d made you participate. You were his lovely assistant, after all. Although he always said Ren was better at the work, when it came down to it. You were too prone to trembling and hesitation. To say nothing of your occasional habit of vomiting at the sight of anything more than blood–guts, in particular, were your weakness. 

Hers, too, by the way she quivered at the sight of the large hunting knife Strade twirled in his hands.

“I think this has gone on long enough. Don’t you, Schatz?” He looked back at you with a thoughtful smile. “Shall we end it?”

Without thinking much, you nodded. Yes, it had gone on long enough. Yes, you wanted her to just die already. Yes, you wanted to go over to the sink and scrub your hands until they were pruney and wrinkled and there was no trace of her visceral fluids on your skin.

“Go on,” he told you, gesturing at the trembling woman. Covered in cuts and gouges and burns. Where there had been dried blood earlier today, there were now smears of fresh gore. From Strade’s boots and the knife. Strade had even taken a blow torch to the burns caused by the boiling water, making them go from peeling and red to a series of gouged, pus-like craters in her flesh.

Cold seeped into your socks from the floor as you walked over to her. She regarded you with dull, dying eyes. She opened her mouth, maybe to say something, but whatever word she might have come up with wouldn’t come. Her swollen, bruised lip trembled as blood dribbled out of it. 

One of the handcuff keys was taped to the back of the poll. Strade always liked to keep extras around, in case he lost the original but still wanted to uncuff someone. He usually didn’t uncuff people unless they were being bound in some other way (usually not a good sign) or he was just about finished with them (definitely a bad sign); and in this case, you knew she was being released only to make killing her a little more fun.

Her hands flopped forward as soon as the cuffs were undone. There was a brief moment where you saw her regard her wrists, all reddened and cut from where the metal handcuffs dug into them. 

But the moment was over as soon as Strade stepped forward and pulled her close with a decisive yank of her hair. She yelped–you were surprised she had the yelp in her, her voice should have been shot from all the screaming–and he twisted her hair tight to keep her still.

“It’s been fun, but it’s time to go now. Don’t take this personally, hm? Or do, actually, it might make you feel better.”

She didn’t have time to respond. He rarely wanted them to say anything, you thought. It was just part of his internal script, a set of syllables that gave him extra pleasure as he snuffed out someone’s internal light. 

He stuck the hunting knife into her gut and twisted. She didn’t scream. She barely shouted. The sound, instead, was one of strangled horror. Like she couldn’t believe what was happening to her. He twisted again, and she grunted and gasped, a sound that was almost like a deep, gaping hiccup.

“Shh,” he murmured, a sick grin splitting his face. His eyes darted over her face, and you got a front-row view of how his expression was gleefully illuminated by the sight of her own life fading away. He enjoyed it so much, he even let go of the knife handle so that he could grasp her face with both hands and keep her dying gaze in his sights.

Who was she? What had she been, before the basement? Was she thinking about her friends, her family? Did she have children that were going to be left behind? Maybe she was in college, maybe she’d been studying for exams that would never happen. There would be uneaten prepared lunches in her fridge, a bookmark that would never move past a certain page. 

Her hands went tremblingly to the handle of the knife sticking out of her. She held the handle tenderly with bruised, bloody hands. Didn’t Strade see it? No, he was too focused on her face. But he didn’t even see the way her expression shifted. 

No, he saw it. But maybe he didn’t know what it meant, because he’d never been on the other end. The way she went from looking confused and horrified to determined. 

She didn’t act right away. 

You could have said something. You could have called out a warning. 

But instead you watched as the dying woman yanked the knife out of her gut, viscera and blood coming out with it, and stabbed it right into Strade’s neck.

He gasped now. A gaping, strangled sound. His hands went instinctively to his neck and it took him a few slow, trembling tries to pull it out. You saw the blood arch and spurt–an artery–and he fell to his knees.

The woman stepped away with what must have been her last ounce of energy. She had only enough life left in her to turn to you and smile–she was missing teeth, too–before she collapsed on the ground. She was still alive, but her shock would come soon after.

It wasn’t her you were watching, anyway. It was Strade.

His eyes darted to and fro until they landed on you. He had his hand pressed against the wound now, but it wasn’t doing much good. He would need a proper compress… an ambulance… surgery of some kind. 

You don’t know why you called him. To help Strade? To help you? 

“Ren.”

Not loud enough.

“Ren.”

Still not loud enough.

“Ren!” 

Before you knew it,  you were simply screaming his name, filling the basement with a different pitch of scream than it was used to. Your own voice was barely recognizable.

The basement door slammed open and you heard frantic footsteps pounding down the stairs. You saw Ren, only a blur of orange in your shock, take in the scene. His own mouth slowly gaped open, but unlike Strade and the unfortunate woman on the floor and your own panting lips, no sound came out.

Ren said your name. You think it was Ren, because Strade was surely in no position to talk. It shook you out of your stupor and you ran to him, clinging to his arm, crying fitfully. He wrapped one arm around you and the two of you stood, together, watching Strade bleed.

“What do we do?” The inside of your elbow pressed hard against Ren’s back as you held him. You wanted to snuggle, like the way you did on good nights. You wanted him to make it all go away. 

Maybe he sensed this. Because while the two of you had clung together in so many occasions, this time, he stood up taller. He held you tighter. And then he assessed the situation.

Ren watched Strade quietly for a long moment. Strade gazed up at him–at you, too, but mostly Ren–with wide-eyed helplessness. The look didn’t suit him at all. He seemed to know it. 

“Help me,” Strade managed. It almost didn’t feel like speech. Maybe the knife had grazed his vocal chords. 

Neither of you moved at first. There was a long moment in which either of you could have sprung into action; could have ran to the supply cabinet and grabbed thick gauze to press against the wound, while the other could have bounded up the stairs to call an ambulance.

But you didn’t. And Ren didn’t. 

And then Ren looked at you, and took a step backward. He pulled you with him, and you went willingly, taking another step, and another, until the two of you were standing at the bottom of the stairs.

“You…” Strade gurgled out the word, and blood came bubbling out in between the fingers pressed against his neck with it. “You…”

He didn’t get to finish. His eyes widened and you saw the light leave them before he collapsed on the floor. 

For the first time since you’d been brought here, the basement was truly silent. 

Strade was dead.

Neither of you moved for a while. And then you felt a hoarse sob coming on. Relief, terror, and shock coursed through you, fighting for the surface in a way that could only result in tears. 

Ren regarded you with an unreadable expression and slowly removed his arm from your shoulder. You whimpered–don’t leave me, you wanted to say–and he smiled, a soft, little thing. 

“Don’t worry. I’m just going to make sure he’s dead.”

Oh. That was a good idea. But what if he wasn’t? What if Strade got to his feet and oh, the two of you would be in for it. He’d probably kill both of you–or at least you–and it would be slow and awful and you’d beg, beg, for death.

“Ren,” you said, almost stammering, swallowing a thick lump in your throat.

He turned back towards you, curious.

You pointed to the table of tools at Strade’s disposal. “Take something. Just in case.”

Ren stared at the weapons that had been used to kill countless people. At the blades and torches and nails that had been used to hurt him, and you. Then he grabbed a heavy hammer and slowly approached the bleeding corpse (please let it be a corpse) of Strade.

Strade didn’t move as Ren approached him. Or when Ren knelt down, hammer at the ready. Or when Ren’s fingers slowly reached out and pressed against his neck, his wrist. 

“No pulse,” said Ren.

Ren set the hammer down and used both hands to shove Strade’s body until it was fully on his back. His eyes, dull and dead, stared up at the ceiling without seeing anything.

He was dead. Truly dead. 

Really most sincerely dead, your thoughts echoed in a half-mimic of the Munchkins in The Wizard of Oz.

You barely registered Ren digging around in Strade’s pocket before he returned to you, wrapping his arm around your waist as he began to lead you upstairs.

“Let’s not stay down here,” he said. He gave Strade’s corpse one last look before staring ahead at the basement door. How many times had the two of you gone up and down these stairs at Strade’s whim? It always meant you would get hurt, or you would help Strade hurt others. It was never willing, going up these stairs. Never a choice.

And now the two of you were going up them together, Ren leading you, of your own free will.

Free will! What a concept. One you thought you’d lost forever. And yet here it is, given by the hands of a woman whose last days were filled with unnecessary, unfair agony. You wish you knew her name, so you could thank her properly.

Ren shut the basement door. It sounded louder than it ever had before. Or was it because the house was so quiet now? 

“Come here,” Ren said. And you didn’t know why he said it–shock, confusion, uncertainty still reigned–until you saw what was in his hand. 

His collar. It was… off. But how and–

Ren held up the key he’d taken from Strade’s pocket and shook it back and forth, like a well-earned prize. That’s what it was, in some ways. 

You stepped towards Ren and turned around, breathing heavily at the thought of being truly free from the collar. Strade only took them off the pair of you when you were showering and, once you had learned to behave well enough, when you slept. But they always went back on first thing in the morning, and their threat was an ever-constant presence in your mind, just like the metal was ever-constant around your neck.

Ren’s fingers brushed the back of your shoulder. You heard him breathing just as heavily. For a moment, he didn’t do anything. Wasn’t he going to…?

“Ren?” You asked, voice quivering. The air felt suddenly too heavy, your collar weighing you down more than normal. There was an awful thought, then: What if he doesn’t take your collar off? What if Ren is… what if, what if…

But then you felt the pressure from him sticking the key into the back of the metal contraption, heard it twist, and felt cool relief on your neck as Ren lifted the collar away from your neck and set it down on the coffee table. 

Both hands went to your neck. The skin was sensitive, bruised. A few days ago, Strade had come into your room at night for a session of “fun,” which ended with you being choked into unconsciousness. You’d woken up to Ren splashing cold water on your face. “Thought I’d lost you,” he’d said. 

The bruises Strade gave you would fade away in time. At least the ones on the outside.

And Ren…

You turned around and gave him a fractured smile. You leaned in, and Ren leaned in, and you hugged each other tenderly. Not just because it was the nicest way to hug, but because Ren’s rib fracture was still healing, and your back hurt, and both of you were littered with scars and cuts and bumps and bruises.

After a while, Ren pulled away. “Let’s… sit down.” 

He sat down on the sofa, which was dotted with sprinkles of Ren’s orange fur; no matter how much you lint-rolled the furniture, you could never quite get all of it out. 

Well, that didn’t matter now. You’d never have to clean up this living room, or the kitchen, or the brain matter and blood stains in the basement, again. You could go home.

And Ren could go home. 

And the nightmare would be over.

For now, you sat, side by side, on a sofa that had never seemed more ordinary. The house had never seemed more ordinary. Its secrets were primarily down in the basement. The rest of the house was bland and boring by comparison. Unless you counted upstairs, as it was not unheard of for Strade to take his particular brand of “fun” into your respective rooms. 

And now? It was quiet. Still. There was no chance that Strade would come walking up the stairs. No chance that you’d be called down them to torture someone.

Certainly no chance that he’d call both of you down, which never ended well. He liked to see Ren hurt you, because it seemed to hurt Ren. But sometimes, sometimes, you thought… there was a glimmer of something in Ren’s eyes in those moments. 

Something that reminded you too much of pleasure to ignore. Just a spark of it, but that was enough, when you were bound to a table and he was clawing open your thighs at Strade’s behest.

“Ren?” You forced yourself to stop thinking like that. That was the past. This was now. No, more than that: this was the future. A future without Strade, without this house, without pain. 

Ren looked over at you, slowly. The realization of what had just happened, and what it meant, seemed to be catching up to him, too. “... Yeah?”

Your fingers scratched at some of Ren’s stray fur on the couch. Some of the orange fur had already started clinging to your bandage. 

“What do we do now?” A simple question for you to ask. Several plans rushed through your head but it was hard to make sense of them. What was the best course to take; which authorities did you appeal to, when there was a dead serial killer and one of his victims in the basement, but your hands were on the torture tools, yet the same tools had been used to hurt you? 

You swallowed hard, shaking your head, willing the dizzying thoughts to quiet down.  “Do we call the police first? Or… an ambulance? Or–or–” 

Ren gripped the hand that idly scratched the couch. He intertwined his fingers in yours, and when you looked up at him, his eyes were wide. And just a bit wild.

“We could stay here.”

Your heart thudded. Once, twice. A third time.

“What?” You shifted on the couch, facing Ren more clearly. “We… we can’t, it’s–”

Ren squeezed your hand, a little too hard–the burn–and you winced. He didn’t let up, but he didn’t know you were hurting, did he? It was all just a rush right now, confusing, scary.

“We can,” he said, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. His mouth broke into an almost childish grin as he continued. “Strade’s got a lot of money, we can use that to keep up the bills. Buy whatever we want. We won’t have to worry about anything!” His tail swished behind him, thumping into your side. 

When you didn’t respond–words weren’t coming–his grin deflated a little. “I’m… I’m a good roommate,” he said, ears flattening. “I’ll take care of you.” He squeezed even tighter now. “We’ll do everything together, and we don’t have to worry about Strade getting mad about it. We’ll watch movies or-or play games or whatever you want.” He swallowed and you watched his throat bob. “And I promise I won’t leave fur everywhere.”

“Ren–” It was your turn to give his hand a squeeze, and you took his other in your free hand and clasped them both. “I’m not worried about your fur.”

His ears perked up and his smile came back.

“It’s… we can’t stay here,” you said, voice wobbling but gaining more firmness as you went on. “We need to leave. We need to call the police.”

Ren’s ears twitched. He looked thoughtful, opening his mouth, and shutting it. He was just confused, that’s all. Like you were. He needed to be reminded that if Strade was gone, the both of you were free. You’d go home, and he’d go home, and you could call or text or email or something but…

“Don’t be stupid.” 

The firmness in Ren’s voice shook you a little. More than that, it made you worry. He frowned at the sight of your tense shoulders, the quirk in your mouth. “Think about it,” he said, gently saying your name. “Remember all the people who watch his videos? Don’t you know who’s in those chats?”

The reminder of the chatrooms came hurtling straight into your guts. The chat… the people there paid money to watch people suffer. Watch them die. How many times had they encouraged Strade to indulge in some fucked up torture? Hell, they’d asked him countless times to string you up, cut you open, pull out your guts while you were still alive. Strade had danced away the requests with a teasing lilt, but the threat was never gone.

Ren let go of your bandaged hand and gently cupped your cheek. He spoke slowly, almost sweetly. “They’re rich. Important. Mayors. Politicians. Doctors. Police.” 

The anguish your stomach began to stretch. Ren didn’t stop talking.

“They know both our faces. Do you know what they’ll do to us, if they find us?” 

Tears pricked, unwanted and unbidden, at your eyes. He was right. You couldn’t go to the police. You couldn’t go to the media. This could never get out. But that didn’t mean you had to stay here. More than that: you couldn’t stay here. 

It would be another type of collar, to find yourself stuck here with Ren. And the collar might not be electric, but it would be just as dangerous. 

“Okay,” you said slowly. “No police.”

Ren grinned hopefully.

“But,” you continued. “We can’t stay here. I want to go home. And you–you get to go home now, too.” Ren had never talked much about his life before Strade, but surely he had friends. A family. An apartment or a house. A life. Just like you. 

“You want to leave–” His voice was thin and there was a fissure in it, ready to crack.

The hand on your cheek pressed harder, and you felt the thin press of his claws against your skin. Your eyes must have widened or perhaps you flinched, you don’t know, but Ren saw–and yanked away.

“S-Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to.”

No, he didn’t. He wouldn’t. He was upset, he was scared, hell, you didn’t know whether you wanted to laugh or cry or start belting out show tunes right now. 

Freedom was confusing as hell. 

“I know,” you said, slowly. “It’s okay.”

Ren stared down at the ground. Then he stood up and fished Strade’s keyring out of his pocket and set it down on the coffee table with a jingling rattle. 

“I’m going to get us some water. And maybe a snack. We’ll… we’ll talk about this more. We can talk about it, and not make a decision right away. Okay?” He fumbled with both his hands in front of him, looking like the meek young man you’d met that first night, when he cleaned your wounds and gave you water to drink. 

You stared at him, perhaps for too long.

“Okay, Ren, we’ll talk about it,” you lied. 

You watched him walk into the kitchen, where Strade would never saunter in for a case of beer again. You heard him open the cabinet for an empty glass, none of which would ever again find themselves dashed into tiny shards that could be ground into your skin for fun. 

And then you leaned forward, grabbed the keyring off the countertop, pulled out the key to the front door, and softly padded your way to the threshold that neither of you had been able to cross in ages.

Your heart thudded. Your stomach heaved. But you unlocked the door and bolted, socked feet aching on the concrete sidewalk.

Ren said your name after the third step you took beyond the door of Strade’s house of horrors.

You could have kept running. Maybe you should have.

But instead, you turned around, to look at Ren standing in the doorway. There were no glasses of water in his hand–you don’t remember registering the sound of the sink at all, in fact. It was just Ren, with his hands at his sides, looking at you with an expression that was equally pitiful, agonizing, and worrying.

He said your name again.

You felt hot tears squeeze out of your eyes as you shook your head, turned around, and ran for your life.

[amomentwiser]

Reunion, Part 1

Will took the fancy wine out of the refrigerator and poured it into two glasses. Hannibal rose and joined him in the kitchen.

“Why are you here, Hannibal?” Will asked as he took a sip.

“You have yet to grieve the road that led us both here, that changed you so irrevocably. I don’t recommend running away as the best course of action. I am here because I think it best you deal with it directly.”

“Are we resuming my therapy, Dr. Lecter?”

“If you wish. Our old friendship might be over, but I do not see any reason why we cannot forge a new one in the fires of our shared suffering.”

“Friends. Is that what we are now?” He tasted the word in his mouth to see whether it felt true. He wished it didn’t. Wished undiluted hate were easier to muster.

“I certainly consider you a dear friend, Will.”

Will hummed noncommittally and they lapsed back into silence. It was strangely comfortable, and it struck Will again how even doing nothing with Hannibal felt better than doing something with anyone else.

“What do your patients do when you’re not there?” he wondered out loud after a while.

“A break from constant introspection is often beneficial. I usually refer them to another psychiatrist in case of emergencies.”

“Who would you refer me to? If I was still your patient?”

“No one. My home is always open to you, Will. This trip should prove I’ll always be there to be a port in your storm.”

Will scoffed. “Special treatment, doctor? Careful, people might get the wrong idea.”

Hannibal set his glass down with a soft clink. “And what idea would that be?”

Will said nothing. He absently scratched Winston’s head, just for something to do and anywhere else to look at. Hannibal took the hint and busied himself with preparing dinner while Will corralled his thoughts.

For a while, the kitchen echoed with nothing but the steady sound of knife against wood as Hannibal chopped ingredients. Despite having just eaten, Winston hovered near him for scraps, too well-trained to beg but too hopeful to leave.

“What are we making?” Will asked.

“I was not aware we were making anything. Unless you consider you and your dog being in the way as sufficient contribution?”

Will rubbed a hand over his face to hide his smile. “I do.”

Hannibal transferred vegetables into a saucepan as he gave his usual culinary lecture. “We’re having Marseille Bouillabaisse with saffron rouille, modified to suit the ingredients in your kitchen. It is a traditional French fish stew usually made of at least three different types of fish.”

“Pretty sure I didn’t have saffron in my kitchen,” Will muttered as he walked over to the freezer and took out the fresh trout and catfish he’d caught and filleted the day before.

“I brought some. There are certain standards I prefer to maintain, even while travelling.”

Hannibal stirred the simmering stew as Will started frying the fish in a cast-iron skillet on the adjacent stove. They stood side by side as they cooked, and soon the delicious aroma of fresh spices and fried fish was wafting through the kitchen. Will whistled for Winston to go outside to the porch so he wouldn’t get underfoot. The whole scene felt uncomfortably domestic.

Will wasn’t sure what, exactly, they were doing here. He didn’t think Hannibal often went into other people’s cramped kitchens to cook for them. He didn’t think Hannibal ever cancelled on all of his patients without informing them at least several weeks in advance. He did, however, think about how Hannibal had a history of toying with his prey before devouring them. Was all of this an elaborate ploy to disarm Will? He wouldn’t put it past him.

》 Full fic on ao3

[selunesdreams]

Chapter 15: Baggage

“Sorry about your dinner plans.” Rook murmured as Lucanis fell in step beside her. “I can make you dinner any time,” he said with a grin. “Never apologize for ending a meal early to kill Venatori.” “After what they did to you and Spite, to Neve and the Shadow Dragons, to Minrathous…” Rook reached down and squeezed his hand. “I intend to cleanse Tevinter of every single one.” WANT TO WATCH ROOK KILL . AND THEN- Lucanis’ skin heated as she let go of his hand, forging ahead to give directives. He kept a careful distance as Spite ranted and raved in his mind about all the things he could do to Rook, some things he wasn’t even certain he knew how to do…

Pairing: Lucanis x Fem Rook/OFC x Spite???

Summary: Fiamma recalls her final night at Villa Dellamorte, Lucanis uses food to show appreciation while Spite would prefer other methods, Rook does her best to stomach an encounter with the Venatori while rescuing kidnapped Dalish, and Solas becomes suspiciously cooperative.

Word count: 3.8k

Things of note/warnings: 18+ fic, MDNI! Blood of Arlathan quest. warnings: ritual/innocent animal sacrifice, mild sexually/physically aggressive Illario, horny Spite, yearning (but oblivious) Lucanis, Solas. Please read on AO3 if you need to track warnings, they will be inevitably detailed better there (or just want to be real sweet and give me hits/kudos/comments).

─── ⊹⊱♤⊰⊹ ───

As Fiamma sorted through Caterina’s mail with gloved hands, her fingertips hesitated over an envelope bearing no Crow letterhead or seal. Unfamiliar penmanship scrawled her name in dark ink, and while Viago would immediately suspect an attempted poisoning, she found herself slipping off her gloves, brow furrowing as she deposited the rest of the mail on the kitchen counter.

No one outside of the Crows should have any knowledge of her residence at the villa, yet someone had known to send correspondence here. They’d also known that if her mail went to Viago’s, he’d snoop. All the mail sent to the villa passed through Fiamma first. The sender intended for her to get her hands on it without intervention.

Lucanis had been off for some time. Perhaps he wanted a message to get to his grandmother discreetly? Or perhaps it was a trap laid by her cousin, testing how she was exercising caution these days. With a frown, she slipped a knife from her waistband and sliced underneath the wax seal, anyway. 

Hey kid, You might not remember us little people after single-handedly taking down 20 Antaam, but you left an impression on me I can’t seem to shake. I’m working on looking for an old friend who’s gotten themselves into some pretty deep shit. I could use someone with your skill set and grit to help me find him and, maybe, beat some sense into him. If you’re up for the job, and things aren’t too cushy where you’re at, you can find me every evening for the next ten-day at the Lamplighter in Minrathous. Look for the guy with a loud mouth and a chessboard. -Varric 

Varric. One of the prisoners she freed the night she ruined an entire Crow operation - the very misstep that landed her here at Villa Dellamorte. His proposition wasn’t a new one - he’d made the same offer the night she rescued him, but Viago hauled her off before she could even consider it. Undoubtedly, Varric had powerful allies and discreet surveillance on her. She was unnerved that she hadn’t noticed. Though she found herself somewhat impressed. Intrigued, even.

Fiamma folded the letter and tucked it into her pocket, setting a kettle on the stove as she continued tending to her evening duties. While the water for Caterina’s evening tea boiled, she contemplated Varric’s offer. Viago had sidelined her for three full moons now, with no promise of letting her return home, or to her own contracts anytime soon. In that period, Illario had become more insufferable, more forward, and more tormenting. After Lucanis departed for a prolonged contract last week, Illario had formed a habit of returning home drunk every night, melancholy and distraught, howling belligerently outside her door to be let in. If the villa weren’t so large, and Fiamma’s chambers weren’t in the opposite wing, Caterina would have caned him for making so much noise. It seemed his luck was in his grandmother’s declining hearing. 

She shook her head, preparing a cup of tea and arranging it on a bed tray alongside the rest of Caterina’s mail. Carrying it up the stairs, she wound through long hallways and several bare rooms. Cloth draped so much of the villa’s furniture to protect it from dust that she often felt surrounded by ghosts. In many ways, she was. Caterina had watched her entire family die, save her two remaining grandchildren. What joy was left inside these walls? Why decorate a space better left vacant, much like the unmarked graves near the rose garden? 

The First Talon was in a rocking chair before the fire when Fiamma knocked on her bedroom door. Caterina never could quite sit still. Even at rest, she was restless. Normal people rocked their grandbabies to sleep, but she raised hers to be killers. Good ones at that. The back and forth of her chair was meant to soothe her own worry. 

“Lots of mail today.” Fiamma said, setting the tray on a desk near the balcony. The old woman glanced at her, the glimmer of hope in her eyes betraying her mask of indifference. 

“Anything from Lucanis?”

“Are you expecting word from him? I could send-”

“I’ll handle it.” Caterina waved, cutting her off. “Leave me.”

Typically, the two would exchange a few teasing comments or Caterina would gloat about Lucanis’ most recent accomplishment (or how Illario had most recently vexed her), but Fiamma knew better than to pry. Caterina was prone to sour moods, and where she came from, dismissal was just as good as praise most of the time. After all, to be noticed often meant death in her line of work.

With a polite dip of her chin, she backed out of the room and closed the door. Absentmindedly, her hand returned to her pocket, brushing against the edge of the folded parchment there. The click of her boots echoed against the marble as she walked down the dimly lit corridor to her room. It would be unconscionable to leave Caterina now. Once Lucanis’ contract in Minrathous was finished, she’d take her leave in the night. But surely he’d return soon. What harm was there in leaving her with Illario for a few days? A lead assassin was more than capable of fending for herself…

She could barely count the steps left to her door when she heard something behind her, turning and preparing for an ambush. A small gasp escaped her as her back hit the wall, Illario’s face coming only a breath from her own. So drunk she could smell the alcohol on his skin, she turned her head to the side and wrinkled her nose. 

“Fiammetta…don’t tell me you’re avoiding me?” Illario slurred, clumsily dragging a hand down her cheek. 

“Go to bed.” She braced her palms on his chest to create distance between them. 

“Not without you.” He took her by the wrists and pressed his mouth sloppily against the corner of her own.  

“You pig!” She shoved him off, spitting and wiping her lips with her sleeve. 

“How long will we do this dance, Fi?” Illario asked in a sultry voice. 

“As long as it takes for you to get it through your head that the kiss before was a thank you, not an oath of my devotion.”

Illario narrowed his eyes. “There’s someone else, isn’t there?”

“Is it so hard to fathom that I just don’t want you?” 

“No, no, come on. Who is it? You and Teia have some secrets that I should know about?” He leaned in closer. “What about my cousin? He’s sweet on you, I can tell.”

“Listen to yourself.” Fiamma sneered. “You just can’t believe I would say no to you unless I was saying yes to someone else.”

Illario stumbled into her, pulling her closer. “Lucanis is inexperienced.” He whispered against the shell of her ear, “You want me, someone who can show you the ropes-” 

Fiamma instinctively reeled back and decked him square in the jaw, her knuckles grazing his bottom teeth. With a hiss of pain, she recoiled, shaking the impact from her fist as he held his chin, opening his mouth wide to check the joint. 

“Maybe I deserved that one.” He mumbled, wiping at his bloodied lip. 

Before the exchange could carry on another moment, Fiamma wrenched the doors of her bedroom open and slammed them shut behind her, turning the lock and sliding her sword through the handles for extra security. 

“I didn’t stand a chance, did I?” Illario asked through the door as his body audibly slumped against it. 

Ignoring him, she pulled a bag from under the bed. When she first arrived, Fiamma never fully unpacked. Her own way of keeping one foot out the door, as De Rivas always did. She swept the room, gathering her remaining belongings and throwing them inside. For good measure, she snatched a couple of offerings from the guest wardrobe. Caterina wouldn’t miss them. Though she might miss her . That wasn’t Fiamma’s problem anymore, though.  

“I’ve done terrible things, Fiammetta…” Illario’s muffled voice cried. “But I had to…”

With a heavy sigh, Fiamma hoisted her pack onto her shoulder, retrieved her sword from the door, and opened her bedroom window. No longer willing to entertain another night of self-pitying theatrics, she launched herself over the ledge, scaling a trellis to the gardens and sneaking through the hidden passage across the courtyard. 

By morning, she’d secured a spot on a ship to Minrathous, to search for a man with a loud mouth and a chessboard. With a brief pang of guilt, she wondered who would bring Caterina her morning coffee. 

─── ⊹⊱♤⊰⊹ ───

Rook found Viago poised over the kitchen counter, precariously refilling his toxin vials. Framed by the glass balcony doors, the setting sun glowed over the city skyline behind him, turning the den a faint orange. Her cousin glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, decanting a clear liquid into an empty container. 

“Your friends tired of hovering by your bedside and returned home.”

Rook took a seat, watching him work. “Teia too?”

“She had work to do at the casino. She left once I assured her you’d live.”

Neither of them spoke for several minutes as Viago corked a glass cylinder and nestled it inside his case with care. He snapped it shut and braced his palms on the counter, staring at the stone surface.

“Go back to your Lighthouse. I’ll keep an eye on Illario and update you when I know more. Once you go through that eluvian of yours, I’m facing it towards the wall.” 

“What if I need you?”

“Lucanis seems more than eager to make you his problem. Let him carry the burden for a little while.”

Rook buried her reaction to his disappointment deep within herself. “What makes you say that?”

“Because he was the last to leave and keeps reappearing through that damned mirror every hour to check in.” Viago stood up straight and took off towards his room without sparing her a second look. 

“Whatever is going on between the two of you, keep it out of my house.”

─── ⊹⊱♤⊰⊹ ───

AMBER. AND HONEY! ROOK. CLOSE .  

Lucanis glanced up just before she opened the kitchen doors. Relief and another potent emotion, something akin to the rush just before an assassination, coursed through his veins. 

“Rook! You’re back.” He breathed, lifting the pasta cooking on the stovetop off the flame and setting it aside to cool. “How are you feeling?”

“Well rested.” She crossed the room as he wiped his hands on his apron, discarding it on a nearby chair. As she joined him near the stove, his eyes met hers, and he forced a smile, feeling a bit dazed. He turned around quickly, twirling a forkful of pasta in the pan and offering her a bite. 

“Come here, try something for me.” 

One brow arched, she held his gaze, lips dragging down the metal prongs as she allowed him to feed her a mouthful. Chewing thoughtfully, she threw her head back with a moan. Lucanis watched her features attentively, assessing what the dish might need based on her reaction.  

OTHER WAYS TO MAKE HER MOAN, LUCANIS. BETTER WAYS.  

He shoveled a forkful of hot pasta into his own mouth, as if he could silence Spite by burning his own tongue. 

“I’m trying something new.” The noodles scalded his throat as he swallowed them whole. “The trick is in the pasta water…” He returned his attention to dinner, dividing it amongst an assortment of plates on the counter. 

“You’re in a surprisingly cheerful mood today.” Rook snuck a fork from the counter and began eating directly out of the pan. 

“I’m cautiously optimistic about Caterina, and I wanted to do something nice for you, show my appreciation for all your help…” He snatched the fork from her grasp. “Save your appetite. There’s a tort in the oven, too.” 

Rook smiled, and the warmth of her brown irises brought out by the light of the fireplace. “Did you do all this for me, Lucanis?”

“There’s plenty to share.” Tension grew in his chest, a sensation of static rising in his throat. “But…I did make it with you in mind.”

“You didn’t have to do that.” 

“Yes, I did,” He said matter-of-factly, shoving his hands in his pockets and averting his eyes. “I still haven’t found a way to apologize for everything, and…”

“I’m the one who owes you an apology, Lucanis.” She said, reaching for his wrists. “I should have listened to you. Should have told you my plans, never should have…”

ROOK. TOUCHING. US. DO IT BACK!  

Lucanis let her tug him closer, blinking in surprise as she flung her arms around his neck. One hand fell to her waist, while the other found her hip.

“You and me? We’re good, Rook.” He said, tearing his attention away from her and returning to the stove, wordlessly plating their meal as Rook set the table. She brushed past him; filling a cup of coffee for each of them before settling into her seat. It was wonderfully domestic, and he welcomed the distraction from the trouble that waited for them in Treviso. It would be hard to trust anyone again, but after his moment with Rook yesterday, he’d unveiled a trust in her he’d never allowed himself to have in anyone.  

The others soon arrived, Bellara and Neve bringing news of kidnapped Dalish, taken by Venatori, for a ritual sacrifice. A pang of disappointment hit Lucanis as he realized their brief respite from the terror of the gods would soon be over…and the tort he’d labored over all afternoon would likely go untouched. 

“The gods will want more power,” Bellara said, picking at her food. “They won’t waste any time getting it.”

A phantom scratch came from behind Lucanis’ eyeballs at the mention of blood magic. 

“Then we strike while they’re weak.” He lowered his fork, looking up from his half-finished plate and holding Rook’s gaze. She set her mouth in a line with a firm nod. 

“He’s right.” She said, pushing up from her seat. The others followed suit, departing in the direction of the eluvian.

“Sorry about your dinner plans.” Rook murmured as Lucanis fell in step beside her.

“I can make you dinner any time,” he said with a grin. “Never apologize for ending a meal early to kill Venatori.”

“After what they did to you and Spite, to Neve and the Shadow Dragons, to Minrathous…” Rook reached down and squeezed his hand. “I intend to cleanse Tevinter of every single one.”

WANT TO WATCH ROOK KILL . AND THEN-

Lucanis’ skin heated as she let go of his hand, forging ahead to give directives. He kept a careful distance as Spite ranted and raved in his mind about all the things he could do to Rook, some things he wasn’t even certain he knew how to do…

─── ⊹⊱♤⊰⊹ ───

Safer to venture into such a large gathering of Venatori in small groups, Neve, Lucanis, and Rook opted to move in the open, disguised, while the others went through the trees with the Veil Jumpers. 

“This robe stinks of Venatori. It makes my eyeballs itch.” 

Lucanis stood with his arms crossed as he waited for Neve to reach the opposite end of the zip line. White fog seeped up from the deep canyon before them, concealing several roaring waterfalls in the distance. Rook bit her lip as she examined the large gap between them and the opposite bank. 

“If you’re not too uncomfortable…I could use a favor.” 

Lucanis raised an eyebrow as she held up her palms. The injuries she sustained from her escape from the villa were still red and inflamed as she tugged a pair of thick gloves over them with a grimace. 

Lucanis smirked and offered her his back. “Need a lift?”

“You sure you can carry both of us?” She asked with some uncertainty, “I can catch up with the others if…”

Lucanis scoffed. “I can handle you.” 

“Rescued twice in less than a fortnight. I’m a lucky girl.” Rook’s arms encircled his middle, and she rested her chin on his shoulder, hiking her legs up around his waist. “Are you sure about this?”

He stiffened, tightening his grip on the handles. “I’ll keep my reservations to myself until we reach the other side.”

Lucanis kicked off the ground, and they soared over the canyon, Rook’s stomach plummeting as she looked at the drop below. With her arms locked tightly around Lucanis’ chest, she feared he’d suffocate and pass out, sending them both to their deaths amongst the jagged rocks below. Eyes squeezed shut, she became attuned to the scent of his shaving oil lingering on his neck as she buried her face there. The telltale jolt of them hitting the end of the zipline ripped every thought from her mind and she released a held breath, letting her shaking legs detach themselves from around Lucanis. As her boots hit solid ground, she swallowed hard to avoid retching.

“Took you long enough,” Neve said, inclining her head towards the Venatori camp. “Come on.” 

They weaved through a sea of Red Cloaks and excited chatter. Rook caught the sound of her own name a few times, resisting the urge to turn her head towards it. 

“You’re popular.” Neve murmured. 

“Not comforting.” Rook replied. From her peripheral, she watched Lucanis scan the crowd, hands flexing at his sides. 

“They’re going to bleed a Dalish deer!” A nearby Venatori squealed. 

Rook’s throat tightened as she recalled the disposition of the gentle creature she’d encountered with Assan and Davrin. “They’re going after Halla?”

She turned to a platform where the creature was drug forward on a rope, weak and struggling to resist. Could it be the same one from before? 

Lucanis reached out and caught her around the waist as she jolted forward, bringing his lips to her ear. 

“We can’t do anything that will draw attention, Rook.” He warned in a low voice. Tears stung her eyes as she realized he was right. Lucanis discreetly reached for her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. 

“You don’t have to watch this,” Neve said as the Halla bleated in terror, but Rook couldn’t tear her gaze away, no matter how badly she wanted to. She squeezed Lucanis’ hand, fingernails digging into his skin unintentionally. When she noticed and tried to relax her grip, his only tightened. Face set in a facade of indifference, fury simmered beneath his features. 

“They will pay, one way or another.” 

The Halla exploded into a mess of blood and carrion and she stifled a gasp, turning into Lucanis’ shoulder. She’d seen all she needed to, and not a second more. 

“Are you alright?” Lucanis asked softly. 

“This whole place makes my skin crawl.” She said through gritted teeth, releasing his hand with some difficulty and storming through the Venatori camp.

─── ⊹⊱♤⊰⊹ ───

“The Dalish prisoners…they escaped safely?”

Covered in blood and dirt after the events at the Venatori camp, Rook stood across Solas in their usual meeting spot, each on one side of an enormous expanse in the Fade. His prison.

“For now.”

They’d barely been successful. Elgar’nan had shown up with an unexpected archdemon, and soon detected their presence, bringing to light his alliances with both the Venatori and the Antaam. If not for Solas’ intervention, they, nor the Dalish, would have made it out alive.

“Whatever my frustration with them, it feels good to have helped my people again. Thank you for allowing me to. The chance to infuriate Elgar’nan was a reminder of simpler times.” Solas spoke more warmly than she was used to. It felt like a change she shouldn’t trust. 

“We share a set of similar goals, but our endgame is not the same.” Rook said, folding her arms over her chest, “And I still haven’t forgiven you for hurting Varric.”

“Varric…” Solas echoed, regret weighing on his features. “How is he?”

“Out of commission, for now. His recovery is slow, thanks to you, but his condition seems to be….improving.” Rook said, worry gnawing at her gut. 

“And you? I can’t help but notice you bear some injuries of your own.” Solas nodded at the contusion on her temple and where her wounds had reopened on her palms. She’d had no choice but to draw her weapons and fight, undoubtedly prolonging her healing time. 

“I’ll be fine.” She muttered, pulling her gloves from out of her pockets and slipping them on, careful to keep a straight face. Solas wouldn’t get the satisfaction of seeing her suffer today. 

“You lead your allies well, Rook. When we first met, I saw you only as a foolish child who disrupted my plans. You were…an irritant.” He said, crossing his arms behind his back. “I expected you to be nothing more than a tool, but you’ve proven me wrong at every turn. Perhaps Varric was not misguided, placing his faith in you.”

“You’d do well not to underestimate me.” Rook said, “Most come to regret it…given they survive long enough.” 

“Spoken like someone who kills for a living.”

“Let’s not pretend my death toll is anywhere close to yours.” Rook growled. 

Solas hummed in acknowledgement, uncrossing his arms and beginning to pace. 

“Your team trusts you, and you listen to them. It is impressive…and enviable. You work together with a camaraderie that took me centuries to build in my rebellion.”

“I care about them. I don’t use them as…how did you put it… tools?”

“I caution you not to allow feelings to distract you from your goal. What little time you have left, you should make certain you, and the team that trusts you, are ready for whatever comes. This might be your last chance. Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain are preparing their ritual to pierce the Veil during the next eclipse, as Elgar’nan’s power is tied to light and darkness.”

“My allies will be ready.” Rook said, walking through dust and rubble towards the other end of the Fade’s nothingness. Anything to be further from Solas. 

“Are you?” He called after her. “I know that you will do everything in your power not to fail them , but what are you doing to ensure you will not fail yourself ? I have gleaned insight into some of your baggage, the complicated feelings you carry for fellow Crows, including the one on your own team. Have you grappled with your own shame? The regrets that haunt you in your sleep?”

“The Lighthouse is a shrine to your regret, Solas.” Rook said over her shoulder as the world around them faded to white. “Keep your words of wisdom and try heeding them yourself.”

[cecilyv]

New Fic: the chain I forged (9-1-1, buck/tommy)

Happy Holidays, my friends. @liminalmemories21 and I had Tommy get Christmas Caroled just for y'all. Wherein he meets some ghosts (or possibly hallucinates as a result of whatever was in those shots Lucy handed him last night). Either way, he’s too old for this shit.

"I wear the chain I forged in life. I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it." — Jacob Marley, in Charles Dicken's, A Christmas Carol

11.6k | General Audiences

[Read here on Ao3]

He comes awake abruptly, the hair on the back of his arms standing straight up. He lays there, trying to get his breathing back under control, when he hears the chair creak on the other side of the room. Shit. Fuck. Damn. There’s someone here. And not in the fun kind of way, the way he'd gotten used to with Evan — shit, Buck (he still gets that wrong in his head, when he's half asleep, still a little drunk). He'd gotten used to Buck getting up in the middle of the night, and then pausing before he got back into bed to take a sip of water, put on chapstick. Six months shouldn't have been enough to overwrite the pattern of a lifetime of sleeping alone. But— He still reaches for Evan — fuck. Buck. He still reaches for Buck when he wakes up, expects the heat of him next to him in bed, expects his pillow to smell like Buck’s shampoo and aftershave.

This time though, there's a person in his room and it's not Buck; doesn’t sound like him, smell like him. He breathes and smells dirt and cold and rot. He keeps his eyes closed, facing the ceiling, trying to remember what he might have on hand to defend himself with. Tries to figure out how this person got into his house without setting off the alarms. What he's here to steal.

"I know you're awake," whoever it is says, voice low and raspy like he doesn’t use it much. There's a rustle of fabric as the guy shifts position. "I ain't here to hurt you. You can go on and sit up, open your eyes."

He pushes himself up warily, flicks on the light and blinks in the sudden brightness. Blinks again. A burglar in a Halloween costume was not on his list of possible scenarios. And why, he wonders, if you're going to dress up to break into people's houses, wouldn't you wear a mask?

He’s wearing a cowboy hat, and a vest, but what Tommy can’t look away from (and doesn’t want to look at at all, honestly) is his skin so tight across his face it’s translucent ( like butter scraped over too much bread, a voice in his mind echoes). And the guy has— He squints, and then shakes his head. Looks back. Those look a lot like the inflamed boils Evan — Buck — had had. This seems very specific for a Halloween costume robbery. He would have expected more dead president masks.

"Uh. You're welcome to take whatever you want. I'm not going to fight you on it." It's just stuff.

The guy — the cowboy? — crosses his arms and looks annoyed. "Ain't here for your stuff."

Tommy glances at his bedside table like that's going to reveal that he'd gone to bed with a kitchen knife, or a hammer, or something useful. There's a glass of water and a book he's been saying he's going to read for going on a year now. "Okay. So, why are you here?" Keep him talking, he thinks.

The guy rolls his eyes. "Ain't here to kill you either. Didn't I just say I weren't here to hurt you? Keep up."

He's not sober enough for this. "Okay. I give. Why are you here?"

The guy relaxes, like he's been waiting for this cue. "I'm here to show you what has been, what is, and what is yet to come." And Tommy thinks, okay, Galadriel.

Tommy gives him a blank look, and the guy elaborates. "I owe a debt." He stops, like that’s all the explanation he thinks Tommy should need.

Tommy wracks his brain, but, "I think I would remember meeting you. Was it on a call?"

"Didn't say it was to you.” Pauses and says reflectively, “I wasn't always a good man, but I always paid my debts, and no one can say different." There's another pause and then, “Unless it was to a bank."

Okay, sure. This seems … nope, he’s got nothing. This seems like nothing he can possibly put a name to. This is clearly what he gets for letting Lucy talk him into going out after their last shift, and then letting her buy them shots. The wages of sin. Or something. "Are you seriously telling me you’re here as the Ghost of Christmas Past? Because you owe a life debt? To someone? Who is not me?"

The Ghost — sure, why not — nods, like he's glad Tommy is finally catching up.

He looks closer at the guy, really looks and — leather vest, chaps, boots, boils. Just fuck his life. "You're Billy Boils, aren’t you?"

Billy makes a face, like he tasted something nasty. "William James McCurdy. At your service.”

[mytheoristavenue]

Day 11-

BES Mizu x Reader - Winter Proposal

Summary: Mizu has to ask you something before leaving for London.

Warnings: Angst, fluff, sad, rushed/short, spoilers, takes place days after the last episode, grammar

Yesterday's events still played fresh in your mind. The sounds of gunfire, screaming, and metal clanging rang in your ears like a broken record. You'd sustained some injuries, thankfully not from any man-made weapon. You'd been trapped in a collapsing building and pinned under a burning beam. Luckily, Ringo found you and dragged you to safety, before hauling you back to where Master Eiji lived.

The night was spent with Ringo tending to your wounds and delivering news of Mizu's death to her father, who pretended not to be phased. You were unprofessionally diagnosed with a shattered ankle and varying degrees of burning on your legs and waist. Nothing fatal, thank God.

In your short time with Ringo and Eiji, you'd taken to being placed out in the nearby forest. Close enough to yell for help, but far enough to get away from the noise and heat of the forge. Of course, you still had to contribute in some way, so every morning, Ringo would set you outside with a task, usually washing clothes or dishes in a rudimentary tub, and let you watch the woods for anyone looking for trouble. In the evenings, he'd come back and hang the clothes on the line if needed, as you were in no shape to walk.

-----

On the third day, you sat in your chair on the edge of the forest, humming and mending clothes when you finally did spot trouble. A slender figure came hobbling through the woods, peaking out from behind trees when it heard a twig snap. You eyed the shadow cautiously, ready to scream out for the men to protect you at a moment's notice.

"Leave us be, stranger," you warned, brandishing a kitchen knife you kept to cut stray scraps of fabric for patches. "I may be vulnerable, but I'm deadly with a blade even still."

"I know you are," a tired, hoarse voice croaked. "I taught you that."

Your heart skipped a beat at the possibility before you shook the hope away. "You haven't taught me anything, stranger," you rebuked. "The one who trained me is dead."

Just then, the knife plummetted to the snow, let go of by your trembling hands. The stranger finally had inched close enough for their face to be unobscured by the light shining through the trees. Glacier eyes peered down at you from under shaggy chocolate fringe as she leaned against the nearest tree, waiting for you to react.

Without another thought, you left out of your chair, forgetting entirely about the searing pain in your brutalized body, but crumbled at her feet, clinging to her pants.

"My darling," she gasped softly, falling to her knees with you to hold you in her arms. "You're hurt, I'm so sorry, I didn't even know-"

"Where were you?!" you sobbed into her shoulder, making her fall silent. "I thought you were dead- we all thought you were dead!"

"I am," she corrected, bringing your hands from her shoulders to cradle them in hers. "For now, at least. You can't tell anyone I came to you."

"I-I don't understand..." you sniffled, (e/c) gems boring into her very soul. "You only came to see me?"

Her face softened and she smiled. "Yes, my love, I did. I couldn't leave without telling you where I was going."

"You..." you froze in her grasp. "You're leaving again? B-But-"

"But nothing," she corrected, sternly but with love. "I'm going to London to continue my mission." she confessed.

"London..." you repeated. "W-What's that? Where is that? Why can't we go with you?" Your head was spinning, you were so hurt and overjoyed and confused all at the same time.

"It's very far away, in another country. But I promise I'll be back." Mizu swore, pressing a kiss to your forehead with her palms on either temple. "I'm gonna finish my mission and I'll be back before you know it, and we're gonna live a normal life."

"We can't, you know that!" you argued but melted at her soothing touch. "Women can't be wed with one another, women can't buy property, women can't have kids together..." you trailed. "Besides, I know you'll never be done with this endless path of vengence..."

"I hate when you say things like that, my love," Mizu cooed. "Lips as lovely as yours have no place uttering words so violent. You leave all that talk to me." A moment of silence passed between the two of you before she mushed you away enough to hold you at arm's length. "I promise you that I'll be back, and when I am, I'm going to marry you, (Y/N)."

"But how..." you sighed, immense sadness for the death of a dream making your chest hurt.

"I'm a man in the eyes of the law." she smirked. "I can travel unaccompanied, own land and property, and marry who I damn well choose. And...I choose to marry you. If you'll have me?"

You'd never seen Mizu so enthusiastically sure of anything, short of destroying her bloodline. It made you feel incredibly special, the amount of passion she seemed to carry for this. "I'll have you, but I have a few conditions."

"Which are?" she cocked a brow.

You reached up and cupped her cheeks with both hands. "Come back to me in one piece, promise me you will."

Mizu smiled, studying your face lovingly. "I promise I will."

"And I want a farm near Osaka so I can see my family, and I want children to chase around the yard." you dreamed.

"A farm in Osaka, got it," she snickered. "Though knocking you up may be a different story."

"We'll adopt some!" you chirped.

"I think I can do that," Mizu sighed happily, nuzzling into your throat. "I promise a thousand times, my love."

Almost as quickly as she appeared, she was leaving again, begrudgingly tearing herself away from you. "Promise to write me," you sniffled, getting ready to cry again as she helped you back into your chair.

"I will, but it'll be under an alias." she agreed, brushing the hair out of your face and gathering your things to put within your reach. "But you gotta promise me something too."

"Anything."

"Darling, wait for me."

[umbry-fic]

dear

Summary: It would all be easier if he could learn how to stop loving her.

He could only hope that she had learned how to stop loving him.

Fandom: Tales of Symphonia Characters: Lloyd Irving, Colette Brunel, Original Character Relationships: Lloyd Irving & Colette Brunel, Lloyd Irving & Original Character Rating: G Word Count: 2694 Mirror Link: AO3 Original Post Date: 14/02/2024

Notes: This is a sorta sequel to Swaying from Season to Season - it's a possible future that I can see happening after that fic. This was written to Calc., From Y to Y and Dear.

Happy Valentine's lmao

~~~

Letting out an exhausted sigh, Lloyd wiped the sweat from his brow, stretching to get rid of the dull ache that had built up in his back over his hours of labouring in the smithy. Scrutinizing the newly forged dagger that lay on the anvil, the metal still glowing red from the heat of the forge, he nodded in satisfaction. The runes he had painstakingly carved into its blade until his fingers had hurt from how tightly he’d been gripping the carving knife snaked gracefully across the metal, gently glowing as it absorbed the ambient mana from the air.

It looked perfect, ready for -

A set of steady knocks echoed from the direction of the door, a soft voice calling out. "Uncle Lloyd?"

Speak of the devil.

A girl with a small smile on her face greeted him on the other side of the door, her hands clasped before her. The tight knot of worry in his chest that had been tied the moment he'd seen her off at the Iselian gate finally dissolved, leaving him to breathe a sigh of relief at the sight of Marianne without a scratch on her.

"Back from Palmacosta already, Mari?" he asked, ushering her in and shutting the door behind her. "I'd almost forgotten what you looked like!"

"I've only been away for a month, Uncle," she mumbled, taking careful steps across the wooden floor, her gaze wandering across the interior that she hadn’t laid eyes on in quite a while, but could probably still navigate with her eyes closed. Spotting the fresh dagger, the green eyes she'd inherited from her father widened, and she rushed over with stars practically twinkling in her eyes.

"It's for you," he confirmed, though it had likely been obvious from the beginning. Barrelling into him with enough force to knock some of the air out of his lungs, she thanked him profusely, her tiny smile melting into a real grin.

She was no longer the young child that had been light enough for him to pick up and swing in the air until she was shrieking with giggles. The years had gone by, his back had begun protesting, and she’d shot upwards in height, becoming more and more like her mother - packing away her emotions and sewing up the gap that contained them as she showed others only what they wished to see. Still, he was glad to be able to pull a real smile out of her.

Leading her to the kitchen table, he went to the pantry to get some sandwiches - slathered with fruit jam, just the way she liked it. He'd been making them every day for the past week, anticipating her return to Iselia; feeding them to Noishe when no one came calling. If Noishe saw another of these sandwiches, Lloyd suspected that he would get a faceful of angry dog.

"How's your father?" Marianne asked as she delicately nibbled on the corner of a sandwich. "Your last letter mentioned he’d caught something…?”

"Oh, it was just a cold that was running through the village. Dad's sleeping off the last of it upstairs," he answered, taking a seat himself. "What about your grandparents?"

"They'll be fine. It was nothing too serious, in the end, just seemed that way.” Face brightening, she placed her sandwich back in the centre of her plate. “You know, I ran into Uncle Genis at Palmacosta last week? He’s helping with classes at the Academy again!"

"Let me guess, he tried to get you to study?"

The scene was easy to imagine. Genis, bearing a serious expression as he stacked book after book in front of her for her “required reading”, ensuring she absorbed all of it until the light of dusk painted the classroom in warm orange strokes.

And when she had finished it all, he'd let her dictate what they did after, doing his very best to put a wide smile on her face.

Lloyd chuckled at the scowl that stretched across Mari’s face. "It was so boring. It's not my fault I'm no good at anything to do with magic! I'm better with my dagger anyway. All thanks to you, Uncle!"

"Well, glad I could help." A smile played on his lips as he watched her pout, her posture no longer the ramrod straightness it had been when she'd walked in. Still, she held herself with a grace that she couldn't shake after years of enforced practice. She was the very picture of her mother, down to the golden hair spilling down her back, even if she had inherited none of her clumsiness.

As he had with her mother, he refused to let her feel like she was alone. No child deserved that, regardless of the role they were supposed to play and what the Church felt about the matter. Even if they felt as if they dictated her every action - what she wore, what she said, the company she kept - they did not dictate his.

"And you know, my offer still -"

"No, Uncle," she shot down firmly, expression smoothing into neutral emptiness as she shook her head. "I'm sorry, but my choice hasn't changed. I don't want you to accompany me on the Journey of Regeneration."

Falling silent, he wondered if he was imagining the shadows lurking in her gaze, too dark for someone so incredibly young.

"The village needs you, you know! You're the best swordsman here. You'll have to protect this place when… After I’ve left for the Journey." She picked up her sandwich once more with stiff motions, gaze trained on the wooden surface of the table like it was the most interesting thing in the world. "Can we talk about something else now?"

Steering the conversation away from their current topic was an easy enough task. There was much to discuss - all that she had done in her month in Palmacosta, and every event that had disrupted the sleepy routine of Iselia.

It was natural that she wouldn't want a reminder of the pressure that sat square on her shoulders, forcing her to be the symbol of hope for every person in this slowly dying world. It was enough that most people would only ever see her as her title - he wouldn't add to that weight. Here, she could excitedly talk about any topic under the sun while kicking her feet under the table. That was how it had always been, and how it always would be. Here, she could just be a child without a care in the world.

Swallowing the thought that he was missing something, he let the conversation wash over him - ranging from the many dogs she had accompanied her mother around Palmacosta to name, to some of the more out-there blacksmithing requests he’d gotten from the people of Iselia.

"Thanks for the sandwiches!" Marianne beamed.

Blinking, he glanced out the window and realised the sun was beginning to set, the sky composed of messy dashes of red and pink. Had it really been that long? Pushing himself to his feet, he began to clean up the table, sweeping up the plates with breadcrumbs scattered across them.

"Could you accompany me back to the village, Uncle?"

He froze on his way to the sink, slowly turning to face her. "I wouldn't want to intrude."

Her green eyes were fixed on him, subjecting him to the same searching stare her mother had used to give him. She could not possibly have known anything, for neither he nor Colette had ever breathed a word after her wedding, and yet...

"Father stayed behind in Palmacosta to be with grandmother and grandfather for a while longer, so it's just me and mother. Besides, I've missed you! It's been a month. Come over, and we can have dinner together."

"I... Alright," he agreed, swallowing to clear his suddenly incredibly dry throat. Gingerly placing the plates into the sink, he cursed the shaking of his hands, letting them curl around the amateur medallion that still sat over his heart.

He had not taken it off in the close to two decades that had passed.

"Come on then," he sighed.

~~~

The guards nodded politely when they entered, the villagers they passed waving hello to them. The villagers, as a whole, had gotten a lot friendlier once he'd taken over from Dad as Iselia's blacksmith, and even more so once he'd started training the town's guard. Somewhere along the way, he'd become just another familiar face, despite being shunned as a child for his origins.

Marianne's expression had shuttered along the path through the forest, her steps growing stiffer until she was walking in the graceful manner that befitted a Chosen.

The sight made sorrow flood his heart, remembering the days when she would grab his hand and swing his arm with wild abandon as she ran through the village, a toothy smile lighting up her face. Her head had barely reached his thigh back then. He said nothing, however, knowing he couldn’t change her mind.

"Mari! Just who I wanted to see!" One of the other girls from the village called out, beaming as she slowly divided her red hair into bunches, painstakingly threading them into braids. "Won't you come over and help?"

"Oh, it's Amber! Uh, see you, Uncle!" Marianne hurriedly whispered, a touch of red colouring her cheeks as she broke away, life flowing back into her steps.

He couldn’t help the amused chuckle that slipped from him as he continued alone, steps faltering as he spotted the familiar porch he had spent many an afternoon pacing back and forth on, waiting for Colette’s cheerful voice to reach his ears.

"Lloyd?"

And then he was meeting those familiar blue eyes, still capable of taking his breath away. Sometimes, he still felt like that naive teenager, watching her under the starry night sky and realising for the first time just how beautiful she was.

He greeted her with a nod, words still escaping him as he carefully began to construct walls around his fragile heart.

Every time he met her, he could see every version of her he had known. The cheerful child who had approached him with no fear, the girl wrapped in melancholy who had kissed him with tears on her face, and the woman who had faced her preordained fate with her head held high.

And now, the mother, seated on the porch and enjoying the wind on her skin. Happy, he hoped, for that was all he had ever wished for her.

Colette levelled him with the same piercing stare her daughter had subjected him to less than an hour ago. "It’s no use lingering out here. Come in," she said, slipping into the house like a silent ghost.

He'd seen her, plenty of times over the years. They were still friends, after all, and they met up with Genis to catch up all the time. Not as much now, given that both Genis and Raine had left Iselia. Raine to perform archaeological research all around the world, and Genis to wander from place to place, occasionally returning to the Palmacosta Academy to help out. Perhaps time had inevitably caused them all to drift apart somewhat, but they still found opportunities to steal little moments together.

But he could count the number of times he’d been truly alone with her on his fingers alone. He’d avoided such occurrences, trying to forget the pain of a heart that had never healed, and not wanting to make things any harder than they already were. He had never wanted to hurt her at all, but he had inevitably done so - simply because he had committed the sin of having held her hand, dreaming of a life that they could spend together.

Yet still he wished to see her, with all of his heart - wanting to hear the sound of her laughter, see her bright smile, feel the brush of her hair against his arm.

He was still chasing it, that summer day when he fell in love with her, even if it had long drifted out of his reach - a shimmering facade that continued to taunt him.

Following Colette into the kitchen, he automatically began to help her out with dinner, the two of them settling into the same easy rhythm they had always shared, without a need for words. It was a wonder it hadn’t been lost over the years, but it lived on, ingrained deep in both their hearts.

“How was Palmacosta?” he asked, breaking the silence for the first time as he collected a few dishes to take to the dining table.

“Loud,” she replied mirthfully. “Lots of dogs, though.”

“Same old, then,” he mumbled. It had been a few years since he’d needed to travel so far to deliver the finished product for a custom request, but it seemed the bustling town hadn’t changed much.

“I’m sure Mari already told you, but we ran into Genis. It was nice seeing him again,” she said, helping to carry out the rest of the dishes as they both got seated, waiting for Marianne to return from whatever corner of the village she’d wandered off to. “It really has been a long time since we’ve heard from him.”

“Close to a year and a half. I do hope he visits Iselia soon or sends a letter, or the next time we all get together, I’m letting Raine do the cooking.”

The bright laugh that left her at his words made him smile, even as he refused to let the flimsy walls surrounding his heart drop. It was so easy to forget, sometimes, that anything had changed, but he would not let himself fall into an illusion that could not last, that would only shatter into shards with wickedly sharp edges that could easily slice his heart into ribbons once again. It would not be fair to her.

Her blue eyes, alight with amusement, met his gaze for a moment, before sliding away when the sound of muffled voices filtered through the open doorway.

He could see Marianne, lightly blushing as she conversed with the same girl from before on the porch, their fingers threaded together. Saying goodbye, if he had to guess. He was also witness to the moment a wave of sadness swept over her as she reluctantly pulled her hand away, her expression downcast.

Colette’s bottom lip wobbled, and he reached out on instinct. Curling his fingers to dig his nails into his palms, he set his clenched hands back into his lap.

She always did that when she was upset. She would take a deep breath and push it all down, refusing to let any of it out. And once, he would have held her close as she let her face crumple into tears, hidden in his chest as he rubbed circles into her back.

His heart twisted now, watching her, but he had lost the privilege to comfort her long ago.

Perhaps it would have been easier if he could simply lock away this beating heart of his, if he could learn how to stop loving her. If laying eyes on her and hearing her voice did not leave him aching to reach out to her, a knife slowly twisting its way deeper into his vulnerable flesh. But he did not wish to forget, all that they had shared - every moment in the past, and every future that might have been.

He could only hope that she had learned how to stop loving him.

When Marianne sat down at the dining table, every trace of sadness had been wiped from Colette’s face, only a tranquil smile remaining as she greeted her daughter. Mari’s face, too, was devoid of the sadness that had plagued her just moments ago, and Lloyd could not help but wonder.

If he'd been brave enough to take Colette’s hand and run all those years ago, regardless of her protests, would anything have turned out differently?

"Let's eat, shall we?" Marianne said, shattering his train of thought.

Contemplating all the different futures that could have been was no use to anyone.

They were all lost to him now.

[paytato435]

Chapter 3: You His Pet or Somethin'?

The Knife Set

Leo was in a pickle. He hadn’t realized how big of a pickle yet though. Like, he thought it was maybe one of those cocktail sized ones you’d skewer onto a sandwich. As it turned out, he’d discovered pickles could get pretty big. Like, he was pretty sure Raph could fit in this one- this metaphorical pickle anyway. Not a literal pickle… are there any pickles in the fridge now? He was getting a little hungry now that he thought about it…

“So it was you?!” Mikey’s voice broke in surprise as he had just watched his older brother turn one of his kitchen knives into a mystic katana.

Leo froze. He had not seen the box turtle behind him. Turning his head just slightly, he could see his little brother in the doorway, his finger pointing accusingly right at him.

“You’re the one who keeps stealing my kitchen knives!”

“Stealing?” Leo asked, touching his finger to his lip. “I was just borrowing the one…”

“LIAR!” Mikey stormed into the kitchen and gestured to his knife block, where, of the dozen knives that had been there less than two weeks ago, there now remained only two.

“You keep using my knives to make more swords!”

Leo bit his lip.

“Look, it’s not my fault they keep breaking under the pressure-”

“You’ve broken them?! HOW?”

“I don’t know, I guess they just aren’t as strong as you’d think they’d be,” Leo shrugged, twirling the new katana into his scabbard.

“Kitchen knives are meant for chopping food, not hacking apart bad guys!” Mikey sobbed.

“Well what am I supposed to do then? I need my katanas!”

“Go ask Todd to make you another garden trowel, I don’t know! And get me a new set of knives!”

Leo sighed loudly. Asking for a new set of knives was fair, but it would be a huge pain. He was also having trouble getting a hold of Todd. Turns out his puppy park was going through some legal trouble about zoning requirements or something, his forge likely included. Maybe Leo could just buy himself a knife set too, but he was really tired of his swords cracking under the pressure.

“A garden trowel as a sword?” Leo and Mikey snapped their heads around to see Casey sitting at the breakfast bar, not even four feet away from them.

“How long have you been there?” Leo asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Long enough,” Casey shrugged. “But really, tell me how a garden trowel makes for a good sword.” His tone pitched up in questioning.

“I thought you knew everything about us,” Leo tipped his head. “We can make our weapons out of pretty much anything, as long as we have our ninpo.”

“Well yeah, I knew that, but wouldn’t an actual sword work better?” Casey asked, shoveling around his cereal with a spoon.

“I don’t suppose you have one lying around here somewhere?” Leo asked, lowering his head and jutting his chin out.

“Jus’ get Synth to make you one. Thas’ what you did in the fujure,” Casey said through a mouthful of cereal.

“Synth? Who’s that?”

Casey’s eyes widened as he took a bite of Frosted Flakes. (He’d been getting more adventurous with his food choices lately.) “You don’t know Synth? The greatest swordsman of all time?!”

“Ok I’m going to pretend you didn’t just rank me below anyone else in terms of swordsmanship and skip to the part where I say; nooooo?” 

“Well you should, if my memory serves, he works for the Battle Nexus.”

“For Big Mama?” Mikey piped up. “Sounds like he’s probably up to no good.”

“He made… makes weapons for her champions,” Casey explained, fidgeting with his hands nervously. “As for Big Mama, I can’t say whether or not he’s a fan of hers. He’s not big on talking about himself. He did get along well enough with you though, Leo.”

“I can’t imagine he’s cheap,” Leo scoffed. “After that last Jupiter Jim premiere I’m broke!”

“You really should get a job, Leo,” Mikey gave him a side-eye, but Leo waved him off.

“I’m sure you can work something out with him,” Casey encouraged, smiling. “Sensei always had a way of brokering a deal.”

Leo was not at all surprised to hear he was still very much the face-man in the future. But at the same time, he still wasn't used to hearing someone talk about himself like he knew more about him than his own self. It felt tangential to the whole Hamato destiny stuff, like he just had to be what they told him to.

And while a part of him wanted to resist the idea based solely on contrarianism, Casey’s bowling ball eyes were just so damn reflective. Like, Leo thought his face might explode or something if he didn’t go along with it. So he took a step back and thought it over. What was the worst that could happen?

“All right, sure. I’m sure we can check out this Synth guy on our way back from like… wherever Mikey gets his kitchen utensils from,” Leo conceded, straightening up.

Casey froze.

“We?” He sputtered, only to frantically grasp at the bits of cereal he accidentally sputtered onto his chin.

“Yes, we, this is your idea isn’t it? You, me, and Mikey,”

“Why do I have to go? You’re doing this for me!” Mikey cut in.

“You know I’m not going to get the right set if you don’t come with us,” Leo pointed out.

Mikey made a 'I wish I could say otherwise but we all know better' face.

“Leo, I… you know why I can’t go up there…” Casey stumbled, shrinking into his chair. “It’s, it’s all so open…”

In a completely necessary gesture, Leo whipped out Mikey’s ex-kitchen knife and pointed it right down Casey’s nose.

“You can’t hide down here forever kid. If this means anything to you then you’re coming with me.”

“It doesn’t,” Casey shrugged. “It’s your sword.”

“Oh come on!” Leo collapsed over on himself. “You aren’t even a little bit invested in my path to becoming the greatest ninja of all time?”

Mikey popped up next to Casey and made him jump.

“What Leo is trying to say, is that he wants you to come with him because we’re family and we should spend more time outside together. And it’ll be fun!” Mikey starting doing a little dance up at that last bit, shaking invisible maracas.

Casey looked like he was starting to regret his own idea, but eventually nodded.

“Yeah! Team Baja Blast is headed out, baby!” Mikey jumped onto the bar table and pointed at the ceiling.

“Wait a minute, you’re broke!” Mikey pointed back down at Leo. Leo looked away.

“You were gonna make ME pay for the knives that YOU ruined!”

“I didn’t say anything of that nature,” Leo scoffed. “Casey, how much money do you have?”

Casey started to pull out his wallet but Mikey stopped him.

“Oh no no no NO!” Mikey scolded the slider. “You are not putting this on him!”

“Well how am I supposed to get you your knife set huh?”

Mikey squinted one eye and jabbed it into Leo’s plastron.

“Get. A. JOB!”

-

“You his pet or somethin’?”

“I don’t get it Casey, how am I supposed to be a ninja, a student, and have a job all at the same time?” Leo whined as they walked to the Grand Nexus Hotel. Without the money to pay for his lost knives, Mikey refused to join them. Leo would have to pay him back another time.

“How should I know? I have just as much experience as you here,” Casey raised his arms helplessly. But when Leo looked over to him he was smiling wickedly.

“What with that face?” Casey knew that look all too well.

“Do you think I could make money being a ninja?” Leo asked, tipping his head to one side.

“Like a mercenary???” Casey asked, concerned.

“I was thinking more like a bounty hunter,” Leo shrugged, crossing his hands behind his head.

“And who’s paying you? I can’t see you working with the police.”

“Oooooo now there’s an idea,” Leo spun around walking backwards. “Take money from bad guys for taking out bad guys.”

Casey tried to process what Leo was saying, but Leo kept going.

“Pops and Raph would hate that though,” he shrugged, dodging between people. “Honor and all that. Man, it blows that Pops is being more stingy with money lately.”

“Sorry,” Casey lowered his head. He knew that their allowances had spread out thinner now that Casey was living with them.

“Aw shit, no man, I didn’t mean it like that,” Leo corrected himself. He sighed. “Maybe Hueso will let me work for him. Surely he’s gotten over the unicorn incident by now…” Leo started mumbling to himself, so Casey turned his attention to the city around him.

It was still intimidating, for sure, but he was starting to think the walks with Mikey had helped some. The worst part by far were the cars. He couldn’t believe that there were machines that could fly past him at the speed of Krang hounds and that was safe and normal. He had been in the Turtle Tank, sure, but it was a whole other thing to be surrounded by hundreds of them.

They came out of nowhere, stopped suddenly, and everytime he heard a horn… he was over it, man. The only thing keeping him grounded was Leo. The way he moved through the crowds so easily, the ease at which he navigated town, Casey had a hard time believing this was the same world his sensei grew up in. Surely he’d fallen into some stranger alternate universe.

“We’re here!” Leo announced, waving his hand in front of Casey’s face. He blinked. He hadn’t realized he’d spaced out.

“It’s huge!” Casey gasped. It dwarfed every other building on the block, and that was saying something.

“Duh, Big Mama doesn’t do anything that isn’t big,” Leo rolled his eyes. “Speaking of, you do have some idea of how to get to this Synth guy, right? I’m not itching to be making a deal with her.”

Casey folded his hands in front of his chin and gave an empty smile.

“You have no idea what we’re doing, do you?” Leo guessed.

“No…?” Casey lied to nobody.

Leo nodded.

“I’m starting to see some resemblances between each other,” Leo winked. “Let’s go!”

-

Casey had never been in a hotel before, but he was pretty sure they weren't usually bigger on the inside than on the out, nor did he think every bellhop could possibly look exactly the same as one another.

Thankfully, Leo walked in like he owned the place, so all Casey had to do was follow.

Leo made his way up to the front desk, where a fox yokai as desk manager stood at attention.

“Do you have a reservation, gentlemen?” he asked, barely glancing at them.

“We’re here to see Master Synth, my fuzzy friend. Does he have a minute to spare?” Leo announced, his hands on his hips as he gave a confident smile.

The fox sighed and pulled out his radio.

“Synth that turtle from the Kraken fight is back again,” he groaned. “And he’s brought a friend. Says he wants a minute.”

A voice like tin cans dragging on cement answered with a concise “Nah.”

“Nah?” Leo raised his voice.

“Nah,” said the voice again.

The desk manager put his radio away.

“Sorry about that gentlemen, he’s busy.”

“That wasn’t very professional of him! He didn’t even hear what we came here for!”

“I could redirect you to someone else if you let me know what you need,” the desk manager offered, but he was clearly hoping Leo wouldn’t take him up on the offer.

“Do you have anyone else who makes swords? Preferably ones that don’t break under mystic influence?” Leo stuck his hip out to one side.

“All of our weapons manufacturers are contractually obligated to only make weapons for the Nexus,” the fox explained. “You’ll need to take your business elsewhere.”

“A contract? Is there any way we can get him out of it?” Casey asked.

The fox laughed.

“Nobody wants out of a weapons deal with Big Mama,” he sneered. “It’s the most lucrative business in the Hidden City; and Synth’s the best there is. You can’t afford him.”

Leo pouted, and turned away from the counter.

“Fine, we’ll go look elsewhere.”

Casey turned to follow him, but with hesitation. He’d never seen Leo give up this easily. Unless…

When they’d put some distance between themselves and the front desk, Leo gave him his classic mischievous grin.

“You have an idea,” Casey smirked.

“Come on, it’s about time we do some ninja sneakin’ about.” 

-

With a little assistance from a briefly unattended laundry bin and a service elevator, the boys quickly found their way to one of the lowest basement levels of the Grand Nexus Hotel.

“You wouldn’t happen to know your way around down here, would you?” Casey asked Leo as he shifted in the bin to pull out his phone.

“I haven’t been this far down before, but I’ve never seen Synth either so I figured he had to be somewhere I haven’t been,” Leo grunted, pulling on a pair of bellhop trousers in the cramped space. As he brought them up, he elbowed Casey in the face.

“Hey, watch it! You know you could just step out of the bin and put that on.”

Leo hopped out and adjusted the bellop's hat atop his head.

“I got a map.”

“A map?” Leo said to the suspicious laundry hamper as the elevator dinged. “How’d you-?”

But the doors were opening and staff were waiting to get on.

Leo quickly pushed the bin out into the hallway, apologizing as the confused staff members scooched around him as best they could. Once the door closed, Casey poked his arm up from under the towels and pointed down the hall.

“That way, and to the left at the end of the hall.”

“Casey, did you hack your way into the Nexus servers?”

“I have my ways,” he whispered. “Trust me.”

Leo could see the faint purple glow of Casey’s phone jostling around as he pushed the cart in the way he was directed. This kid was good.

When he turned the corner, Leo saw that the hall widened out significantly, and that the usual wallpaper and decor gave way to solid stone. The lights overhead became cold white fluorescents. The bin’s wheels bumped over the rubber stop of the end of the carpet and onto worn asbestos floor tiles.

“What are we looking for?” Leo whispered.

“Third door on your right,” Casey whispered back, readjusting himself.

The doors were metal painted in chipped orange paint, and were padlocked shut. Leo guessed 8008, but the lock buzzed red.

“What are you doing?” Casey asked, hearing the noise.

“Do you have a way to unlock the door? I left my purple at home.”

Casey popped his head out and looked at the lock.

“Did you try boob?”

“Of course I did!”

Casey glanced back at his phone. “Huh, that usually works. Give me a minute…”

“WHO’S OUT THERE??”

The boys jumped, and Casey nearly fell out of the laundry bin. It was that awful grating voice from before.

“Uh… room service?” Casey answered, his voice cracking.

“I didn’ order any-” but Synth made the mistake of opening up the door for them, and Leo pushed right on by him to get inside. “-hey!”

Leo looked around the room and whistled in awe.

“Hey hey, this is a pretty sweet shop you got here Synthia, you might make my brother jealous.”

Casey hopped out of the cart and looked around too, and looked just as impressed. There were swords, spears, and all kinds of blades hanging around everywhere. From the ceiling, mounted to the walls, in barrels and crates around the edges of the room, anywhere there was room, there were sharp edges to fill the space. There were a couple workbenches in the back, an anvil, and a massive forge blazing brightly in the otherwise rather dark room.

“You’re that turtle from the front desk!” Synth growled, keeping the door open. “You need to get outta here. You're not welcome!”

He was a short, bobcat-like Yokai, with red fur and cloven feet like a goat. He was shorter than Casey, but Leo guessed he was probably a few years older than himself

At first glance he was afraid this Synth would lack experience, and Casey seemed to be appraising him too; but he appeared excited enough to see the yokai, so it seemed he was exactly the man (or teenager) Master Leonardo had praised to heaven and back for.

Leo rolled his eyes.

“Chill man, we just wanna talk.”

“Yeah, sure,” he rolled his eyes in turn. “An idiot with a kitchen knife in one of his scabbards and nothing in the other only wants to talk.”

“You can tell it’s a kitchen knife?” Leo asked, drawing the sword out.

Synth closed one eye and made a face.

“I’m not takin' commissions,” he asserted.

“Would you please reconsider?” Casey asked, folding his hands.

“Why would I?”

“Because I’m the greatest ninja the world has ever seen,” Leo smirked.

“Yeah,” Casey crossed his arms and stood next to him. “Leonardo’s the greatest swordsman alive.”

Synth’s ear twitched and looked Casey up and down.

“You his pet or somethin’?”

“Pet?!” They both repeated at the same time.

“The kid’s followin' you like a puppy.”

Leo made a face and glanced down at Casey who was standing a little close to him.

Casey inched away.

“He’s my sidekick,” Leo recovered.

“Right… well, I’m sorry, dudes, but I can’t help you with your little situation.”

“Yeah yeah, we heard it all upstairs,” Leo puppeted his free hand. “You got a contract blah blah blah. But I need swords or I can’t ninja!”

“You don’t even have anything to offer!”

“What if you taught him how to make swords?” Casey suggested.

“That’s even worse!” Synth roared. “Do you see my output? I don' have the time nor the energy to waste on teaching some idiot swinging a steak knife around!”

“Hey, this idiot has feelings,” Leo pointed out.

“Wait a minute,” Casey moved over to a stack of crates on one wall.

“Get out!” Synth growled.

Casey pulled out a sword.

“Get your hands off that! I’m calling security!”

Casey gave him a “try me” face.

“No you’re not,” he blew on the surface of the blade and a poof of dust kicked up into the air.

“You’re overstocked. You’re bored as shit.”

Synth’s ear twitched again. Leo wondered if the tic meant anything.

“You…” Synth glared but shut the door. He moved to the back of the workshop, gesturing for them to follow.

Now we were getting somewhere.

Behind his workbench and nearly out of view sat a grindstone. As he approached it whirred to life on its own, as if by magic. Well, it probably was magic. Synth grabbed the nearest blade to him, some wicked looking machete, and started grinding away at its edge.

“They’re always listenin',” he growled quietly, in a voice that was barely audible over the racket he was now making.

“Big Mama?” Casey asked, curious.

Synth nodded. “And others. I’ll be brief. Run of the Mill, 10pm.”

That was brief.

Synth watched Leo, and realized he was waiting for a response.

“Uh, yeah, sure,” he shrugged.

Synth immediately stopped the grindstone and moved to the radio on his workbench.

“Security, I have two idiots lost in the basement. Please extract.”

“Two, devishly handsome idiots,” Leo corrected.

“Devilish,” Casey corrected Leo.

“What he said.”

-

They had almost made it out of the hotel without incident, when it just so happened the crime boss herself was just stepping in through her own front door, a leather lavender clutch in one hand, and her hair tied up in a messy silver bun atop her head. By the dozens of assistants behind her, it appeared she had just returned from some kind of shopping trip.

“Oh! Look who we have here!” Big Mama strutted right up to Leo.

“It’s been a minute, turtley-boo, how was saving the world?” she peered over at him expectantly over her glasses.

“It was… great…” Leo smiled uncomfortably. “I have a son now.”

Big Mama giggled and stole a glance at Casey.

“Ah yes, I saw you on the news. A new friend of the turtles.”

“Casey, this Big Mama. Mama, this is Casey,” Leo really looked like he wanted to take a step back.

“Why so teedly tense?” Mama asked, raising her eyebrows. “I think we’re good friends now, don’t you think? I helped you save the world, you saved the world, which in turn keeps business as usual. You’re always welcome here,” she winked.

Leo didn’t appear convinced.

“So, what brings you here, turtley-boos?”

Casey flinched.

“Oh, Casey’s not a turtle,” Leo corrected her. “He’s a human.”

Mama rolled her eyes.

“Of course, dear, I only meant to be inclusive,” she gave Casey a wicked grin.

“If I had more time, I would love to get to know you, little one. We’re all family here.”

Casey swallowed nervously.

“Yeah, that sounds great.”

“Mama, we were just escorting these two off the premises,” the fox yokai had appeared at her side.

“Ah, that would explain the security,” Big Mama nodded to the musclemen behind Leo and Casey.

“Sneaking around?”

“I- we…” Casey tried to find an explanation, but Big Mama just started giggling good-naturedly.

“Don’t worry your devishily handsome faces, boys,” she assured them. “Mama has a way of finding things out. Enjoy your evening!”

And then she moved past them as if none of that had even happened.

-

“That was beyond weird!” Leo pointed out once they were safely back underground.

“What do we do now?” Casey asked. “It’s clear she knows we’re meeting with Synth this evening.”

“Wait really? How’d you figure that?”

Casey smacked himself in the forehead.

“She mispronounced devilishly just like you did and then told us to have a good time this evening! We’re supposed to meet Synth in the evening!”

"It was evening when we left, Case, I think you're being a little paranoid."

“So should we still go?” Casey asked, crossing his arms as they entered the lair.

“Why not? Are you afraid of Big Mama or something?” Leo threw himself over the back of the couch, his carapace hitting the seat cushion and his legs flopping over onto one side.

“Shouldn’t I be? She’s like, a crime boss isn’t she?”

“Nah…” Leo smirked as he flipped the tv on. “Well yeah, she is. But we can take her.”

“You sound really full of yourself, you know that right?” Casey told the slider, crashing beside him. “Didn’t you say she once trapped the entire city of New York? And she manipulated the Shredder? And she imprisoned Master Splinter for a decade?”

Leo rolled his eyes.

“Ok, you might have a point. I’ll see if Raph and Donnie wanna go with us.”

Casey jumped a bit, but thankfully Leo didn't seem to notice.

“Wait, why not Mikey?”

“He’s going to Draxum’s tonight, and… the whole knife situation.”

“BROKE-ASS NINJA!” the two of them heard Mikey shout from his room.

“Is there something wrong with inviting the others?” Leo asked, lowering his brow.

“No, it’s fine,” Casey settled back into his seat and looked at the tv. “I was just curious.”

"You've been spending a lot of time with Mikey by the way, why is that?"

"You jealous?" Casey smirked.

"What? No! I'm just observing."

"And what have you observed?" Casey kicked his legs up over Leo's. 

Leo squinted. Casey gave him a shit eating grin.

"Isn't it rude to have shoes on the couch?"

"You're right, I should take them off."

Casey promptly kicked his shoes off onto the floor and put his feet right back where they had been.

Leo's face scrunched up in horror by the pungent smell.

"That was not what I meant!" he said as he scrambled to sit up right and get away from the offending appendages. Casey couldn't help but crack up laughing as the slider made a series of dramatic and unnecessary gagging noises.

"Jeez dude, do you ever shower?"

"It's not that bad," Casey defended, crossing his legs under him. "You just don't have humans around here enough."

"April's over here all the time!"

"April doesn't count! She doesn't live here!" Casey pointed out.

"Are you saying we need more people living here?"

"No?" Casey pouted, stumped. "Whatever."

Previous Masterpost Next

Notes: Teenage boys are gross.

[maglorslostsilmaril]

5 Times the House of Finwe Fought and 1 Time They Didn’t

read on ao3 here

Looking back, Nolofinwe wasn’t surprised at how quickly their nice family dinner had gone downhill. It was one of those rare nights his elder brother would leave his room or the forge to dine with the rest of the family, and, as always, he’d tried to remain stubbornly hopeful that maybe, just this once, they could get through one meal without conflict.

Alas.

It had started out alright, at least. Feanaro had stalked into the room just as the salad plates were set upon the table, looking slightly less thunderous than normal as he took his usual spot to the right of their father. The candles along the table flickered happily, and the fire crackled in the hearth, casting a warm glow about the room. Not one scathing word was shared as the soups and salads were served and then taken back to the kitchen, only quiet conversation between his father and older brother, and Nolofinwe had felt his mood begin to rise.

Feanaro had been kind to him and his siblings when he was younger; it was only once Nolofinwe had begun to mature that he’d begun to find himself on the receiving end of his bitter words. Despite the mistreatment from Feanaro the past few years though, Nolofinwe was still eager to rebuild the relationship he’d once had with his brother. He wasn’t even sure what had changed between them, to be honest.

At that time, the main meal was brought out. Roasted pheasant, potatoes and greens, Arafinwe’s favorite. Across the table, his little brother clapped happily when he saw the food placed in front of him, already portioned by the chef so that his small, clumsy hands would not have to handle a knife. Out of the corner of his eye, Nolofinwe thought he saw Feanaro smile fondly at their little brother’s excitement, but the expression was gone so fast he wasn’t sure whether it was just wishful thinking.

“So, Curufinwe, I’ve heard that you plan to travel to Mahtan’s halls when you come of age in the next years?” Indis said politely a few moments later. Nolofinwe paused momentarily, and he felt his sisters do the same. It always came down to something small, whether or not their dinners would end in disaster. Finwe gave his eldest a warning look, but to Nolofinwe’s surprise, Feanaro did not seem inclined at all to send a scathing remark back at his stepmother. In fact, it almost seemed like the constant dark look on his face brightened slightly.

“I do.” He replied. There was a hint of pride in his voice, and the beginnings of a smile on his face, a rare occurrence in the presence of his stepmother. Findis visibly relaxed from where she sat between Nolofinwe and Feanaro, blonde curls bouncing merrily. “I’ve become, ah, acquainted with his daughter Nerdanel; she assures me that I would feel most welcome there.”

“Well, that’s just wonderful.” Indis smiled. Nolofinwe was shocked to see Feanaro nearly smile back at her. Maybe this family dinner would end alright after all.

“I agree!” Finwe said, beaming with pride. Whether it was for his eldest’s accomplishments or his lack of biting words towards his wife, Nolofinwe couldn’t tell. “In fact, Feanaro, I truly think-”

There was a sharp hiss of pain when Finwe reached out to lay a hand on his eldest son’s forearm, and their father frowned and recoiled immediately. “Naro, are you alright?”

“Fine,” his brother gritted out, face darkening once more. “Merely a burn from the forge.”

“Are you sure?” Nolofinwe’s mother asked worriedly, making to stand from her seat at Finwe’s left. “A burn is not an injury to take lightly. Surely we could find someone to rebandage-”

“I said it’s fine!” Feanaro snapped, pushing away from his seat. The chair toppled to the floor behind him with a loud crash. His sisters stiffened, and little Arafinwe’s lower lip wobbled dangerously.

“Naro, please,” Finwe pleaded, an anxious look on his face. Feanaro’s face only grew stormier as he clutched his injured forearm to his chest. “She was just trying to-”

“I don’t care what she wants!” his older brother exclaimed. “I said it’s fine, do you not trust me? I don’t need her trying to mother me! I already have one, in case you’ve forgotten!” Findis winced beside him, and Nolofinwe felt himself to do the same. It always came down to that, didn’t it? No matter what his mother tried, his half-brother would never see her as anything but a mal-intended replacement for Miriel.

“That’s not very nice!” Irime piped up from across the table. She was growing bolder every day, and Nolofinwe was proud of her for that, but it appeared self-preservation was not accompanying it. No, Feanaro would never hurt one of his siblings. He just feared that Lalwen would lose her love for him should she never see any side of him but his fierce, unrelenting anger. Miriel had named her son well.

Thankfully, Feanaro said nothing, only stalking out of the hall. His footsteps echoed through the hallways as the rest of the family sat in uncomfortable silence.

Later, Nolofinwe walked past his brother’s room on the way to his own, only to find Feanaro’s door cracked and his father’s voice coming from inside. Curiosity overtook him. He paused on the other side of the door and stood as still as he could, trying not to breathe.

“You know that it’s cruel to treat your stepmother in such a way, do you not, Naro?” His father said. Nolofinwe could almost picture him seated next to Feanaro on his brother’s bed, arm wrapped across his shoulders.

“Yes, Atar,” Feanaro mumbled back. His voice sounded strangely wet, like he’d been crying. “You won’t believe me if I say I’ve been trying. I just get so angry and not even at her. It’s just that every time I see her I’m reminded of what I don’t have. Her and the rest of them are just reminders that Amme isn’t coming back. I can’t get close to them. Not when they’re only here because Amme isn’t.”

Nolofinwe huffed, stepping away from the door and continuing down the hallway. If that was how Feanaro felt, then fine. He’d stop trying to win the love and approval of one who refused to even think about giving it to him. Tears pricked at his eyes, but he scrubbed them away. His older brother wasn’t worth this sorrow.

[jayger1]

Discover Premium Damascus Knives in the UK with the Perfect Meat Cleaver Knife

If you’re passionate about cooking or a professional chef, having the right tools can make all the difference. One of the most coveted tools in any kitchen is the Damascus knife, known for its strength, sharpness, and unique design. In the UK, there’s a growing demand for these knives, especially among home cooks, culinary students, and gourmet chefs alike. A standout in this category is the meat cleaver knife, ideal for heavy-duty cutting tasks. Whether you’re slicing through thick meat or cutting bones, a well-crafted cleaver made from Damascus steel will transform your food preparation experience.

Why Damascus Knives Are Gaining Popularity in the UK

Damascus steel has a long and rich history dating back centuries. Originally developed in the Middle East, this steel became legendary for its durability, razor-sharp edge, and the beautiful wave-like patterns across the blade. Today, Damascus knives in the UK are becoming more popular as people seek quality over quantity in their kitchen tools.

These knives are not only functional but also a piece of art. The intricate patterns on the blade are formed by folding and forging multiple layers of steel together, resulting in unmatched toughness and corrosion resistance. For those in the UK who value both performance and aesthetics in the kitchen, Damascus knives offer the perfect blend.

The Importance of a High-Quality Meat Cleaver Knife

While there are many knives in a kitchen’s arsenal, the meat cleaver knife plays a special role. Unlike chef’s knives or paring knives, cleavers are designed to handle the toughest cutting jobs. They are thick, heavy, and built to slice through joints, bones, and large cuts of meat with ease.

When crafted from Damascus steel, a meat cleaver becomes an incredibly powerful tool. The added strength of Damascus steel ensures that the cleaver maintains its sharpness for longer, making it easier to perform demanding tasks without repeated sharpening. For anyone in the UK looking to upgrade their kitchen equipment, combining a Damascus blade with a cleaver’s utility is a smart choice.

Features That Make Damascus Meat Cleavers Stand Out

Damascus meat cleavers offer several features that set them apart from standard cleavers:

Superior Edge Retention Thanks to the layered construction of Damascus steel, these cleavers hold their edge longer than most. This means fewer sharpening sessions and more efficient chopping. Unique Aesthetic Appeal Each Damascus blade has a one-of-a-kind pattern, making it visually striking. If you enjoy showing off your tools during meal prep or simply appreciate beauty in design, a Damascus cleaver will not disappoint. Corrosion and Wear Resistance With a high carbon content and expert forging techniques, Damascus steel resists rust and wear, even with frequent use. Comfortable Grip and Balance Many Damascus meat cleavers in the UK are ergonomically designed with comfortable handles made from wood, resin, or micarta. This ensures a solid grip, even during long prep sessions. Multipurpose Use Though primarily used for meat, a Damascus cleaver can also chop vegetables, slice through thick-skinned fruits, and crush garlic or spices with the flat side.

Where to Find Damascus Knives and Meat Cleavers in the UK

There are several reputable suppliers and online stores in the UK that specialise in Damascus knives. Whether you're purchasing for personal use or as a gift for a food enthusiast, it's important to choose a trusted source that offers genuine products.

When buying a Damascus meat cleaver knife, consider the following:

Blade composition: Look for high-carbon Damascus steel for best results. Handle design: Choose a handle that feels secure and fits comfortably in your hand. Blade thickness and weight: Ensure the cleaver has enough weight to tackle tough meats but is not too heavy to control easily. Return and warranty policies: Reputable sellers in the UK often provide warranties or satisfaction guarantees.

Caring for Your Damascus Knife and Cleaver

To preserve the performance and beauty of your Damascus knife, proper care is essential. Here are some quick tips:

Conclusion

If you’re serious about your cooking, investing in a high-quality knife is not a luxury—it’s a necessity. The Damascus knives UK market is thriving, offering an array of beautifully crafted blades that combine art and functionality. And if you’re looking for strength, durability, and power in your kitchen tasks, a meat cleaver knife made of Damascus steel is an exceptional choice.

Whether you’re dicing, chopping, or breaking down large cuts of meat, these knives are designed to make your life easier and your cooking more enjoyable. Explore the selection of Damascus knives in the UK today and experience the unmatched performance of a superior meat cleaver knife for yourself.

[kentmasters]

Top Knives for Butchers and Chefs in Australia

In any professional kitchen or butcher's station, the importance of high-quality knives cannot be overstated. A reliable knife enhances precision, reduces fatigue, and ensures safety during long hours of cutting, slicing, and trimming. Across the country, culinary experts and meat professionals rely heavily on tools crafted for performance and durability. Among them, the Best Butcher Knives Australia has to offer have carved a niche for themselves in the food industry.

Understanding the Role of Butcher Knives

Butcher knives are designed specifically for breaking down large cuts of meat. These tools need to be strong, sharp, and balanced to handle everything from slicing beef brisket to trimming fat. In Australia’s meat industry, which is known for its high standards and quality output, using top-tier butcher knives is not a luxury but a necessity. The Best Butcher Knives Australia are made with superior materials like high-carbon stainless steel and feature ergonomic handles that support hours of intense work.

Local butchers and meat processors often prefer knives that not only last long but can also be sharpened repeatedly without losing their edge. The design and craftsmanship behind these knives aim to support heavy-duty use while maintaining a comfortable grip and effective control. Whether it's for professional abattoirs or smaller artisanal butcher shops, a well-forged butcher knife makes all the difference in product quality and worker efficiency.

Why Professional Chefs Trust Quality Knives

When it comes to kitchens, the requirements shift slightly. While butchers need strength, chefs seek versatility, balance, and finesse. The market for Professional Chef Knives has grown tremendously as more culinary experts prioritize tools that match their skills. In Australia’s competitive culinary scene, chefs from Melbourne to Perth are investing in precision-engineered blades to deliver world-class food preparation.

Professional chef knives come in many forms—chef’s knives, santoku, boning knives, and more. What they all have in common is the demand for reliability. A chef needs a knife that feels like an extension of their hand. Whether finely dicing herbs, julienning vegetables, or filleting fish, the knife’s sharpness, weight, and balance must work together seamlessly. The best brands focus on these elements, resulting in tools that allow chefs to maintain rhythm and consistency during peak hours of service.

Choosing the Right Knife for the Right Task

One of the biggest mistakes both amateurs and some professionals make is using the wrong type of knife for a task. Butcher knives and chef knives are crafted with different purposes in mind, and using them interchangeably can damage the knife and compromise safety. For example, using a chef’s knife to split bone-in meat may ruin the blade, while using a butcher knife for intricate vegetable work could result in a lack of precision.

Understanding these distinctions and investing in task-specific knives not only protects the investment but also enhances kitchen productivity. This is why businesses and culinary institutions in Australia often consult with professionals before purchasing knife sets. Both Best Butcher Knives Australia and Professional Chef Knives offer performance advantages when chosen correctly based on individual or business needs.

Maintenance and Longevity of Professional Knives

Regardless of how good a knife is, its longevity depends on proper care. Sharpening, cleaning, and storage are key to maintaining the sharp edge and overall quality of a knife. Many Australian chefs and butchers are trained in basic knife maintenance as part of their culinary education or trade training. Regular honing, periodic sharpening, and correct washing methods significantly extend the lifespan of both butcher and chef knives.

Premium knives often come with specific guidelines for maintenance. Following these ensures that the knives retain their edge and remain safe for use over time. Investing in a good knife is only half the equation; maintaining it well completes the process.

In conclusion, whether you're a professional chef preparing gourmet dishes or a butcher processing prime meat, investing in the Best Butcher Knives Australia and Professional Chef Knives will undoubtedly enhance your craft. 

[noeltusing]

Precision in the Kitchen: The Power of a Western Kitchen Knife

When it comes to mastering culinary tasks, having the right tools is just as important as the skills you bring to the table. Among the most essential instruments for any chef or home cook is the Western kitchen knife. With its sturdy construction, multipurpose capabilities, and iconic design, this knife has become a staple in kitchens around the world. 

The Heritage of the Western Kitchen Knife 

The Western kitchen knife originates from European culinary traditions, primarily French and German craftsmanship. Known for their durability and functionality, Western knives are designed to handle a variety of tasks, from chopping vegetables to slicing through thick cuts of meat. 

Built for Strength and Endurance 

Unlike Eastern blades, which are typically thinner and sharper, the Western kitchen knife is heavier, thicker, and forged to endure rigorous use. Many Western knives are crafted from high-carbon stainless steel, ensuring resistance to corrosion and wear over time. 

Key Features That Define a Western Kitchen Knife 

The Blade 

A hallmark of the Western kitchen knife is its curved blade, which allows for a rocking motion during cutting. This is ideal for repetitive slicing and chopping, especially with herbs, onions, and larger vegetables. The blade is often double-beveled, offering symmetrical edge geometry that makes it accessible for both right- and left-handed users. 

The Handle 

Ergonomically designed for comfort and safety, the handles of Western knives are typically made from wood, plastic, or composite materials. Full-tang construction — where the blade runs through the entire handle — adds stability and control, reducing the risk of accidents. 

Versatility 

A chef’s knife, paring knife, and utility knife are just a few examples within the Western kitchen knife family. These tools are designed to handle a variety of tasks, making them invaluable in both professional and home kitchens. 

Why Choose a Western Kitchen Knife? 

Durable and Long-Lasting 

The thickness and strength of the steel used in a Western kitchen knife make it a go-to choice for tough kitchen jobs. From carving a roast to breaking down poultry, these knives won’t let you down. 

Easy to Maintain 

Unlike some delicate Eastern blades, Western knives are easier to sharpen with conventional honing rods or whetstones. Their edge retention is excellent, especially when used with a proper cutting surface. 

Perfect for Western Cooking Techniques 

Because of their robust design, Western kitchen knives are better suited for Western-style cuisine, which often involves working with dense vegetables, firm meats, and hearty preparations that require more force and control. 

Choosing the Right Western Kitchen Knife for Your Needs 

If you're just starting out, investing in a high-quality 8-inch chef’s knife is a great first step. For more detailed tasks, a paring knife complements the set perfectly. Those handling meats frequently should also consider a boning or carving knife. 

Make sure to look for: 

High-carbon stainless steel 

Full-tang construction 

Non-slip, ergonomic handle 

A brand with a strong reputation for quality 

Conclusion 

The Western kitchen knife remains a cornerstone in kitchens across the globe due to its strength, reliability, and versatility. Whether you're prepping vegetables for a salad or slicing into a roast dinner, this knife offers control and confidence in every cut. By understanding its features and proper use, you not only improve your culinary performance but also add a touch of professional-grade precision to your home kitchen. 

For anyone serious about cooking, owning a reliable Western kitchen knife isn't just a recommendation — it's a necessity. 

[luigetretty]

What Should You Consider When Seeing a Sale on Kitchen Knife Sets?

When you hear about a kitchen knife set sale, it's easy to get excited. But don’t just grab any deal—look for a set that’s comfortable, durable, affordable, and high-quality. 

A good kitchen knife set should feel right in your hand, last long, and make cooking effortless. Choose wisely for a better kitchen experience!

How to Get a Right Knife Set for Your Kitchen?

A set of kitchen knives for sale is a fantastic opportunity to update your kitchenware at a reasonable cost. However, choosing the right set requires careful consideration to ensure quality and durability.

Guaranteed Quality and Durability

A knife set from a kitchen knives set sale should last for years. Look for sets made from stainless steel or high-carbon steel, as they resist rust and maintain sharpness. 

High-quality knives stay sharper longer, reducing the need for frequent sharpening and ensuring smooth, precise cuts.

Forged knives are stronger and more durable than stamped knives, making them a better investment. 

“In the material segment, stainless steel is the most popular material in kitchen knives as it is durable, corrosion-resistant, and easy to clean,” said Data Intelo.

Affordable Prices Without Compromising Quality

While affordability is important, the cheapest option is not always the best. A well-balanced kitchen knife set with strong blades and sturdy handles is a better long-term investment than a flimsy set that requires frequent replacement.

Look for value rather than just a low price. Many trusted brands offer reasonably priced knife sets with excellent performance. 

“After the pandemic, there is a rise in popularity of in-house cooking, as a result of which there is a surge in demand for high-tier kitchen tools like kitchen knives,” said Data Bridge Market Research. 

Comfortable Grip and Easy Handling

A knife should feel comfortable in your hand, providing a firm, non-slip grip. Take into account handle materials like metal, plastic, or wood when perusing a kitchen knife set sale. Wooden handles look elegant but need more care, while plastic handles are lightweight and easy to maintain. 

“Purchasing knives that are comfortable in hand is necessary; according to data, kitchen knife mishandling contributes to 350,000 kitchen injuries, in addition to burns and broken glass,” said Midwest Orthopaedics at Rush.

Metal handles can become slippery, but they are very durable. Additionally, for improved control and to lessen hand fatigue, other kinds need ergonomic, balanced handles. This improves your cooking experience by making slicing and cutting simple.

Variety of Options to Suit Your Needs

A well-rounded kitchen knife set should include:

Chef’s knife—ideal for chopping, slicing, and dicing.

Paring knife—Great for peeling and intricate cuts.

Serrated knife—perfect for slicing bread and soft foods.

Utility knife—A versatile knife for multiple tasks.

Boning or fillet knife—designed for handling meat and fish.

For example, Cookit provides a variety of options in every segment.

Make sure the kitchen knives set sale includes knives suited to your cooking style. Avoid purchasing sets with unnecessary knives, as they only take up space.

Sharpness and Edge Retention

Getting sharp knives from a kitchen knives set sale makes cooking easier and safer. A high-quality kitchen knife set should maintain its sharpness for an extended period. High-carbon steel knives tend to hold their edge longer than standard stainless steel knives.

Some sets include a sharpening tool, which helps maintain blade sharpness. If you prefer low-maintenance knives, opt for a set known for excellent edge retention. 

A dull knife requires more force, increasing the risk of accidents, so sharpness should be a top priority.

“154 carbon martensitic stainless steels have superior capability in sharpness retention,” said MDPI.

Easy Maintenance and Cleaning

Knives that require excessive maintenance can be inconvenient. Stainless steel blades are easier to clean and resist rust, making them a popular choice. Some kitchen knife sets are dishwasher-safe, but hand-washing is often recommended to prolong blade life.

Avoid knives with coatings that wear off over time. Proper care, such as drying knives immediately after washing, helps prevent rust and corrosion, ensuring long-lasting performance.

Storage and Safety

A well-organized kitchen knife set keeps your kitchen tidy and safe. Many sets come with a wooden block, magnetic strip, or protective sheaths to store knives properly. Proper storage prevents accidents and helps maintain the sharpness of the blades.

Leaving knives loose in a drawer can damage them and pose a safety hazard. Choose a set that includes a storage solution suited to your kitchen space and needs.

Peace of Mind with Every Purchase

A reliable kitchen knives set sale should include a return policy, warranty, or satisfaction guarantee. This ensures that if anything goes wrong, you can get a replacement or refund. Some brands even offer lifetime warranties, reflecting their confidence in the durability of their knives.

“According to a survey in 2022, around 60% of consumers said that transparency is an important feature of a brand,” said Statista.

Always read the fine print on warranties and return policies. Buying from a trusted retailer provides additional peace of mind and customer support if needed.

“Around 70% of US consumers look for those brands with consistent consumer service,” said Forbes. 

Next time you see kitchen knives set on sale, keep these things in mind.

To Wrap Things Up

Kitchen knives on sale are the perfect chance to upgrade your kitchen with high-quality tools at affordable prices. At Jordan Kitchen Supply, they make online shopping easy with our customer-friendly service and hassle-free experience. 

No complicated steps—just great knives, great deals, and great support. Whether you're a beginner or a seasoned chef, we’ve got you covered with the best value and care. Looking for kitchen knives set for sale? Visit now!

[delicioustriumphsweets]

The Damascus Kitchen Knife Revolution: Transform Your Cooking Experience in 2024 

In the world of culinary artistry, the tools you use can make all the difference. One such tool that has taken kitchens by storm is the Damascus kitchen knife. Renowned for its incredible sharpness, durability, and striking appearance, these knives have become the go-to for both home cooks and professional chefs.  

The Damascus Kitchen Knife: A Revolution in Cooking 

The Damascus kitchen knife is much more than a typical blade. It combines ancient techniques with modern innovation, creating a tool that offers both functionality and aesthetics. In 2024, more home chefs will turn to these knives to enhance their cooking experience and efficiency in the kitchen. 

What Sets Damascus Kitchen Knives Apart? 

Damascus knives are unique because of their signature wavy patterns, a result of layering and folding different types of steel. But their appeal goes far beyond looks: 

Unmatched Sharpness – The intricate layering of steel allows for an incredibly sharp edge that stays sharper for longer compared to conventional knives. 

Superior Durability – The combination of metals creates a strong, resilient blade that can withstand heavy use without losing its edge. 

Perfect Balance – The ergonomic design of Damascus knives ensures a well-balanced blade that feels comfortable in the hand, reducing strain during long cooking sessions. 

The Art and Craftsmanship of Damascus Blades 

One of the reasons Damascus kitchen knives stand out is due to their intricate manufacturing process. Skilled artisans layer and fold different types of steel to create distinctive wavy patterns. This technique, passed down through generations, results in blades that are not only functional but also works of art. The attention to detail in forging these knives means every blade is unique, offering a personalized experience for every cook. 

How Damascus Kitchen Knives Can Transform Your Cooking in 2024 

As more home cooks and professionals invest in quality tools, Damascus kitchen knives are becoming an essential part of the modern kitchen arsenal. Here’s how they can enhance your cooking experience: 

Precision Cutting – Whether slicing vegetables, carving meat, or filleting fish, the razor-sharp edge of a Damascus knife provides unparalleled precision. You'll notice the difference in the consistency of your cuts, which translates to more evenly cooked meals. 

Enhanced Safety – With a sharper blade, you’ll apply less pressure when cutting, reducing the chances of slipping and accidental injuries. 

Long-Lasting Performance – Unlike cheaper alternatives, a well-maintained Damascus knife can serve you for years, making it a worthwhile investment for serious cooks. 

Caring for Your Damascus Knife: Tips for Longevity 

To ensure your Damascus kitchen knife stays in top condition, proper care is essential. Here are a few tips to extend its lifespan: 

Handwash Only: Avoid putting your knife in the dishwasher, as harsh detergents and heat can damage the blade. 

Regular Sharpening: Use a whetstone or professional sharpening service to maintain the blade’s sharpness. 

Proper Storage: Store your knife in a protective sheath or knife block to prevent damage to the blade. 

Conclusion 

The Damascus kitchen knife revolution is well underway, and 2024 is the perfect time to join in. With its unbeatable combination of sharpness, durability, and beauty, a Damascus knife can truly transform your cooking experience. Whether you're a seasoned chef or a passionate home cook, investing in one of these knives will not only enhance your kitchen’s functionality but also bring a touch of elegance to your culinary creations. 

[kdhome]

Elevate Your Culinary Space: The Allure of Luxury Kitchenware and Supplies

In the world of modern homes, the kitchen is more than just a place to prepare meals. It has become a hub for socializing, creativity, and personal expression. And just as interior design plays a role in shaping a home’s overall aesthetic, the quality and design of the kitchenware you use can significantly impact both function and style. Enter luxury kitchenware and luxury kitchen supplies — where craftsmanship, innovation, and design converge to transform your kitchen into a high-end culinary haven.

Why Choose Luxury Kitchenware?

When it comes to selecting items for your kitchen, luxury kitchenware offers unparalleled advantages. From precision-engineered tools to artisanal tableware, these products go beyond basic functionality to enhance the entire cooking experience. Here’s why you should consider investing in high-end kitchen supplies:

Superior Craftsmanship and Quality Materials

Luxury kitchenware is made with premium materials like high-grade stainless steel, copper, or even hand-forged ceramics. These materials ensure durability and often come with extended warranties or lifetime guarantees. With luxury kitchen supplies, you don’t just buy an item, you invest in quality that will last for years, if not decades.

Enhanced Performance

Whether it's a chef’s knife that cuts through produce like butter or a set of pots and pans with unparalleled heat distribution, luxury kitchenware is designed for optimal performance. These tools are crafted with precision, ensuring that your cooking process is smoother, faster, and more enjoyable.

Aesthetically Pleasing Design

One of the biggest draws of luxury kitchen supplies is the attention to design. These items are not just functional; they also act as statement pieces in your kitchen. Imagine sleek, polished cookware hanging from a suspended rack, or artisan-made serving bowls as a centerpiece on your dining table. Luxury kitchenware is designed to enhance the beauty of your home while being incredibly practical.

Key Pieces of Luxury Kitchenware to Elevate Your Space

Now that we understand the benefits of luxury kitchenware, let’s explore the must-have items that every high-end kitchen should have. Whether you're an aspiring home chef or just someone who enjoys hosting, these luxury kitchen supplies will take your culinary space to the next level.

High-Quality Chef’s Knife

No kitchen is complete without a high-quality chef’s knife. A staple in any professional or home kitchen, this tool is an absolute necessity for prepping meats, vegetables, and more. Luxury knives, such as those made from Damascus steel or carbon steel, are renowned for their sharpness, balance, and longevity. Brands like Shun or Wüsthof create chef’s knives that not only cut flawlessly but also offer an ergonomic design to prevent strain during long cooking sessions.

Copper Cookware

When it comes to luxury kitchenware, copper cookware is often the first thing that comes to mind. Known for its superior heat conductivity, copper pots and pans are a favorite among professional chefs. They heat up quickly and evenly, providing better control over the cooking process. Brands like Mauviel offer hand-crafted copper cookware that is not only functional but also exudes timeless elegance.

Custom-Designed Cutting Boards

A cutting board may seem like a basic kitchen item, but luxury kitchenware brands have redefined it. Handcrafted from exotic woods like teak or walnut, these cutting boards are durable and can double as a beautiful serving platter. Brands like Boos Block provide custom-designed cutting boards that are not only functional but also stylish.

Designer Dinnerware

When entertaining guests, your dinnerware can set the tone for the entire evening. Luxury kitchen supplies include designer dinnerware sets made from bone china, porcelain, or hand-painted ceramics. High-end brands like Hermès and Wedgwood offer timeless designs that elevate the dining experience. With delicate patterns and premium materials, these pieces are both practical and decorative.

Professional Stand Mixer

For baking enthusiasts, a professional-grade stand mixer is a game-changer. KitchenAid’s Artisan series, for instance, offers a range of colors and finishes to suit your kitchen’s design while providing powerful mixing capabilities for dough, batter, and more. Investing in a stand mixer from a luxury brand ensures longevity and top-notch performance.

The Importance of Luxury Kitchen Supplies for Entertaining

If you love to entertain, luxury kitchen supplies can help elevate your hosting experience. From chic barware for cocktail hours to elegant serving trays for canapés, these items turn an ordinary gathering into a sophisticated affair.

Elegant Serveware

Luxury kitchenware brands often offer unique, hand-crafted serveware that adds a touch of elegance to your meals. From silver-plated trays to hand-thrown ceramic platters, these pieces are designed to impress. Whether you’re serving hors d’oeuvres or a multi-course dinner, luxury serveware will enhance your presentation.

Artisan Barware

For the cocktail connoisseur, artisan barware is a must. Luxury bar sets come with everything you need to craft the perfect drink, from gold-plated shakers to hand-cut crystal glasses. Renowned brands like Waterford create glassware that reflects light beautifully, ensuring that every sip feels like an indulgence.

Premium Coffee and Tea Accessories

No kitchen is complete without the tools to make the perfect cup of coffee or tea. Luxury kitchen supplies include high-end espresso machines, tea sets made from fine bone china, and artisanal coffee grinders. Brands like Smeg and La Pavoni offer retro-inspired designs that combine function with style, making your morning coffee ritual an elegant experience.

Sustainability in Luxury Kitchenware

Luxury kitchen supplies aren’t just about aesthetics and performance; many high-end brands also focus on sustainability. From eco-friendly packaging to the use of responsibly sourced materials, luxury kitchenware often comes with an emphasis on environmental impact.

Reusable Storage Solutions

Gone are the days of single-use plastic wrap and bags. Many luxury kitchenware brands now offer reusable silicone or beeswax wraps, as well as glass containers with bamboo lids. Not only do these products reduce waste, but they also add a touch of class to your kitchen organization.

Ethically Sourced Materials

Sustainability is increasingly becoming a priority in the luxury kitchenware market. Many companies, such as Le Creuset, focus on ethical sourcing and responsible manufacturing processes. When you invest in luxury kitchen supplies, you’re often supporting brands that care about the environment.

Conclusion

Investing in luxury kitchenware and luxury kitchen supplies is not just about owning aesthetically pleasing items — it’s about enhancing your entire culinary experience. With superior craftsmanship, exceptional performance, and beautiful design, luxury kitchenware transforms your kitchen into a space where creativity and efficiency thrive.

From artisan cutting boards to copper cookware, these high-end products are designed to last and elevate both your cooking and entertaining experiences. By focusing on quality and functionality, luxury kitchen supplies offer more than just everyday use; they become a part of your kitchen's identity and your lifestyle. Whether you are a seasoned chef or a casual home cook, luxury kitchenware brings both joy and refinement to the heart of your home.