#it's an ache in his bones instead of a knife in his throat

[peachybutch]

My personal signature in a piece, any piece, is a character that has to come to terms with the fact that things aren't automatically good after they leave their shitty circumstance. Things aren't perfect. They still struggle to fall asleep, still wake up crying. They still ache, deep down in their bones, and it will probably never go away, not really. They wake up on the morning after the war is over, and they look out over the battlefield, and their life is still destroyed.

But it is better. It's better than it was before. And it's not perfect. It's not even good most days. But it is better, and better is enough.

[htchnr]

♰ dyin' for a taste ༻ C. HOWARD.*ೃ˚

➻ masterlist. ➻ buy me a coffee!

CW ➻ unprotected sex ⋆ rough sex ⋆ creampie ⋆ knife kink ⋆ cutting ⋆ blood kink ⋆ blood consumption ⋆ slight overstimulation ⋆ Cooper might wanna eat you whole ⋆ if i missed anything, lmk!

SUMMARY ➻ you two stay in a hotelroom to get some good shut eye, but instead you find yourselves finally working through the heavy tension the only way you know how to. WC ➻ 1K~.

© 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒 𝐇𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐍𝐑. 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲, 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦, 𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫!

"oh fuck-" you moaned, eyes rolling back as he plowed into you relentlessly. the cold metal of the sharp knife pressed to your throat and the cold counter you were seated on only adding to the pleasure somehow.

you tilted your head up a little, almost subconsciously trying to get away from the knife— despite knowing he wouldn't harm you with it. he wouldn't, would he?

the way his half lidded eyes are fixed on the knife against your throat, you weren't entirely sure. but the way his cock was slamming into you blurred any fear you had— you felt like you could die fine like this, with his cock bullying your insides, and a rough hand holding your waist bruisingly.

"come on darl'," he rasped against your ear. "bet your blood tastes as sweet as your lips." he grins sickly, his yellow teeth on full display.

his voice almost makes you want to give in— lean into the knife as he slits your throat, fucking you into hell as he laps at the fountain of blood— the way he's fucking you almost has you dreaming for it to happen.

your back arches as his aching head brushes against your cervix, throat pressing ever more into the knife. a whimper leaves your lips as you feel the knife ever so slightly slice your skin. blood almost immediately starts to slowly drip down, his eyes practically lighting up at the sight.

"would you look at that, want me to taste you that bad sweetheart?" he groans, his pace faltering slightly.

you whimpered, clenching around him erratically— you didn't want to be this turned on, but my god did you want to give him anything he'd ask for.

you nodded, the knife only digging into the small wound more, more blood dripping from it and dripping onto your breasts. he has never seen a more beautiful sight than that.

he groans, eyes still glued to the wound, reluctantly pulling the bloodied knife from your throat, dropping it beside you as his now free hand grabs the back of your neck, pulling you in closer by it. you let out a high pitched moan as his pace slows down and gets deeper.

you're almost embarrassed by the sound that escapes you when his radiation thinned lips attached to your chest, sucking up the the spilled blood. you're almost even more embarrassed of how much the moan he lets out turns you on— the sound so pleasured, as if he's just tasted the best thing in existence.

"if only you could taste yourself darl', sweet 'n rich. you might be my new favourite flavour." he moans against your chest, tongue lapping up the small stream of blood all the way up your throat until he reaches the source.

you didn't even see your climax coming until it hit you— the sensation of his cock rearranging your guts and his almost none existent lips painfully sucking on the wound like his life depends on it have you crashing over the edge so violently you almost see stars.

"that's it darlin', mm that's it." he coaxes in a groan, hips stuttering from the way you're pulsing around him.

he's not far behind— the way your walls are suffocating him and the way your blood drips down his throat has him fucking into you in a frenzied state. hip bones thudding into yours in a dull, almost pleasurable pain.

"i wish i could taste you all day, suffocate in your sickly sweet taste, drown in it." he rasped against your throat, his voice strained as he plows into you.

"please Cooper," you cry, thighs trembling and your head feeling light headed. "please please please," you didn't even know what you were pleading for at this point— your head swimming with pleasure and overstimulation as tears rolled down your cheeks and joined the blood on your chest.

"aw, look at my darlin' cryin' so sweetly for me," he groaned, thin bloody lips kissing the tears away— leaving bloody lip stains across your skin. if only you could see yourself like this— bloody lips all over your cheeks like a sick painting.

his hips stuttered and you knew he was close. your fingers digging into his scarred biceps as he his pace sped up, pathetic whimpers and cries leaving you as you shook against him— clinging on to him.

"gonna fill you up, fuck i might suck you dry while i'm at it my sweet sugar." he lapped at your throat, his hips stuttering before they come to a halt— slamming into you for the final time as he cums.

his thin lips wrapped around the wound as he paints your walls white with his cum, slowly fucking it into you as he laps up the blood around his lips as he savors it.

he pulls away from your throat and you fall over into his arms, head laying on his shoulder as you both try to catch your breath. he holds you against him, savouring the blood on his teeth as he breathes in and out deeply.

the hotelroom is almost entirely silent besides the sound of heavy breathing, you've collapsed almost entirely against him, panting and fighting the slight lightheaded feeling.

after some time he pulls you off him, holding your face. "darlin'?" he asks, angling your face to look at him. "we doin' okay?" you blinked slowly, sluggishly nodding. he leans in, pressing his mouth to yours. you tiredly moan at the coppery taste invading your senses as his tongue swirls around yours.

he pulls away, thumb rubbing circles into your cheek. "let's get cleaned up, yeah?" you nod, your head swimming as you're trying to focus on him.

he snakes an arm around your waist, the other resting under your ass when he picks you up— walking over to wnat looked like a bathroom with some rags for towels still hanging around, your blood smearing across his thickly scarred chest in a way he hopes to never forget.

TAGLIST : @live-logs-and-proper @looonytooons @seeingstarks @thewastelandwriter @lacey-mercylercy @marina-and-the-memes @p4rsuade @anonymous-creep @likoplays

[milksuu]

❝ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 ❞ ─── ☾⏺☽

phase O.1 // phase O.2

pairing: yandere!aphelios x solari!priestess!reader (LoL)

tw: non/con, fem!reader, oral sex (f. receiving), possessive/obsessive behavior, somnophilia, object insertion, blood/violence, unhealthy coping mechanisms, kidnapping/imprisonment, implied forced relationship, unbalanced power dynamic, enemies to lovers vibe

notes: here it is besties. thank you all for being so patient with me. and thank you to all the lovelies who've commented/msgd me asking about it and wanting more. im just so glad to share my unhinged obsessions. i do have plans to make a third part, but again, could be a bit. so sorry ahhh.

You hadn’t realized you were stolen to sleep. Sobbing yourself into the veiled shadows of your mind in the arms of something—someone—so haunting. A damning surrender on your part. It was a miracle you had the pleasure of opening your eyes. When the moon crawler could have offered you death instead.

When your lashes winged wholly, the haze of a night-dark bedroom washed your sight. You breathed in your surroundings. The linen bed sheets beneath your fingertips, a worktable littered with dried herbs and vials, and a vaulted chest for storing valuables. A simple room one would toss a coin for a night at a common tavern. 

With effort, you pulled yourself to your knees. The weight of clothes shifted against your body. Looking down, you pinched the fabric of a clean gown. And when a hair strand fell to your cheek, you caught the faintest scent of lavender and nightshade. Drifting your attention lower, a mild soreness welled between your legs, accounting for last night's debauchery. A reminder of an ache you could never wash away, no matter how much you scrubbed yourself raw. But even scrapping your skin till you bled from bone seemed a better feeling than this.

That thought alone made you pause in your observations and consider the only details that mattered.

Where were you and...

Where was he?

You crawled over to the side of the bed. Pressing your feet against the ground, something like cold iron grazed them. You reached through the dark and secured a dulled paring knife. Your gaze studied an apple not too far away, half peeled from the skin of its flesh. Dropped mid-serving, for whatever the reason was. Knife in hand, you tiptoed to the bedroom door and tried to pry it open. It shuddered against your touch—locked. It seemed the only way to escape was by key, and to your misfortune, you didn’t have to guess who had it in strict keeping.

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

A brush of cold licked across your nape. Turning towards the sound, there was another adjoining room. A washroom, perchance. You tightened your hold on the knife, and willed your bare feet forward, swallowing your thudding heart. You counted each step, pausing when a puddle glistened before the doorway. Dark in color and metallic in aroma, a shiver traced your spine as you stepped over it.

Under the door frame, your sight fell upon him, bare and slumped in a wooden bath. You stood still, not daring to flinch, in case he had his own knife hidden beneath the surface tension. When your presence hadn’t been acknowledged, you padded closer. 

Examining him further, you noticed not a lick of a wound, scrape, or gash on his body. Nothing that would substantiate the splatter of blood you'd passed. Falling onto his face, the faintest shimmer stained the corners of his lips. You would’ve deemed him dead if it weren’t for the labored breaths and shivers of his body.

A saccharine taste of flowers sprang to the tip of your tongue. 

Lowering yourself onto your knees, you brought the knife a near inch to his throat. You hadn’t noticed the slits of his eyes cracked open, branding you the moment you stepped in. Before you could jerk back, his hand leapt from the bath water. You winced when he took your wrist, expecting him to plunge the blade in your direction. Instead, he lulled his head to the side, and guided your hand to press the sharp edge against the skin of his neck.

“This angle is much better, isn’t it?” Aphelios stated rather than asked, his wet hair flowing like liquid night across his features. “You can stare deeply into the eyes of your enemy, and watch that insignificant light fade from them. Then, and only then, do you know they’re truly dead. If that's what you would like to do to me..." you held your breath and felt the blue of his veins beat against the blade. “Now’s your chance.”

Your hands trembled, his mortal essence flowing right at your fingertips. But the mere thought of relishing red-stained hands overwhelmed you with a bout of nausea, weakening your grasp at the hilt. Even if he deserved every bit of suffering, and for you to celebrate his undoing by a dull carving knife, it wasn’t who you were. 

You refused to be anything like him.

“Strange. Not many Burning One’s would hesitate at the offer. It’s no wonder they locked you away in that sunlit temple.” He released your shaking hand and traced the outline of your face. “Far from the shadows they’ve cast down.”

“Don’t patronize me,” you seethed, tugging your chin away from his touch. He leaned back in the basin, his shoulders taut as he fought against a cough. You narrowed your lashes at a string of blood pouring from his lips. “It’s not my place to deliver your punishment, but your trial of judgment will come. It’s already apparent you’re paying for your transgressions. And I’m glad for it.”

Your words were false against your true sensibilities. Feeling foolish for your heart to ache with sympathy for him, a wretched murderer and lech. The wiser part of you screamed when you set aside the knife, took up a washcloth, and wiped at his mouth. A cord in his jaw tightened, and you noted a life-stealing grip at the tub's edge.

A trained reflex to wrap his fingers around your neck. 

Had you been anyone else.

Had you been anyone else, you would’ve been flayed open across the altar. Had you been anyone else, the pathetic knife you threatened him with would be stuck heart deep between your breasts. Had you been anyone else, She would have commanded your sacrifice. 

You banished the unwelcomed thought.

“The water’s freezing. How long have you let yourself sit here?” His lips merely mirrored a fine line at the question. Under your gaze, you watched another invisible ripple tighten the tethers of his muscles. You exhaled on a presumptive thought. “You can’t move. Can you?” 

The black glass of his eyes stared at nothing, and said nothing. Then and there, that cold existence would rather suffer than utter a single word of admittance. 

“Seems you like to keep quiet when it’s convenient for you.” You quipped, wringing out the washcloth with indignation. “No different from a child throwing a tantrum when it suits them. I should leave you here then. Let whatever you catch take you within a week’s time. It would save a lot of others the trouble.”

His face remained a blank sheet of ice, and you interpreted it as an invitation to do as you pleased. He’d given you the choice to take his life, after all. Now you understood he’d meant every word. Perhaps he even intended to pay a compliment. Not a bluff or jab at your softer nature, even after you had foolishly settled to spare him. 

You banished the strange sentiment. Once you had found a way to get him to bed and asleep, you would scrounge the room for a key. Wherever he had chosen to hide it. 

“Golden Sister, avert your light," you asked for pardon under your breath.

You drew up your hand, calling forth a kindle of golden sunlight. It pulsed and radiated with warmth, kissing the tips of your fingers. The glow of it illuminated your company’s features. That face of marble chipped at the corner of his eyes; a crack of unnerving reproach. When you guided your hand towards the pane of his chest, he ruefully shifted away.

You clicked your tongue. “You’ll let me freely cut your throat, but the moment I try to help, you want nothing to do with it. Either you hold still, or I reconsider your offer. Which one is it?”

He responded with a slowed and pained breath. When he leaned back, you pressed a palm to his sternum.

Closing your eyes, you concentrated on the ebb and flow of warm light reaching for him; through him. When you entered, dark shadows ripped and slashed against your magic. Sharper than daggers of ice, piercing hotter than any black flame. Sweat gathered at your temples. Furrowing your brows, you steeled your magic from shattering and concentrated your radiance. Gradually, the thrashing tendrils subdued into undulating wisps that languidly brushed across your presence.

“I can’t heal whatever sickness you’ve caused yourself. It's unfamiliar to me. And even if I could, I wouldn't want to keep you waiting to spend eternity with your false deity," you admitted, withdrawing. “But I should have eased the pain. Enough for you to manage from here and to bed.”

Without a word, and with what little strength he still possessed, he gripped the lip of the tub. You hooked an arm underneath his own, and his legs trembled as he rose from the bathwater. When he dragged his feet from the bath, he banked to catch himself on the wall with his hand. The unexpected sway almost swept your footing away. With luck, he managed to hold himself as you helped him stagger out of the washroom.

When he dropped onto the bed, the weight of him brought you to your knees beside him. You huffed, prying his arm away from the support of your shoulders. He made no effort to force you to lay with him. Thankfully, the soothing effects of your work made him pliable, gifting you a moment of safe assurance. 

Your gaze roamed the softness that rounded his previously sharpened features. His brows rested light above his closed eyes, and his lashes long and airy curtained over the smooth contour of his cheeks. His face once devoid of color now brushed with a stroke of pink from your magic. If you hadn’t been the wiser, you would’ve believed him to be a completely different person. 

Nothing like a weapon now.

You pulled yourself from your careless observations, remembering time was of the essence if you’d hope of escape. Turning away, ghostly fingertips graced the skin of your cheek. Your breath hitched. Drawn back, his black pearls peeked from their bed of lashes. His lips moved, but deft as the words were, you swore it was a mere breath in the night.

‘...thank you.’

Your heart constricted, abandoning you in a space stolen of thought, let alone a reply. To your horror, the squeeze of your chest wasn't entirely unpleasant. Still, you feared to linger on it, knowing it would sooner kill you if you’d let it. You consciously berated yourself to get away—hurry, hurry! But like a silent poison of its own kind, you suddenly felt weak in spirit. And to no one’s fault but of your own. 

You had drained yourself dry by helping him.

Still in his touch, your body sank onto the bed next to him. He traced the contour of your neck, past the dip of your clavicle, down to the arc of your hip bones. Lingering there, he drew lazy circles against the fabric till it hitched at your waist. His fingers slipped beneath, brushing a hand against the bare skin of your waist. You trembled, weathering the cold bite of his touch. No better than prey submitting to a cruel yet ordained circumstance.

“I should have never…” you swallowed, remorse tightening your throat.

His hand paused—watching a glint of wetness stain your eyes—then pulled you in with devastating gentleness. Resting his brow at your breasts, he enveloped you in his arms, and curled himself bare between your legs. Holding you in an embrace that was more delicate than heartbreak, drawing out a shuddering breath from your lips. 

For what seemed like an eternity, you laid there. Feigning death, praying for your eyes to never close again. Hoping to salvage the opportune moment to escape once he let go. But exhaustion was a beast that stalked your side and sank its fangs in the spots where he held you close. Paralyzing all your nerves till they went flak, dragging your body limp in his touch. 

And your waning consciousness along with it.

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Behind closed eyes, the world was dark. An unfeeling landscape where nothing else existed. A state you could find yourself clinging to for the rest of your days to come. If only you were lucky enough to stay. Like a match to your body, a flame curled and burned beneath your dampening skin. The scorch of it trailing the woods of your body. A fire in your blood snaking lower to feed the smoldering spit simmering in your belly.

You shuddered, twitched and bit softly at the bottom half of your lip. Long, devoted fingers cradled your waist as lips graced the lower parts of your stomach. The careful graze of teeth at your navel sent your eyelids fluttering, where a glaze of lingering sleep clouded your vision. Only after a few blinks did you bid the fog away, and woke to the sight of yourself. 

The hem of your nightgown had been shelved above your swollen breasts, revealing nipples perked and coated wet with saliva. A sheen of sweat glistened like oil from mound to curve, and found the wicked Lunari man responsible for your state laid between your legs.

Your lips quivered, struggling to speak through the feverish qualities burning away at your flesh. You couldn’t even attempt to prop yourself up, let alone drag yourself away. Your body felt heavy and drunk off whatever pleasure it had thirsted for and drank without complaint. 

“What are you…” you started, but your voice was too sticky. Too mumbly. Not even swallowing would help. 

“I had a dream about your sunlight. That small, pleasant piece you shared with me last night.” He took pause, flitting his attention up from below, where his black slits narrowed with shameless intent. “I wondered what it would taste like.”

“N–Not down there,” you pleaded out a half-choked whimper. “It isn’t clean.” 

“Isn’t it, though? Have you considered how you might’ve bathed last night? Wondered who could have done it for you.” He trailed feather-light kisses down your inner thigh, leaving a path of goosebumps in his wake. “Washed your hair. Washed your body. And...” he tempted lower and lower, until the heat of his breaths warmed your folds, making them bloom with ache. "Everything in between.”

“Stop saying things like that. Stop doing things like this,” you said, wanting to speak them as commands. But the crack in your voice watered your tone down to unconsolable weeping. Knowing you had made a terrible mistake. Knowing no amount of your good nature would spare the heat of his mouth from teasing you relentlessly. Knowing you had no control as your cunt dripped itself into a pitiful mess. You tossed your head back and forth, desperate to hide the humiliation of your face in the throws of bedding. 

“Please.” Your chest heaved and shuddered. “Just let me go.” 

"Fated or not, you’ve chosen to stay. First, when you decided not to kill me in my most vulnerable state.” He eased the flat of his tongue over your leaking entrance, dragging it upward to flick your clit. Your hands clasped over your mouth to stifle the degrading noises that dared to leave. “Second, when you helped me to bed and kept it warm with me. And third—”

He plunged the length of his tongue into you, reaching for your center. You cried out through the gaps in your fingers, feeling something clenched deep inside you—and it wasn't his tongue. It was impeccably hard, with a distinct weld, shape and curve. The tip of his tongue swirled and twisted around it, coaxing it to rub along your sensitive ridges on the way out. When it revealed itself at your entrance, he took the object with a bite. A clink of metal between his teeth. With a shuddering gasp, your hips bucked once he slipped it past the squeeze of your hole.

“Even though you held the key inside you this whole time,” he fingered the iron loop and slid it across his tongue. You flushed when he consumed your gaze below. “You waited for me to take it.” 

Your head and heart pounded with blood. When…when did he…?

Before you could object, his mouth reclaimed all your ripe and swollen parts. Graciously kissing, licking, feasting between your legs. Your hips jolted as you squirmed against him. His hands gripped to dimple the softness of your thighs, parting you open like two delicate and succulent halves of a fruit.

Your eyes clenched shut, trying to forge the words that would stop him. But none existed in the pleasurable thickness that drowned your senses, possessing your hips to meet him at each languid lap. Turning your saliva into hot syrup in your mouth. Muddling any conceivable words down to moanful whines, sloppy whimpers, and broken utterances. Completely helpless as every stroke of his tongue made a creamy reduction of your insides, threatening to spill over every edge.

Your nails twisted into the bedsheets, and you broke for breath. “Can’t—n’ more—“ 

The moon devil interpreted your incoherent pleas for mercy as undying praise. Encouraging him to devour you with the passion of a starved man who’d forsaken each meal before you. Listening to a hunger that told him you would be his last, and echoed a fear that it would never be enough.

One last brush of his tongue and he clasped his lips around the bud, suckling on its throbbing plumpness.

A burst of pressure had you coming undone onto his mouth. Wails ripped through the air as your back careened into that awful crescent shape for him. You reached to push him away, but he’d caught your hands before you could lay a finger. You choked out a sob when he tacked your writhing wrists against the bed and continued to worship your taste with his mouth. Savoring every part of your quivers and cries, down to the very last gushing drop induced from your spasms. 

When he had taken his last sip of pleasure, he rose from between your thighs to loom above you.

“You’re exactly as I imagined you would taste.” His voice was a thin whisper on his glistening lips. As if he hadn’t even wanted the walls to hear. A secret only he would ever know, and for you to be the only one he’d share it with. 

He bent forward, panting with an unsatiated appetite against your mouth. “Sweet and warm.”

He took your lips, letting you drink up your arousal. A heavy, generous pour. The dewy tang of yourself flushed your face and neck with color. Your heart raced, gasping for breaths in a blur of moans and kisses. 

Tears of utter shame and frustration dotted your lashes, till they fell over in heaps. Yet, even your tears didn’t go to waste. He traced his tongue over your flushed and burning cheeks, catching every bit like spilled honey. And all you could do was lay there, unable to escape his sensual gilded cage. All the while hating yourself for wanting his mouth all over you—wanting to know how it’d feel claiming every inch of skin.

And hating him all the more for it.

[suguwu]

WRAP YOUR TEETH AROUND THE WORLD I PART ONE

A child of the harvest, your life is forfeit when you're chosen for the Hunt's Rite.

You don't expect the god to take an interest in you instead.

minors and ageless blogs do not interact.

pairing: gn!reader x millions knives

notes: if you've followed me for a bit, you know that i've been thinking about this concept for a long while. it's such a delight to be able to finally share it. with massive apologies to my beta, who has not read this because i am too impatient.

the title is, of course, from hozier.

content: god of the hunt nai au, reader is specifically a vegetarian, slow burn, human sacrifice, implied murder, predator/prey aspects.

wc: 5.2k

The sun is setting when they come for you.

Light is still pouring golden over the horizon, dripping along the edge of the sky like honey, sweet and thick despite the teeth of the encroaching night. It casts the High Priest’s face into shadow, blurs the edges of her until she is something else, something more. God-touched.

You watch her disappear into the temple, absentmindedly holding the lantern-lighter to the wick. The flame catches quickly, a kiss of light, flaring like a shooting star. The bright flash makes you blink. It makes you refocus on your task. The next lantern is lit just as quickly, and you make your way around the courtyard, until a constellation bathes the courtyard in soft, flickering orange. 

You’re lighting the final wick when you hear your name. It rings out like the toll of a dour bell, deep and sad. Frost spirals down your spine, winter come early. You take a moment to blow out the lantern-lighter before you turn around. 

The High Priest of the Hunt flashes her teeth. The forest lives in the sharpened edges of them, each carefully filed to a knife’s deadly point, smooth and sharp. You shudder.

“Child,” your High Priest says. “You have been chosen for the Hunt’s Rite.”

Your next breath hurts. It shears through you, drags up between your ribs to split you apart, carves its way out of your throat. You choke on it.

“But—” you gasp out. “I’m a child of the harvest.” 

“You are not claimed,” the High Priest of the Hunt says, her voice billowing out like smoke. It fills the cracks in you with char, with something you cannot name. “And you have been chosen.” 

You have no words; they slip away from you like mist rising from the lake’s surface, wispy and intangible. The harvest god does not claim. It is not his way, but you had thought it would be different for you. 

(The man smiles at you, soft and sweet and edged with something like sorrow. “Eat,” he says, holding his hands out, his palms suddenly overflowing with plump fruit. The berries gleam in the dappled sunlight, little multi-colored gems. 

Your stomach aches at the sight. 

“You’re—” you breathe. 

“Eat,” the man—the god—repeats. “It will do you well.”

The berries burst beneath your teeth. They’re salt-kissed, a remnant of his touch. You devour them, ravenous with months of famine settled into your weakened bones, and only taste devotion.)

You had thought it would be different for you, you who had supped from his palms. 

“Please,” you say softly. “Please.”

Your High Priest looks away. His mouth twists, going sour at the edges, and his eyes are glassy in the low light, shining brightly with unshed tears.

The High Priest of the Hunt’s eyes glimmer too and you think of a predator peering out from the depths of the woods, eyes flickering beneath moonlight. 

“It is an honor to be chosen,” she tells you. “The hunt has always provided.” 

You stay quiet. 

She hums low in her throat, the sound like the distant baying of the dogs, and reaches out. You bite your tongue to keep from flinching. The pain shatters beneath your skin, a lightning strike sting, and you concentrate on that as she traces her thumb over the apple of your cheek.  Her touch is reverent, skimming over your skin like silk.

“Come,” she breathes. “We must ready you.”

Your High Priest protests, but the sound of his reedy voice is lost under the pulsing thrum of your blood as it echoes through you. It’s loud, like the purr of the pebbles that tumble over themselves each time a wave draws back from the shore. You stumble back a step.

There’s a ribbon woven around your chest, you think, and it’s growing tighter, compressing the bones until they start to creak. You suck in a sharp breath; it burns.

The High Priest of the Hunt studies you. In the lantern light, her features are stark, flickering shadows dancing over her face. She tilts her head and her blonde hair spills over her shoulder like starlight. It illuminates her, a galaxy spread sparkling in the sky, and again, she seems like something more. Something bigger. She flashes her sharpened teeth in a mockery of a smile.

“Come,” she says again. “There is nothing for you here.��

“Elendira,” your High Priest says. “Please.”

Her eyes harden. “The child is ours. The rite must be prepared.”

“They are to be given one night—”

“That is for those with family.”

You cast your eyes to the ground. The guttering flames of the lanterns send undulating patterns over the packed-down dirt of the courtyard; they writhe like snakes. The two High Priests continue to go back and forth, but they sound distant, as if they’re just echoes of themselves.

“Child.”

You look up. Your High Priest gives you a ghost of a smile; there’s a deep sorrow tucked up in the corner of his lips. He takes your hand in his. His fingers are bird-boned, delicate things. They’re trembling.

“You must go,” he says.

“Must I?”

He squeezes your hand. “Yes.” 

You blink back the tears. Just behind him, Elendira watches the two of you, her eyes gleaming in the lantern-light. There’s a triumphant curl to the crimson slant of her mouth, a brutal slash of victory. You squeeze your High Priest’s hand and draw in a ragged breath. 

“I would bring some of my things with me,” you tell them. It will help, you think, to have them with you. 

Elendira scoffs. “There is no need,” she says. “You are in the care of the hunt now. We will provide all that you want.”

“Then the hunt can provide me with my things.”

She eyes you, her lip curling up into a fierce little smile. “You have bite after all,” she says. “The hunt lives in you yet.”

You resist the urge to bare your teeth. “The harvest lives in me.”

She arches a perfect brow. “We shall see.”

Still, she relents. Two of her acolytes silently accompany you to your room at the temple; you pack in a daze, plucking up a few keepsakes, though you’re not sure why. You know the fate you are heading towards. You let your fingers play over the spirals of seaglass that line your dresser, the deep blues and the soft greens misted over by the ocean’s touch, years of gifts from the woodcarver.

You pick up one of the pieces, rubbing your thumb over the rounded edge of it. It’s the gentle blue of a mid-morning sky, of a speckled robin’s egg tucked carefully into the mess of a nest. You bring it to your lips and think that you can still taste salt. 

The acolytes urge you from your room, their hands reverent against you. One of them has callused fingers, a bow’s lingering kiss, and you shrink back from the abrasive feel of them.

Elendira is waiting for you in the temple’s courtyard. She hums, low and resonant, as you approach, eyeing the few things you’ve gathered, but she says nothing. You bite at your lip as you take in your own High Priest beside her; he’s stooped over, heavily slumped, an eroded rock. He can’t meet your eyes.

You look away and into Elendira’s keen gaze. She smiles, a crimson slash that shows off her sharpened teeth, and beckons you close.

“Come here, little one,” she says. 

You follow her command, coming to a halt in front of her. She slips a finger under your chin to make you look her in the eye. Her sharp nail digs into the softness there, just shy of breaking the skin. She examines you again. Her eyes—blue as the nearby lake, glittering like the water beneath the sun—are keen. You set your jaw and meet her gaze.

She laughs. She pushes your chin up higher for a brief breath before she withdraws, her nail dragging against your delicate skin like the tip of a knife. You draw in a sharp breath, but it doesn’t hurt. 

“We leave now,” she says.

“Let me say goodbye.”

She considers you again. “Is that a demand, child?”

“You said the hunt would provide.”

“You’ve already used that once,” she says, but she sounds amused. “This is the last time I’ll allow it.” 

She turns around and strides away before you can reply, her hair rippling behind her, a comet’s blazing trail. One of the acolytes trails behind her; the other remains in the courtyard, stepping back into the shadows cast by the lantern light. 

“Child,” your High Priest says softly. He still can’t look you in the eye. “I am sorry.”

“I know.”

“There is nothing I can do for you.”

“I know,” you say, and the tears beading crystalline on your lashes finally spill over, running hot down your cheeks. He reaches out and cups your cheek. He hushes you quietly, his thumb running softly beneath your eye, brushing away the falling tears. His own eyes are shimmering. 

“The woodcarver,” you say. “Will you—”

“I will go to her as soon as you’re gone.”

“Thank you.” 

“Is there anything you wish for me to say?”

You shake your head. “She’ll know.”

“As you wish,” he says. 

The acolyte shifts. “It is time,” they say, stepping forward into the light. “Come.” 

Your High Priest’s hand tightens against your cheek before he lets it fall. You miss his warmth; the cool night air erases the ghost of his touch in an instant. “Goodbye, child,” he says softly. 

“Goodbye,” you whisper.

The acolyte steps up beside you and gestures you forward. They lead you to where Elendira lingers in the shadows at the temple’s entrance. She steps forward and raises the hood of your well-worn cloak, her long fingers careful. The smile on her lips is sharp. It sinks down into your marrow, a well-placed knife. You shiver, frost spiraling down your spine. 

The acolyte chivvies you into a carriage. Elendira slips gracefully in across from you, her cloak flowing around her like a gentle river. You turn your gaze outwards, unwilling to face her.

She laughs, the sound billowing out from her like smoke. But she doesn’t try to engage you; you watch the darkened countryside roll by, blurring like a mirage. You mark things familiar to you to try and ground yourself: the half-bent oak, the overgrown path to the long-dried lake, the curl of smoke rising from the temple.

It doesn’t work. You feel wool-headed, as if it’s stuffed between your ears. The world is a watercolor, smearing across your vision in flickers of color. You close your eyes against it, stomach roiling, and concentrate on breathing from your mouth, low and slow. 

You only open them when the carriage creaks to a halt. 

Elendira gives you no commands; she merely flashes her sharpened teeth at you in a mockery of a smile before sliding from the carriage. You have no choice but to follow. 

There are two acolytes waiting for you, their curious eyes tracing over every inch of you. Elendira beckons one of them close.

“Ready them,” she orders. “They need to be prepared for the coming days before the rite.” 

The acolyte bows and ushers you forward. You don’t bother to fight it. You barely look at your surroundings, too focused on each heavy step towards your fate. They guide you through the temple carefully. People bow as you go by; you catch the shadows of them out of the corner of your eyes, each one wispy as they yield to you and the acolytes. A shiver trickles down your spine like icemelt. 

The air changes as you step into another hallway. There’s a dampness to it now, like the humid touch of a midsummer’s afternoon, when there is a promise of a storm in the air. The baths, then, you think. You’ll be scrubbed clean of the remnants of your temple, stripped of the very last of it, the scent of your soap. 

For a moment, you consider running, but there’s no point. Instead, you let them herd you through a door and into the baths.

Once you’re in the steamy room, they strip you of your clothing with reverent fingers. You sink into the bath without a word, barely taking in the magnificent stretch of it, the bath so large it could almost be a pool, lined with tiles as blue as the sky. 

You don’t fight it when they begin to wash you. Their touch is gentle, as sweet as a spring lamb. The soap smells of clover, of the meadows that edge the village, and it’s almost enough to mask the rusty tinge of blood that lingers in the air. The acolytes murmur to you as they bathe you, but their voices are distant, burbling like the river current. 

They rinse you by pouring ladles of cool water over your head. It’s a balm against your heated body; you turn your face into it despite the gasps it brings. The water cradles you like a lover. Their murmurs meld into something songlike, rising and falling like the wind, fluting high and rasping low. Prayer, you think. You don’t bother to listen.

They dry you with towels scented like the forest, like the deep woods, all moss and loam. You do not receive your clothing back; instead, they dress you in fine silks that stick to your skin, that cling to your body like a gossamer spider’s web. You shiver as they sweep against your skin, as cool as a river. 

The bath starts to darken as they blow the candles out. They chivvy you forward, back into the halls. Your cheeks heat as you go, aware that the silk sticks to each inch of you, a second skin, and that all eyes are upon you. The murmurs echo off the walls, rolling across you like waves against the shore. 

The room they bring you to is a lavish one. There are luxurious pelts spread on the large bed, ready to keep the chill air of the encroaching fall at bay. They nudge you through the door. You stumble through it, your foot catching on the draping silk, and catch yourself against an ornate chair.

By the time you turn around, the acolytes are gone, the door scraping closed behind them. The click of the lock rings through the air. You cannot help yourself; you try the door. It does not budge.

The tears start to sting your eyes. You sniffle, willing them back, and make your way to the bed. It’s soft as you sink down upon it. You stare up at the ceiling until it starts to blur, and then you finally close your eyes.

You do not fall asleep for a very long time.

—

Dawn comes too early. 

You’ve barely stirred in the bed when the door opens; an acolyte sweeps in. She’s keen-eyed, almost vulpine, with the sharpened teeth to match. You sit up as she draws near, huddling under one of the pelts. 

“Come,” she says, her voice rolling like summer thunder. “You must eat.” 

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’ll find your appetite once there is food in front of you.”

You shake your head.

Her expression doesn’t change, but suddenly, there’s something cold to her, the slow creep of the first frost. “It wasn’t a request,” she says. “Now come.” 

You grit your teeth, your fingers tightening in the thick fur of the pelt you’re under. Then you let go and slide out from under it. 

“Good,” the acolyte says.

She dresses you in silence, brushing your hands away when you try to smooth out the silken clothing they’ve brought you. It’s finely made, more beautiful than anything you’ve ever owned, and it makes your stomach twist.

She takes you through the winding temple halls, your bare feet quiet against the cool stone floors. The other acolytes stare as you go by, just as they did last night, and you shrink into yourself, make yourself small. It does little to alleviate the weight of their gazes. 

The room she takes you into is a small one, but it seems cavernous, with its high ceilings and sparse decor. Elendira is there, her long blonde hair gleaming in the light, a falling star. She turns as you enter. She beckons you forward; you slink towards her, a cowed dog. 

“Sit,” she tells you, gesturing to the chair across from her. “You must eat.”

You hesitate for a breath before you sink into the chair. She smiles, clearly pleased, and when she nods, another acolyte places a plate in front of you. 

You pause. The plate is laden with seasonal vegetables, cooked and raw. For a moment, you almost feel like you’re home. “There’s no meat,” you say. Your own voice startles you, small as it is. 

Elendira hums. “No,” she says. “It would make you sick.”

It would, considering how long you’ve gone without it, but you hadn’t expected to be accommodated. Perhaps you should have; it’s easy to forget that you’re important to them now. That you are something bigger than yourself. You gaze down at the plate and your stomach churns.

You think you might be sick anyway. 

Under Elendira’s gaze, you pick away at the food, mostly pushing it around on the plate. When you finally lean back, unable to take even a second more, she purses her lips but says nothing. Instead, she beckons to you, a silent command.

You follow her out into the courtyard in the middle of the temple. You’re surprised to see the garden that fills it, the scent of wet loam rising to your nose as an acolyte waters a patch of summer roses, their petals the color of the dawn, a sweet, pearly pink. There’s a basket of them on the ground, their cut stems still oozing sap. You pause.

“Go on,” Elendira says, sounding amused. 

You pick one up, twirling it between your fingers before hissing out a breath as a thorn catches the pad of your thumb. The blood wells up, a crimson seed, and you press your thumb between your lips to suck it away. Iron spreads on your tongue. 

There’s a drop of blood clinging to the thorn; it trickles down the stem a bit. You wipe it away as Elendira watches, something like a smile blooming on her lips, but she says nothing. 

Instead, she takes you through the garden to a set of rooms on the other side. There are acolytes waiting inside.

“Take care of them,” Elendira says. Before you can protest, she turns on her heel and glides from the room, her blonde hair flowing behind her like a comet’s tail. 

“Come,” one of the acolytes says, holding out a hand. 

You almost shrink away, but you take a deep breath and straighten your spine instead. You do not take their hand, but you follow them anyway. They bring you deeper into the chambers, into a room that smells of incense. It’s heavier than what your temple uses, but there is comfort in it nonetheless. 

You spend the day in that little room, retreating deep into your mind as they prepare you, engaging in little rituals that are beyond your knowledge. Normally, you would ask, always curious, but you cannot bring yourself to do so. 

By the time they lead you from the room, night has fallen. The scent of incense lingers on your skin as you walk through the courtyard, your face lifted towards the sky to better see the rising moon. It shines silver on the garden, painting petals with its soft touch. 

A different acolyte chivvies you along. He’d joined the group later, taking over from faces that had just started to grow familiar. Part of you thinks that is exactly the intent—that you gain no true companionship with anyone. It is utterly lonely, like living amongst shadows. 

He leads you to your room; once inside, you again hear the click of the lock. This time, you don’t bother to try the door. Instead, you shimmy out of the silken clothing and into the bed, closing your eyes.

When you open them again, you know that you are dreaming. 

You are small again; you barely come up to the woodcarver’s hip. She presses your face against her skirts, her hand gentle but firm. The words are lost to the dream, but you remember them well enough—the elders discussing your fate after your father was lost to winter’s teeth, claimed by  a cliff disguised by drifting snow. 

The gods are not kind. That much is clear.

The elders say your father’s name like a funeral knell. You think it will haunt you forever. 

When you look up from the woodcarver’s skirts, she is older, time smearing together as it only can in a dream. The edges of her eyes crinkle like parchment, laugh lines etched into her skin. They do not show now her face is solemn, her lips pinched together. She is thinner, her cheekbones sharp, and you realize it is the famine years.

The world swirls and suddenly, you are in the town square, desperate cries echoing around you. The woodcarver is next to you, her face grim, and she pulls you close as the crowd—the mob—pushes forward. 

You know what happens next. It’s already written, a history you can’t change. But you turn away anyway, hiding your face back in the woodcarver’s skirts, as if it can block out the cries of the harvest god’s acolytes as they fall. 

You wake with a cry, char and blood lingering in your nose, a phantom of the past. You sob once, twice, and bury your face in the furs of your fine bed. 

The gods are not kind, but neither are men.

—

The morning dawns red.

It streaks through the sky, crimson fingers of light smearing against the horizon, the sun bleeding it like a cracked egg. It spills into your room through the high window, pooling on the stone floor. 

The ruby sky fades into something softer as the sun continues its rise, but the damage is done. The burning spectacle haunts you as you dress for the day, unaccompanied by any acolyte. You can hear them in the hallway, the temple stirring to life, but no one comes through your door. Something in you burns cold.

When the door finally opens, you know. 

The acolytes take you to the bath through deserted halls. The water is warm and sweetly scented with a perfume that you don’t know. It winds around you, soft and soothing. You drift as they bathe you. 

Your skin prickles with gooseflesh when they rinse you, the air dragging its cool fingertips over the length of your body. The acolytes dry you with soft towels before they wrap you in clinging silks yet again. You trail your hand over the material, take in the icy slip of it. 

You look up as one of the acolytes approaches with a piece of fabric in his hands. You dip your head at his gesture; he ties it over your eyes, leaving you in darkness, with just the tiniest hint of light seeping in at the edges, like the sun peeking over the horizon. 

Blinded, you’re entirely reliant on the acolytes to lead you. You take deep breaths, trying to loosen the knot that’s wound itself around your ribs. You drift in the darkness, your mind fleeing.

The light hurts when the blindfold comes off. You wince, blinking away the sting, and find yourself in a grove at the forest’s edge, surrounded by the temple’s acolytes. They cry out at the sight of you, and you shrink into yourself, feeling your heart fluttering between your ribs, a trapped bird. Your hands are shaking.

Smoke billows around you, the scent of char settling over your skin as the acolytes disrobe you. Elendira watches from her place by the altar. Her blonde hair glints in the light, haloed by the sun, and her gaze is heavy upon your form. 

The silk you were wearing puddles at your feet, iridescent, an icy lake reflecting the moon’s glow. They dab oil behind your ears and in the hollow of your throat. You choke on a sob.

It was not meant to be like this. 

(Eat, the god of the harvest says, his smile sad. So that you may live as you are meant to.)

You let the acolytes wind pelts around you, the heat of them settling into your bones, a stoked fire caught up in fur. They’re for the deepest parts of the forest, you think, where the trees still murmur to each other. Where it stays chilled even in the height of summer.

It’s kind of them to think you’ll get that far. 

“Please,” you say quietly, as one of them dips near to smear crimson juice on your lips. 

She ignores you. 

Elendira raises her arms at the altar. The others turn their attention her way; you glance to it and see a pearly pink rose laid out against the stone. You turn away and stare at the ground, at the forest loam full of moss. There is a spider skittering across a leaf. You watch it run. 

Elendira is speaking, her cool voice filling the meadow. You cannot hear her. The acolytes move with her, at her command. You glance up and cannot make sense of what they’re doing. They whirl around you, snapping their sharpened teeth into the air with sharp clicks of their jaws, the muscles working beneath their skin. It’s too different from your own temple, all vicious, violent movement. 

You only know the rite is complete when you feel him.

He blazes into being behind you, his presence oppressive, the weight of his gaze dragging at you like an anchor and its heavy chain. It sinks into you. Crawls beneath your skin. Flays you open and touches the deepest parts of you. 

It’s almost familiar, like a dream within a dream. 

Elendira cries out, her voice fluting like a bird’s before it grows rougher, crueler, until you hear the hunting dogs in her voice, nipping at your heels. Behind you, his presence grows, a stoked fire. 

You don’t flinch when he touches you. His touch blazes like cold fire, a frostbitten thing. His thumb—thick and callused—dips into the oil that’s gathered on your neck.

He smears it up the soft underside of your throat to the tender skin just beneath your jaw. He presses there, just against your fluttering pulse. 

Please, you almost say, but you know better.

The god of the hunt is not known for his mercy. 

(Knives is just one of his many names, but it’s the one that rings truest. A blade is a blade is a blade. It cares little who it nicks.)

“Acceptable,” he says, and there is the forest in his voice, something ancient. It echoes around you. Thunders through your bones. 

He leans in close, his breath warming the nape of your neck. Your chest goes tight.

He murmurs, almost fond, into your ear:

“Run, little rabbit.”

You do. 

You know better than to look behind you; you bound off towards the forest, where the saplings rise like ribs, their shadows long against the ground. You feel the grass beneath your feet give way to the loam of the woods, dirt cushioned with moss. 

The forest blurs by as you dash through it, nimble-footed as you dodge around the massive oaks that soar to the sky, their canopies darkening the woods around you. You gasp in a breath, your chest tightening more, anxiety spooling around your ribs like thread. 

The woods have gone quiet. There are no birds calling; even the rustle of the trees is gone, as if fall has already consumed them, given them over to winter’s slumber. You only hear the pounding of your heart as it flutters against your ribs, a hummingbird's frantic beating of wings. You duck beneath a branch but not far enough. It scores your cheek, a whip crack of pain that fades quickly.

You have no time for it; you hurtle over an old, old root system, the tangle of them gone mossy with age. You barely clear it, your toes brushing against the mushrooms blooming from the bark. 

You land hard.

It knocks the breath from you, rattles up through your bones, the earth's admonishment. Air rushes from you in a great, gasping breath and you cannot pull it back in. Your chest aches with it, a bruise freshly pressed. 

Still, you don't dare stop.

You can feel Knives behind you, pacing like a wolf behind its prey. He keeps his distance, but never too far, nipping at your heels each time you slow with his massive presence, something too big to name. You hadn't known how divinity devours.

There is a maw at your heels and you can only go forward.

You dance between the saplings, breath caught in your throat. The woods are hungry around you; everywhere you look there are only trees.

Your feet pound against the dirt. They ache, a bone-deep bruise. You're slowing, you know, but you cannot help it. Your legs feel encased in resin, the slow drip of exhaustion trickling down them.

"Please," you pant. "Please."

(“Slowly,” the god says, brushing a knuckle against your cheekbone. “I will be here to give you more.”) 

The blackberry bush to your left blooms into being, berries pouring from it, ripened to a plumpness that's beyond anything you've ever seen.

You change directions instantly, veering towards it. 

Another one blooms, and then a raspberry bush, the berries little blood-red rubies, thick and juicy. You follow the verdant path coming to life, something bright starting to burn in your chest, something that you barely dare think of as hope. 

You choke on your next breath.

Knives' presence has roared to life behind you, a freshly stoked fire. It drapes over you like the nighttime, deep and oppressive. Ozone crackles in the air. It's stark on your tongue. Suffocating. 

Then there's an arm around your waist.

It stops you in your tracks, so sudden that it hurts. It shakes the sense from you. You gasp, the air forced from your lungs in a long, low hiss, a rattlesnake’s vibrating tail. Only the arm—thickly muscled, unyielding as iron—keeps you upright.

When your breath returns, it only catches in your throat once more.

There's heat against you; air stirs the fine hairs at your nape. You can feel the slow, steady rise of Knives’ chest against your back. His arm tightens around you. His fingers dig divots into the flesh of your hip. 

His voice—full of the forest, of the hunt, of fur and fang and blood—rumbles through you.

“Not this one, little brother.”

The berry bush that had just burst into life withers, its verdant leaves curling up into brittle skeletons. You draw in a sharp, ragged breath. Your chest aches, a bruise of a thing, bone deep. You shift and those fingers flex, sinking even deeper into the curve of your hip.

You go still. There’s little point in struggling; this close, you can feel the divinity radiating off of him, a falling star, cold and bright. It’s overwhelming, burning through your very bones. It devours you. His arm tightens around you as your knees start to give, your chest heaving. Your vision spots, going black at the edges, and you feel more than hear him speak. It cracks like thunder and your body gives up. 

The last thing you see before the world fades is a flash of blue hair.

[thefallennightmare]

MASKED PART TWO: COMING FRIDAY DECEMBER 6th.

Heyo! I know I should be working on it instead of making yet another teaser cover but I actually have been working on part two. It’ll be posted on Friday! So in the mean time enjoy this sneak peek! Once again, I will post the CW’s because this story is very dark and will not be for everyone. And that’s okay. Your mental health matters 🖤

18+ TRIGGER WARNINGS: angst, fluff, language, stalking, kidnapping, breaking and entering, watching someone sleep, blood and sexual intercourse in someone’s blood, some medical talk, a very brief mention of bombing and the aftermath of it, a scene of someone receiving stitches, two mentions of the use of drugging, murder, torture, and smut which includes p in v, primal play, knife play, branding, mask kink, chasing through words, consensual nonconsensual, oral with female and male receiving, fingering, possible anal play, bondage, and edging. I might add more to the warnings the further I get along while writing. But for now, these are all the warnings so please, read at your own risk.

Written snippet below the cut!

Pain.

So much pain.

My bones ached with the screams of this pain as I screwed my eyes tighter, not daring to opening them. My head throbbed like someone had hit me with a slab of concrete. The pain was unbearable, I could hear myself screaming out in agony.

Wait. No.

Those weren’t my screams. It sounded like it was coming from outside of my mind and body. Followed by what sounded like skin against skin and bones breaking.

“Pl-please. St-stop!”

With a groan, I slowly lifted my head from the ground and spewed out a few choice curses when the pain nearly knocked me back down.

“Beg all you want, your fate isn’t in my hands.”

Blinking awake, I felt my heart rate pick up at the sight all around me. Glass walls caged me in like an animal while my hands were changed to the ground, no more than three feet of wiggle room to move around. My breath caught in my throat and I tried to thrash out of my binds, tears burning my eyes.

No. No. No.

“I warned you that if you flew too far, I’d have to clip your wings, Angel.”

Snapping my gaze away from my bound wrists, I let out a fearful sob at those familiar dark eyes, sinister smirk playing on his lips. There was a man bound to a chair next to him, bloody and bruised; nearly unrecognizable.

“Let me go!” I cried, tasting copper on my lips for the first time.

Those dark eyes assessed me through the glass wall, it creating a barrier between us.

“I will. All you have to do is kill him,” Masked.Omens chuckled darkly while twirling knife between his fingers; tattoos covered with crimson.

[kondensaduhhh]

inspired by @dirtytransmasc ‘s Spider Te Suli Tsyeyk’itan AU

where, since because this Spider grew up being fully adopted and loved by the Sully family, the ‘son for a son scene’ where Neytiri holds a knife to Spider doesn’t happen, what happens instead is a ‘if I can’t have him, no one can’ scene with Quaritch, where instead of Quaritch getting a hold of Kiri, it’s Spider.

Everyone is frozen.

Kiri is holding Tuk, Jake being torn between shooting Miles, but risk shooting his son too, and obeying his demands. Lo’ak and Neteyam are there, a few scrapes, cuts, and bruises on them but otherwise whole. Jake holds out his arm in front of his other two sons, knowing his mate’s burning desire to protect pumps in their veins, ready to lunge.

And Neytiri is prowling.

That demon has her son, her firstborn under his sharp knife, already cutting his delicate skin, she sees his blood smear with each struggle, causing a growl deep within her throat. Every bone in her body aches to lunge and attack the monster hurting her baby, but her mate’s arm stops her, she sees the pleading look in his eyes that yells, ‘please, think clearly’. She wants to scream, she needs to do something, but the situation is much too delicate to take such a risk.

“What will it be, kid?” Quaritch says, knife still against Spider neck, “The Sullys, who left you, abandoned you for months?” cries of protest from his siblings at the words spoken, “or me? who took care of you after they left you for dead?”

With no breath of hesitation in his voice, “Them! They’re my family! Not you! Never you!” Spider screams. Irritation pinches Quaritch’s face, he sets his jaw, “Then so be it.” and he cuts.

He cuts through Spider’s jugular, leaving to fall, blood sputtering through his fingers as he tries to add pressure. Everyone screams, scrambling to help Spider. The demon walks away with a limp in his step.

“Lyle, blow this pla-“ short, rapid fire gunshots, cut through everyones eardrums, the Sullys’ attention snapped to the cause of the beast’s death for a second. They were met with the image of Neteyam, gun in his arms, tears in his eyes, he drops it immediately and rushes to Spider’s side.

“Neteyam…” Kiri holds her hand out to him, her voice watery and scared, he takes her hand, and inches closer towards his brother, Tuk tucks herself onto him, wailing onto his chest, Lo’ak has both hands pressing on Spider’s neck, their dad is speaking softly to him, stroking his hair, while their mother is begging for Eywa to keep her son alive, to not take him away from them, from her, no, not yet

Spider is apologizing and they don’t know why, they just hold on to him and their siblings, “im sorry, im sorry… i love you, im sorry,” he coughs, blood splatters on his mask, dripping down the sides of his lips, “i just wanted to sa-…” He closes his eyes. The it’s like the world stopped spinning, everyone is silent, waiting for Spider to keep talking, because he always does, he always has something to say, but Jake has hung his head already.

Kiri was the first to talk Spider, “Monkey boy? Spider? Spider, what is it? Spider! What were gonna say?!” her voice gets shakier as she talks, her voice breaks at the end along it is her, curling into Spider’s chest.

“Spider? Wake up! C’mon, you’re scaring me!” Tuk, oh, little Tuk-tuk, she pleads, “Neteyam, do something!” She sobs. Neteyam can’t fix this one, he can’t lead them on this one, Neteyam doesn’t know what to do, instead her cries, not quietly, like Lo’ak, who is staring at his hands, covered in Spider’s blood, tears just running down his cheeks, but also not loudly, like Kiri, who demanding answers from the Great Mother, he just… cries. Holding the rest of his siblings in his arms.

Jake is on the opposite side of his children on Spider’s body, he wants to wipe away the tears and blood off of his son’s face, to remove the mask and clean his face off, he tries, but his daughters’ panicked screams of ‘Stop! He can’t breath with out it!” broke his heart further. Lo’ak cries like him, quiet, almost catatonic, a contrast to his mate who has screamed and wailed for it to not be true, sobbing for Eywa to not do this to them. With no protest fro Kiri, and little from Tuk, Neytiri holds Spider, sobbing louder when his body that was always warm, especially compared to their na’vi bodies, was starting to cool. Kiri and Tuk held onto their mother as they cried.

Jake neared his mate, gently pulling her towards him, as their remaining sons was held by their father, both boys leaning on Jake.

continuation

[ferigrieving]

cardinal sin.

⊹ ࣪our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.

a.n if you're re-reading this i switched chapter one and two around my bad fazgang

⤷ masterlist ; requests open ; 3.3k ; i. envy; iii. gluttony

dawn breaks gently, casting a warm glow through the curtains, as touya lies beside you, mesmerized by your peaceful slumber. the soft light of dawn paints your features in shades of gold and rose, creating a scene of quiet beauty that he wishes he could capture forever. his heart aches with a love he cannot express, a longing that fills the space between you. 

as he traces your features with his gaze, committing them to memory, he feels the weight of his desire—a yearning to keep this moment, to hold you close and never let go.  in these moments, he allows himself to forget the world outside, to revel in the stillness of the room and the quiet bond between you. 

and touya is convinced that here, laying across from you in the early hours of the morning, is the closest he’ll ever get to knowing what heaven is like.

he loves you. he can never say it, he can never show it, but it’s there – and there it will stay. it’s a blessing and a curse, the love he feels for you. he loves the way your face looks when you’re asleep. soft, and sweet. no trace of the anger that you show when awake, the despair and distress that plague your every waking moment.

the early morning sun filters through the curtains, bathing you in it’s soft golden glow.  and he cant help but stare at your face, trying to drink in the details. touya is a greedy, greedy man, and you’re just the fix he needs.

his fingers ghost over the slope of your jaw, tracing the sharp contours of your chin, of your nose, of your cheek bones. his eyes rake over you hungrily, greedily, trying to commit every last detail of you to memory. your parted lips, the faint freckles dusting your skin, the dark circles rimming your eyes.

he cant help but look at you in awe, the faint pinks and purples of the sunrise blending together on your face — all messy hair, smeared makeup, and rumpled pyjamas. he feels his fingers twitch.

touya wants you all to himself. he wants to keep you close, to bottle this moment and keep it forever. ingrain this picture of you, asleep beside him onto the backs of his eyelids, so he can relive it as much as he wants. 

and he cant help but think, 

mine, mine, mine. 

but you aren’t his. you never have been, and you never will be. so, he does the only thing he can do. he reaches out, and carefully brushes a stray strand of your hair behind your ear, his touch as tender and as light as a butterfly’s wing. touya wants nothing more than to kiss you, feel the warmth of your lips against his, to taste the faint remains of chapstick from last night, memorise every ridge and bump as if he were a blind man.

you stir in your sleep, and for a moment touya worries that you’ll wake. but you don’t. instead, your hand moves in search of him, blindly reaching out into the dark.

touya’s heart is in his throat, pounding a steady rhythm against his adam’s apple as you make contact with his stomach. without thinking, your hand grabs at his hip, fingers curling into a loose grip. you murmur something indecipherable, brows scrunching up and in that moment touya wanted nothing more than to reach out and smooth it back to how it should be.

he can smell the faint scent of smoke and alcohol lingering on your skin. it’s faint, but it still pisses him off. he doesn’t like it when you go out, doesn’t like the way you come back smelling like the bar and the strangers you danced with. you’re always loud and clingy when you’re drunk, and it’s all he can do to keep you away for the night.

and when you come home, stumbling into the apartment, your eyes half-lidded and a sloppy smile on your face, his blood boils. every drunken word you pour into his ear is like a sharp knife in his heart. 

”i love you.” you say, your eyes watery with drunken tears.

‘i love you too’ he says back, hours later when you’re fast asleep.

it’s a cardinal sin, a death sentence. 

he knows this. he knows it better than anyone.

‘thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is abomination.’

it is abomination. 

he is an abomination.

and yet, he still lets you crawl into his bed, like every other weekend like clockwork. you always cling to him, smelling of alcohol and cheap cologne. sometimes you smell like cigarettes too, the cheap ones he steals from the lawsons down the street, your hair clinging to his face as you bury yours into his chest. 

he thinks of the bible — of the burning fires of hell and the eternal damnation that awaits those who fall. of the seven deadly sins and the cardinal, irreversible wrongs that they bring.

but even with the threat of death, he cannot pull away from you. it’s like a sickness, an addiction. he can no more abstain from you than he can from breathing air or drinking water.

you’re an apple, and he is no better than eve.

touya’s not so sure when he started to fall. it was gradual, slow at first. a slow burn that eventually consumed him whole. every touch, every word, every smile from you had his heart aching, his bones aching to just give into the temptation, the forbidden sin.

he can’t get enough of you. the sound of your voice, the curve of your hips, the way you laugh when he whispers in your ear. the heat of your skin against his, how your hands feel in his hair, the soft moans you make when he brings his lips to your neck — 

and like all his other vices, touya cannot pull himself away.

but for a while, it’s enough. laying with you like this, listening to your soft little breaths and pretending, just for a moment, that this is all real. his eyes flutter closed as he pulls you impossibly close, wrapping you in all of him, and letting the warmth of your body sooth him like a lullaby.

time loses meaning here, in this moment. it’s just you, him, and the early morning light filtering through the window. he can hear your heart beating in tandem with his, the steady thump-thump against his chest like a reassurance. 

he looks down at you, and the tightness in his chest that always comes whenever he is around you only grows worse, its hands wrapping around his neck and squeezing.

and when you stir in your sleep, your hand finding his under the covers, touya can’t help but think, with a sickening sense of irony, that the devil was once an angel too.

even now, he wants to pull the covers over your heads and stay there forever, to live in a little fantasy of his own creation. it isn’t fair, he thinks. how can something that feels so sinful feel so good? 

he will have to wake soon, and so will you, and then he will have to watch you pull away from him. have to listen to you pretend it never happened, watch you go about his day like you didnt just ruin his. like he was just an afterthought, when to him, you were everything he ever thought of.

he can’t ask you to stay, because that would mean baring his heart in a way he’s not ready for. all that’s left for him is to pretend. pretend that he doesn’t care about you, that he’s unaffected by the way you laugh or the way you look at him like he’s worth something. pretend that he doesn’t want more, when the truth is, he wants everything that you are and then some.

you stretch in your sleep, mumbling under your breath, and he almost loses to the greed. in the pale morning light pouring through the curtains, you look ethereal, like something from a dream. 

mine, he thinks again.

always, and forever.

“...touya?”

you murmur his name in that soft, sleep-heavy voice of yours, like a prayer.

he doesn’t realise you’ve awoken until you utter his name. touya stills, his hand frozen in your hair, and looks down at your face. your eyes are still half-lidded and bleary with sleep, and you reach a hand out, running your fingers through the dark locks of his hair. 

he thinks he can almost hear the angel perched on his shoulder, whispering warnings of the divine fire that will burn his soul in damnation.

but the devil perched beside it only laughs and laughs, watching as he lets you pull yourself in closer, until you’re nestled safely against his chest, where you were always meant to be.

your fingers are warm against the bare flesh of his chest, tracing the large burns that run up and down his body like lines of scripture. he shivers under your touch, and suddenly it’s hard to breathe, your scent filling his nose and mind, intoxicating him like a fine wine.

he wants to pin you down, to hold you with all of him, and make you say his name like a prayer — whisper sweet, sinful benedictions that only the devil himself would know, and make you his for all eternity.

but he cant.

and just like that, he is reminded of the sin he is committing. for a moment, the fire in his lungs extinguishes itself, and a bitter sort of clarity washes through him. 

touya can count three.

one in sleeping with you.

another in falling in love with you.

and a third, in hoping you could love him back.

it’s laughable, really. he’s a villain, with a body full of scars and a heart full of malice. his hands are stained with the blood of a thousand sins, and no amount of penance or prayer can ever wash them free of it. 

and yet the biggest sin of all is right in his arms—the sin of sleeping with man.

but you’re still pressed into his skin, blissfully ignorant of the fire you spark in his chest. your mouth is against his collarbone, warm and soft, and he has to bite his tongue hard enough to draw blood to stop from making a sound.

“–what do you want to do today?”

touya almost laughs at the question.

he’s thought about this countless times, the two of you sharing a lazy day off. getting up late, ordering in for dinner. laying in bed the entire day and not having to get up until tomorrow. 

he looks down at you, watching your hair spill over your shoulders like spilled ink. for a brief moment, he imagines a domestic life with you— waking up every morning to see your face, coming home from a long shift to find you waiting for him. eating dinner with you, and watching a movie only to fall asleep on the couch, tangled up in each others arms.

it’s a fantasy, nothing more. the only reason he’s lying in bed next to you right now is because you were drunk last night and too tired to make it to your own apartment. an occurrence that seems to happen every night, and every night after that.

he smiles, bittersweet. “whatever you want to do.”

you hum under your breath as you think, your hand idly tracing the lines of the scars on his chest. touya stiffens in spite of himself, heat flushing through his body like a wave. 

he’s always been sensitive about them, not just because of the memories they hold, but also because they’re a reminder of what he lost— his childhood, his innocence, his sanity. 

and yet, your touch is light and tender, your fingers tracing the lines with a sort of worship he’s never felt from anyone before.

it’s like you’re memorising them, mapping out the ridges and valleys of his broken skin. touya can feel his heart picking up pace, a lump forming in his throat like a rock. 

you don’t treat his scars as a flaw; or something to be looked at with horror. no, the look in your eyes isn’t one of disgust or fear. it’s something else entirely, a sort of aching tenderness.

it feels like you’re hitting him in the head with a rock, again, and again, until his brain is spilled onto the floor, and his heart stops beating.

why? he wants to ask. why are you looking at him like that? why aren’t you running away and screaming like everyone else has done? why do you touch him like he’s made of glass, like he’s something fragile, something to be loved? 

he swallows, and closes his eyes, hoping to keep himself together.

“lets watch a movie.”

he almost laughs again. movies. it’s such a normal thing to do on a day off, like the two of you are a normal, healthy couple, instead of a villain and his drunken roommate who happens to share a bed. and an apartment, it seems. he should ask you to move in soon. it’d do you both a favour.

“what do you feel like watching?” he hums, calloused fingers feather light against your skin.

“i want to go out and watch a movie.” you mumble, voice groggy from disuse. “a real movie, in a real theater.”

touya wanted to laugh in your face. a real movie in a real theater? god, you were just asking for it.

“and you remember everything that happened the last time we went out, right?”

“...no?

he sighs, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. of course you dont remember. last time you went out, you’d managed to get smashed and dance in just about every club in a three block radius. touya had finally found you, making out with half a stranger in the corner of some seedy dive bar.

the memory fills him with a sort of bitter resentment. how many drunken kisses had you given the strangers of that club? how many times had you been held like that, touched and grabbed like you were something to be passed around? 

he’d wanted to kill those people. he’d wanted to kill you.

“i don’t let you out like that anymore unless you’re sober.” he says, his tone harsh. “you’re a pain in the ass to deal with when you're drunk.”

“i am?” your tone confuses him. he cant tell if you were being genuine, or if his mind chose not to pick up on the lie. he doesnt want to know.

his jaw clenches. even now, you’re too clingy and too sweet. you’re always loud and always touchy, and the alcohol only makes it worse. you’re always like a clingy, drunken limpet, hanging onto his arm like you’ll die without his touch. 

“yes, you are. you’re a pain in the ass.” he snaps. “you get too loud, too clingy, and it’s like dealing with a goddamn puppy.”

“oh im,” the frown on your face made him want to throw up. “–im sorry.”

he almost laughs at the apology. a sorry from you at this point is about as good as nothing. he’s seen this routine over and over again— you go out to a nightclub, get wasted, get clingy and then come home reeking of alcohol and cologne. 

then, you give him a sheepish little smile, apologise, and go right back to doing the same thing the very next week.

he almost rolls his eyes at the thought. it’s like you don’t understand— if you apologise, then he should forgive you. thats how it goes. but what is forgiveness, when you never learn your lesson?

“i don’t forgive you.” he says, his voice cold. “i’m sick of your bullshit apologies. if you’re really sorry, then stop going out like you are now.”

he isn’t angry with you, per se. he’s angry with everyone else. he’s angry with the people in the club who touch you like you’re theirs, who look at you like you’re something for sale. he thinks of your body, how it’s right here, right now, pressed up against him. something that those people will never get to experience like he ever will.

and yet, it’s them who gets to feel you like this, as if you’re not already his.

touya wants to burn the entire world down. the clubs, the strangers who touch you and leave their grime and their stench on your skin, the people who even so much as look at you.

his skin feels too tight, his entire body taut with energy, like a live wire ready to snap at a moment’s notice. the feeling is all-consuming, destroying, making all his thoughts burn to cinders with a possessive, selfish fire.

it makes his chest burn, a sour, bitter anger like bile. he wants to be the only one to touch and hold you like that. he wants to listen to you sigh and shiver under his touch, to be the only one to hear the soft noises you make when he kisses you, when he runs his rough, calloused hands across the expanse of your body.

those assholes don’t deserve to be near you, even less to touch you. you’re his. you belong with him.

“thats– thats okay. if you dont forgive me.” your skin feels like on fire, and you wanted nothing more than to throw off the sheets and walk off. but you couldnt do that. not to touya, and not to yourself. “just know im still sorry.”

wrong answer.

“i don’t forgive you,” he repeats, and his voice comes out cold. “but you don’t get it, do you? you say ‘sorry’, like that somehow fixes everything, but what difference does it make if you’re just going to go out and do the same thing all over again?”

his jaw clenches. you’re too sweet, too gentle, and too damn naive. you trust people too easily, open up to them far too quickly, share your body too happily.

it makes him sick. it makes his skin burn hotter than the flames in his veins, anger and some other twisted thing coiling inside him.

 "its.. its just hard, touya." you confess, biting the inside of your mouth. you didnt know how to explain to him your thought process. and to be honest, you couldnt explain it to yourself either.

he almost laughs at the answer. 

“don’t tell me it’s ‘hard’,” he snaps. “you go out there and open your legs for anyone who gives you the time of day, then come home and expect me to clean up the mess. don’t give me that bullshit, ‘it’s just hard’.”

the words are harsh— harsher than he intends them to be. but he can’t bring himself to feel bad— what is he supposed to feel, besides anger and frustration? there is a bitterness in him, burning hotter than the fire in his veins, consuming him like a flame. 

“do you feel loved, touya?”

do i feel loved?

he almost laughs. love. as if a villain like him would ever be lucky enough to know the taste of such an emotion. love was a thing of light, of hope, and for someone who had neither, it was a foreign idea entirely.

his family did not love him. he was not born out of love, nor did he ever feel it in the years after that. his father was abusive, and his mother was absent. his siblings don't respect him, and he never had any friends.

“why would that even matter?” he spits, his voice harsh. “that has nothing to do with you going out.”

“we both know we aren't loved, touya.” you mumbled, voice cracking as you shut your eyes. “our parents didn't love us, our siblings didn't love us, and we had no friends. your coping mechanism is killing people, but you have a problem with me sucking people off every day?”

he almost laughs. the comparison is cruel— and it’s also true. he wants to argue, wants to say it’s different, but he can’t.

so he bites his tongue and stays silent, staring at the ceiling instead.

“its not love. i know that. but for a moments, it feels like it. when im in bed with someone, im needed, for even just a moment. even if im just a hole to them, at least im something.”

it’s like someone’s punched him, driving the air from his lungs. it’s too much, hearing you talk like that— like you’re something to be passed around and used, something to be tossed away when you’re no longer needed.

“and what?” his voice comes out strangled. “i’m not enough, when you’re with me?”

“you are. you’re more than enough. and thats exactly the problem.”

he almost laughs at that. more than enough— a phrase he’s never heard before, a thought he’s never even dared to think.

he closes his eyes. suddenly, he feels so stupid that it hurts. 

no one’s ever needed him before, not like that. no one’s ever even wanted him, much less needed. he’s never been a first choice, or someone to lean on, or to care about. no one has ever even thought about holding him.

“so i’m enough,” he says, voice wavering “but you still want something more.”

it’s a bitter realization, a harsh truth that hits like a fist. more than enough— and yet still not enough. not enough to keep you from wanting to go out and get touched and held by strangers.

he swallows, the lump in his throat feeling like something he can’t swallow. 

“so what do you want, then?” o lord, hear our prayer. “what the hell do you want?”

“you, my love.” listen to my cry for mercy. “i want you.”

touya would go to church this sunday.

he’d probably make a poor churchgoer, a man used to sin and violence and death, with more blood on his hands than he can count. but still, he’d try. he’d sit in the pew and pray for you, pray that god would forgive him for what he has done, and what he will continue to do.

he doesn’t deserve you, and he knows it. he’s never been a religious man, but if there is a god, he’s going to beg on his hands and knees, plead on his knees for a chance. 

just a chance to make you his.

he can picture it perfectly— the rows and rows of pews, the arched ceiling, the high windows stained with colorful glass. the crucifix at the front of the church, and the priest droning out the rites in a solemn, monotone voice.

touya would sit there and listen to the sermon, and he would pray to a god he doesn’t even believe in just for the slim chance that it would work. because all he wants is you, more than he’s ever wanted anything in his life.

he pictures himself kneeling in prayer, his palms pressed together like a sinner begging for forgiveness. he sees himself making the sign of the cross, fingers reaching up to touch his forehead, his chest and his shoulders. 

it’s a desperate prayer, a futile prayer. but he’d pray to a god he doesn’t even know if he believes in, offering up whatever he can— whatever he has— just for the chance to win you over. 

“you want… me?”

“you’re so fucking stupid, touya.”

your lips were soft. softer than he had ever imagined. they were sweet, and if he really concentrated, he could taste your strawberry chapstick. 

he’s too stunned to react at first, frozen in place by the shock of your kiss. 

and then his brain catches up, and then and only then, does he finally kiss you back, kissing you with a bruising force, as if he’s trying to pour every emotion into you. 

he knows he’s an idiot. a complete and utter fool, to have not seen how much you wanted him. and yet, here you are. wanting him. needing him. loving him.

touyas never felt like this before, so overwhelmed with desire and want. no other touch has ever felt the way yours does. when you press against him like this, your body so small and pliant and willing, it makes him feel like he’s burning up from the inside. 

he kisses you again, and again, and again.

he wants nothing more than to worship you like a saint. he wants to fall to his knees and beg for you like a man possessed, desperate for the feel of your skin and the taste of your mouth, for the touch of your hands and the sound of your voice saying his name.

there’s something sacrilegious in the way he wants you, he’ll fucking pray to you on his hands and knees if you only asked him, for just a hint of you. a single word, a touch, anything. he’ll go down on his knees, begging and pleading, if it means he’ll get to hear you say his name. 

he’s a sinner, through and through, but you make him want a touch of divinity. there is something wrong in the way he craves you, in the way he wants you, something dirty and unholy and wrong, but he’s too far gone to care.

once upon a time, touya didn’t know god. 

he didn’t believe in a higher power, didn’t believe in anything beyond the physical world. there was no room for something as soft and ephemeral as faith in his heart. 

but now he knows. he knows what it’s like to believe in something bigger than oneself, to believe in things he can’t see or touch or feel. he’s found a god in you. you are his higher power, his reason for living, the one thing he’ll worship above all else.

he’ll pray at your altar until his knees bruise, beg and plead and worship until he’s hoarse. he’ll kneel at your feet and praise you, a thousand praises and compliments and prayers, as many as you’ll allow. 

he knows your touch is a miracle, an act of god, because no one else has ever made him feel this alive.

[marvelmusing]

Deserve You

Pairing: Aleksander Morozova x Corporalki!Reader

Summary: After surviving the Fold and the violence of the First Army, you and Aleksander are reunited, though he still struggles with his own monsters.

Warnings: brief mentions of canon level violence

A/N: the comfort fics have begun! This fic contains very minor spoilers for season two (no plot points, just the general background that has been seen in the trailers and promos)

My Masterlist

Aleksander knows you are tired. The past few days have been trying for you both.

The memory of your reunion, you crushing yourself against his chest, tears soaking into the fabric of his kefta, is at the forefront of his mind as he makes his way towards his rooms.

As he thinks of you, the scars on his face twinge. He knows you had done your best to heal the damage, as well as tailoring it away into thin black lines over his features.

Over the last few days, Aleksander has seen your fingers flexing in a familiar motion, easing the pain throbbing at your temples after another sleepless night. Eyes aching after a bought of tears that you had hidden from everyone else - even him.

He can only hope that you hadn’t waited up for him tonight, though he is half expecting to see you sat at his desk with a book in hand like usual.

He didn’t mind it when you could curl up by the fireplace in his study at the Little Palace, or one of the armchairs tucked away in the corner of his war room, as you waited for him to return from overrun meetings or training sessions.

But here, in this abandoned old estate where he and his Grisha have been forced to take refuge in, he knows you will struggle to find such luxuries. He hopes to find you comfortable in bed, perhaps even already asleep.

Instead, Aleksander finds you curled into a ball on the old armchair by the fireplace in his study. The firelight flickers over your face, features softened as you dream. Neck at an odd angle, your head is against the armrest, face nuzzled against the swaddle of dark blanket you had bundled around yourself.

He knows from experience that the armchair you’re sleeping on is rather uncomfortable. The cushioning is well worn, providing little protection from the hard wooden base, and the fabric is fraying at the edges.

As he steps towards you, quietly in an attempt at not disturbing your rest, he realises it isn’t a blanket draped over your frame. It’s his cloak.

Tears gloss in Aleksander’s eyes at the thought of losing this - losing you. The rest of the Grisha fear him, even those who are loyal to him feel unsettled by the unnatural power he had gained but had yet to use in their presence.

The bone rattling ache that reverberates in his very soul at the creation of his creatures is enough of an incentive to use this power only in times of great need.

Only once had the nichevo’ya slipped from his control, when he had found you in one of the First Army prison camps.

Hands bound to prevent you from using your power, you had been helpless to stop the Sergeant that grabbed you during the commotion of Aleksander’s attack.

At every camp he liberated, Aleksander had searched for you, desperately hoping you were alive and unharmed. When he found you, knife at your throat, being used as a bargaining chip for some pathetic solider, the shadows had spilt out of him, vying for blood.

That uncontrollable burst of power had formed into a creature that tore through the soldier, flinging you to safely before it mauled him to a painful and grisly death.

Wide eyed, a shallow cut against your throat, you had stared at Aleksander as he rushed over to you, dropping to his knees to assess the damage. He had summoned the Cut instantly, shattering your shackles and guiding your hands to your wound, however minor it was.

Once you were healed, he finally gained the will to withdraw his monster from the body of the soldier, studying your expression all the while.

When you had reached for him, concerned about the visible wounds left by the volcra instead of asking about his abominations, he had been surprised.

Even now, despite everything, you still consider him your safe space - gaining comfort from his cloak when he could not be here to hold you himself.

Knowing you will be uncomfortable when you wake if he does not move you, he bends down to rouse you gently from your slumber. His breath catches at the sight of your lashes fluttering delicately as you slowly pull yourself away from sleep.

Then you tense, eyes widening and body backing away into the seat of the armchair. He shushes you softly, saying your name in a low voice and ignoring the spike in his chest at your fearful response.

“Only me,” he assures you.

The ache only alleviates once you relax, which happens instantly when you recognise his presence. Mumbling his name sleepily, you reach towards him, closing the already limited space between you.

The proximity allows him to see the cloak better, curled purposefully around your shoulders with the excess bundled against your chest. Then he notices the mud on the hem by your bare feet. He frowns.

“Is this the cloak I wore to Ryevost?”

At his question, you glance down, running your fingertip over the edge of the soft lining that had been keeping you warm as you slept.

“The new ones don’t smell like you.”

“This one smells of horse,” he counters with a teasing arch of his brow.

“Horse and you. But mostly you.”

He hums, disliking the thought of you using something dirty. In Aleksander’s opinion, you deserve to lie on the finest silks and beneath the softest of blankets. Instead, you’re making do with his travel worn clothing.

“Perhaps I could select a cloak solely for indoor use, which you could steal from me instead of this one.”

“Or maybe one of your keftas?” you suggest, avoiding his eyes.

In response, he hooks a finger beneath your chin, tilting your head back to meet his gaze. A heat fills him, his lips twitching into a smirk as he adds his own suggestion,

“Just the kefta?”

Warmth spreads over your cheeks, as a long unseen mischief fills your eyes.

“Perhaps on special occasions.”

He hums approvingly, leaning forward to kiss your lips.

It’s only once he moves to lift you into his arms that you pull away from him, shaking your head and assuring him hurriedly,

“No, no. I can stand.”

He pauses, staring into your eyes. The concern there tugs at his heart, soothing the burn of his pride at the nervous edge in your voice. Ever since his return, you’ve been afraid of the damage his survival did to his body.

“I’m not fragile,” he states firmly, resolve hardening as he pushes the cloak from your body, revealing your night attire as he wraps his arms around you.

Scooping you up against his chest, he swallows down the small tinge of pain at the effort as he moves towards his bedroom.

“I’m not saying you are, Sasha. But you shouldn’t exert yourself.”

He lowers you at the foot of the bed you share, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. As he backs away, you frown and add,

“You should get some rest.”

As he opens up a drawer to retrieve his night shirt, the corner of his mouth curls into a half smile, one that only you can bring out of him.

“As should you.”

Straightening slightly, you watch as if you’re waiting for him to return to his study. He knows if he did, you would pull on his bathrobe and join him as he worked.

“Not without you.”

He nods in assent, gesturing towards the head of the bed with his shirt still in hand.

“I’m joining you. Please, get comfortable.”

Following his order is easy enough for you, pulling back the covers and sliding your bare legs against the chilly sheets. He watches you shiver lightly as he shrugs off his kefta, tossing it aside before he removes his cotton tunic as well.

Aleksander feels your eyes on his bare chest as he tugs on his grey sleep shirt. He knows you are looking over the scars that litter his body, both new and old, the faded white, fresh pink, and inky black. Plenty of them had been healed by your own hand.

As he pulls his trousers down and changes his underwear, you lie back against the pillows, subconsciously nearing the centre of the bed to be close to him when he arrives.

Aleksander joins you, as promised, sliding beneath the covers to lie on his back and welcome you into his arms. He remains still, allowing you to shift yourself into a comfortable position around him.

Nestling into the side of his body, half draped over him, you press a kiss to the spot between his neck and his shoulder. Aleksander shivers, tightening his hold on you as the chilly tip of your nose brushes over his skin.

Then you settle further down, resting your head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat as the world goes quiet.

He murmurs the admission that has been weighing him down over the last few days, saddened words against your hair as he brushes his lips over the crown of your head.

Even as you’re half asleep, you pick up on his distress, lifting your head slightly,

“Sasha?”

He knows you will pick up on his heartbeat if he lies. The self loathing that has been festering under his skin urges him to repeat himself, in the hope that you will finally see sense and flee from him.

“I don’t deserve you.”

Instead of responding, you burrow further into his arms, curling your own protectively around his waist and the back of his neck as you press your body over the top of his.

As your fingers thread lightly through his hair, his eyes flutter closed. He feels something inside him shatter as you place a kiss against his neck, where his heartbeat is the strongest.

“It doesn’t matter,” you say quietly. “This is what I want to give you.”

He feels your fingers tighten in his hair and the fabric of his shirt. The concept of anyone giving Aleksander something with no expectations is foreign to him. Everyone wants something.

Though all you appear to want is him.

Not the Darkling who can summon creatures of shadow. Not the General who offers you protection. Or the amplifier that could give you the strength to perhaps rival the sun summoner. Not even the boy, Aleksander, who learnt cruelty from his mother’s knee.

All the fractured pieces of himself, hardened and lost and twisted by time and suffering. Aleksander can never deny you what you want, but he never imagined you could want him so much, in spite of everything he has become.

His dark eyes fill with tears once again, the reclined position of his head causing them to spill out, casting wet streaks over his temples.

“Whether you deserve it or not, this is what I want. I want to love you, Aleksander.”

-

marvelmusing Tag List: @dreamlandcreations @blanchedelioncourt @idaofinfinity @slytherheign @ellooo0ooo @vixenofcourse @dumb-fawkin-bitch @jane-arthur @ilikefictionmen @budugu @watersquirtpewpewboomm @mysweetlittledesire

Aleksander M Tag List: @nyctophiliiiiaaa @jazmin2211 @wooya1224

BB Characters Tag List: @rachlovesactors @noortsshift @aikeia @weallhaveadestiny @two-unbeatable-beaters

[chaotic-orphan]

Hiiii !!!!

May I please request where you write a story where a villain whumps a hero into loving and obeying them but then it backfires and the hero is a toxic lover and whumps villain outta possessive and obsessiveness ?

Thanks if you do !!! Your writing is literally SOOOO fire girlie 😭🔥🔥🔥🔥 I’ve literallyy been eating up the febuwhump prompts

Twisted Love

TW: lady Whump, lady Whumpee, male Whumper, yandere Whumper, intimate Whumper, creepy Whumper, hero Whumpee, villain Whumper, Whump love, but not consensual at all, kidnapped hero,

Please lmk if I missed any tags! 🙏

@xxgalgurlxx what a fun prompt! Thank you so much! It’s a series, I’m sorry, I can’t fit it all into one snippet!

*~*~*~*~*

Hero had just gotten back to her feet when her eyes trained on Villain raising his arm in front of him, fingers splayed. Hero didn’t have time to react as she was slammed backwards into the brickwork at the end of the alley. She let out an involuntary gasp, her back and ribs aching from the force of the impact.

Her mind was like sludge, moving too slow to react to Villain’s easy onslaught of attack after attack. Not to mention his stupid telekinesis that made everything he did effortless. Every fight easily won.

Villain didn’t even let Hero fall to the ground, instead she was held against the wall, feet dangling a few inches above the ground, arms flailing uselessly to attack Villain’s hold. She might as well have been fighting air, but Villain’s bone crushing grip didn’t feel like air. It felt like Hero was being squashed from every side, like Villain was squeezing a grape between his fingers.

“Give up yet?” Villain asked politely, advancing on Hero after Hero seized struggling, but it was all false. Everything about Villain was false. The politeness was just another layer of smug that Hero hated.

“Yeah, keep talking. You just know you couldn’t win in a real fight.”

The hand holding Hero squeezed tighter until Hero gasped out in pain, curling in on herself.

“I could just watch you all day,” Villain hummed appreciatively. He stopped two feet away from Hero, a passive smile on his face but his eyes… Villain’s eyes looked hungry and full of something that Hero couldn’t quite discern.

Hero threw her arm forward. Glinting metal turned over metal in the moonlight and stopped mid air, just in front of Villain’s cheek.

Villain smiled and tsked, grabbing the knife by the handle and turning it between his fingers with a dramatic sigh.

“That wasn’t very nice Hero,” Villain said, gently scolding her. His smirking eyes dancing with dark promise as be said, “someone should really teach you some manners.”

Another invisible hand grabbed both of Hero’s and pinned them against the wall. Hero jerked forward, trying to free herself but she had no grip on anything! She couldn’t even gain purchase on the ground because her feet were hovering above it.

Hero let out a frustrated groan as she kicked out, trying to dislodge herself in anyway. Villain’s eyes lit up at Hero’s renewed struggles.

“So feisty. So persistent,” Villain whispered. He was standing in front of Hero now and Hero blinked back her surprise, stifling a gasp. When had that happened? Villain grazed the tip of her knife from the center of Hero’s palm up her wrist and arm. Hero’s breath hitched when the cool blade touched her skin. “I bet I could make you grovel.”

That sent a shiver down Hero’s spine that she tried her damnedest to suppress. Wait, Villain was so close. Hero kicked out at Villain, but again, just before her feet made contact something caught Hero round the ankles and yanked them down.

Hero slid down the wall with a surprised yelp, eyes wide as her feet touched the ground and grew stuck there, her entire body immobile against the dusty brickwork behind her. Villain was taller than her, Hero realised as she swallowed, staring at Villain’s chest.

Villain brought Hero’s own knife up her shoulder and then throat, before pressing the flat of the blade up under Hero’s chin. The tip biting into her neck as he tilted Hero’s chin up to stare into Villain’s eyes, which sent a rush of ice through Hero’s veins.

Something primal in the back of her mind told her to run, to flee, to get out of there. That Villain was dangerous and a threat to her continued survival.

“God, look at you,” Villain hummed. With his free hand he reached up to cup Hero’s cheek, thumb stroking over Hero’s cheekbone. Hero did shiver at that, and jerk her arms back trying to escape the unrelenting invisible hold. “You are magnificent. That little spark of defiance in your pretty little eyes, the fear…”

“Get off of me, you creep!” Hero spat, trying to turn her head away from Villain, mostly to just stop looking at that dangerous glint in his smirking eyes. Villain didn’t let her turn an inch. The moment Hero’s head twitched to move, Villain brought the flat of her blade up to Hero’s other cheek, stopping her from moving.

“You know what Hero?” Villain said, leaning his face in close to Hero’s. Hero pressed her head against the wall, trying to get away from him, but Villain kept leaning in nonetheless until his lips were inches from Hero’s. Hero let out a quiet, powerless whine in the back of her throat, her heart thundering against her chest. Villain smiled, bone chilling and cold. “I think I’ll take you home with me.”

Hero’s stomach bottomed out. “No!”

Villain leaned in closer and for a breath-stealing moment, Hero thought Villain was going to kiss her. Instead Villain pressed his lips against Hero’s ear. Delighting in the shiver she couldn’t fight.

“Yes, little Hero. You’ll be my greatest prize. I’ll keep you suspended like this, like a trophy. Maybe in the entrance hall.”

“No,” Hero whispered, trembling against the telekinetic hold. The only thing that stood between Hero and her freedom. She flinched when she felt tears fall onto her cheeks. “Let me go, please,” Hero sniffed.

Villain pulled back, a grin on his face. “Now why would I do that, Hero?”

Villain stepped back, leaving a little distance between them, not as much as Hero would like, but enough. She couldn’t stop shaking, and she hated herself for it. Adrenaline was rushing through her veins like bolts of electricity, trying to feed Hero’s muscles and give her strength to flee, to fight, to escape.

It all just sat useless below the surface.

Villain let Hero’s knife swing down from her cheek and reached his hands forward. Hero slammed her eyes shut and looked away waiting for the blow to come.

Instead, a deep, rumbling chuckle sounded in front of her. Hero risked opening her eyes to see Villain sliding Hero’s knife back into its sheath on her thigh. His fingers lingering on Hero’s thigh. It made bile climb up Hero’s throat.

“Please, don’t touch me,” Hero pleaded, her voice so broken. So light. So terrified. Bargaining with a Villain!

Villain’s fingers drew up to Hero’s waist and lingered there. “Hero. Look at me.”

Hero refused. She kept her gaze stubbornly on the wall of the alley. Until that invisible hand was on her cheek and turning her head, against her will, to face Villain.

She swallowed and mustered up all her hatred into her glare when she met his dark eyes. Villain let out a breath, that same sickening smile on his face.

The snap of her cuffs being unclipped from her belt drew her attention down, but the invisible hand pushed her head back up to look at Villain. She let out a frustrated groan to his laughter.

“Come on, Hero. I can’t have you fighting me on the way home.”

“Go to hell!” Hero spat.

Villain grinned a lazy grin. “Only if you come with me, sweetheart.”

Villain reached his hand up to Hero’s wrist pinned to the wall, taking his sweet time in opening the cuffs. Hero knew what she was going to do before Villain even touched her. The moment he let the hold slip she was going to bolt for it. Slap him, push him, distract him, something. If she could reach her knife—

Villain put a hand on her wrist and she felt the telekinetic hold loosen. She shoved forward with all her strength. Villain’s eyes went wide, gaze cutting into her face but she just needed that moment of surprise. She felt the hold drop completely and she ducked under his arms, grabbing her dagger from it’s sheath and cutting Villain’s knee as she surged forwards.

Villain cried out behind her but Hero didn’t care. She didn’t have time to care. She had to make it to the mouth of the alley before he got his bearings. She felt the adrenaline surge in her calves, her lungs taking in more air, her heart beating more blood.

A hand caught her ankle. Hero was thrown forward by her own momentum, hands out to brace her fall. Her palms grazed against the stone, but she was already twisting her body, turning, expecting Villain to still be at the end of the alley. She could throw her dagger again and catch him.

It all went so well in her head.

She gasped when she saw those brown eyes up close. He was above her, knees on either side of her waist that pinned her beneath his body.

He didn’t look angry, just sickly entertained. He didn’t use his telekinesis. He used his own hands to pin her wrists to the ground above her head. She cried out when he slammed her dagger wielding hand against the pavement, once, twice, three times— again and again until finally she dropped it with a clatter.

“No!” She cried, struggling beneath him but he didn’t take his time this time. He snapped the cuffs open and the weight settled cold against her wrist. She could feel her powers draining, muting under the power dampeners. “No! Get off me! HELP! Somebo—”

Villain clamped his hand over her mouth, leaning his weight down onto it. She cried out, her free hand going to his, trying to dislodge it.

“A hero crying for help?” He asked with a smirk. “How ironic.”

Escape be damned. For one second she wanted to wipe that smugness off his stupid face.

She stopped fumbling with his wrist and instead slammed her hand up, palm first and aimed for his throat, his stupid adam’s apple.

Her hand stopped an inch away. Eyes widening as she watched it tremble. Villain pressed a kiss to her palm, then her wrist while Hero was powerless to push up or pull back. She let out a frustrated moan in the back of her throat as he laced his fingers through hers.

“Oh you are going to be so much fun,” Villain said, his eyes half lidded, smirk still on his face as he gazed down at Hero. “Now, are you going to promise not to scream or are you going to force me to knock you out?”

Hero huffed a breath out through her nose and Villain removed his hand.

“I won’t scream.”

Villain tilted his head. “Now why don’t I trust you?”

“Probably because you’re currently kidnapping me, you bastard!”

“Kidnapping makes it sound so romantic doesn’t it?”

Hero bucked her hips under him, revelling in the slight widening of his eyes at her sudden movement. Hero clicked her fingers and her knife summoned back into her palm. Hero had only a second to enjoy the familiar feeling before Villain was off her and yanked Hero to her feet.

Villain slammed the knife out of her palm, but she didn’t even have time to mourn the loss of it when Villain yanked her back, spinning her so her back was to his front.

Villain grabbed her free hand and wrestled it back into the other cuff, as if she wasn’t struggling at all. The sound of the cuff clicking closed was like the final nail in her coffin.

She froze for a moment, not being able to feel her knives around her. The weight of them on her body was a small mercy. It was such an uncomfortable feeling. As if her arm had just been severed, a limb taken from her.

It took a breath for her to acclimatise. Then she cried out in anger and slammed her head back. It connected with Villain’s chest, not even relishing the surprised breath she stole from his lungs she hook her leg around the back of his and slammed her head back again so they went to the ground. She rolled the minute his back hit the ground and got to her feet with a little difficulty.

She didn’t even have time to think of running before she felt that giant invisible hand grab her and pick her up, leaving her dangling useless in the air.

Villain was on the ground, turned on his side, elbow bent, propping his head up on his palm. That stupid smirk in his stupid eyes.

“Honestly, it would be wise of me to knock you out, but you struggle so beautifully that it would be a crime to not watch you try and stop me on the way home.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Hero promised.

Villain flashed her a grin. “I look forward to it.”

Villain was on his feet in a second, Hero’s knife in one hand. He gestured his hand down and Hero sunk to the ground in front of him.

“Now, open wide.”

Hero frowned at him. Villain grinned and pointed at his cheeks. “Say aah!”

Hero didn’t know what he wanted her to do, but she damn sure wasn’t going to do it if he wanted her to.

He placed his thumb over her lips and pulled down. “Come on now, Hero. Play nice.”

Hero opened her mouth to bite him but instead Villain pushed the hilt of her dagger into her mouth. Before she could spit it out she felt his real hand and his invisible one slam her chin up, forcing her to bite down on the handle.

“Hold that for me, will you?”

“Oohk—” she began but coughed as her tongue got caught around the hilt.

“Oh, be careful, Hero. Wouldn’t want you to choke now, would we?”

Hero wanted to scream, she wanted to fight. She wanted to be able to move her body and open her mouth, but she didn’t get any of that, not with Villain in front of her.

Villain put a hand on her arm, sliding down to rest on her wrist and steered her forward towards the mouth of the alley. “You are going to simply adore the boot of my car.”

[mychoombatheroomba]

Thank God, You're Finally Home

Between the Bones (Leon x GN! Reader) - Chapter 15

Leon faces the end of his assessments, and then the two of you face whatever is between the two of you.

(Cross-posted from Ao3)

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Chapter Index

“How are you feeling, rookie?” 

Leon was, despite his aching head, his bruising jaw, the freshly sutured wound in his arm and the exhaustion from a long day and interrupted sleep, in a good mood. How could he not be, after the conversation the two of you had just had? Whatever came next for you, at least you were talking again. At least he got to see you smile. Not much could kill the high that had put him in. Not much, but hearing Major Krauser’s raspy voice sure threatened violence against that happiness.

“I feel like I was woken up with tear gas,” Leon answered, not caring if the Major would think the response too sharp. 

“Upset about that, are you?” Krauser sounded amused as he stepped up to where Leon sat at the edge of the bed. “And here I thought you could handle anything I threw at you.” 

Leon’s brow slid down, the easy expression he’d been wearing becoming something more determined. “I can.” 

“Really? Because no one else had to be carried out of there tonight.”

That fact set stones in Leon’s gut. He’d been so caught up in the pain and panic - and then elation - he’d almost missed the sinking feeling that he had, in the Major’s eyes, made a mistake. 

“What did I tell you about being a hero?”

Leon tensed, his brow twitching. Might as well get right to the point, if this was going where he thought it was. “So did I fail, then?” 

Krauser looked at him, inhaling slow. “Well, that depends. You think you can fight with that arm?” 

Eyes widening, Leon looked up, and any doubts, any worries he had were gone. “I’ve had worse,” he said, and Krauser chuckled. 

He almost looked proud.

“Well alright then, rookie. Get some rest. Report as usual for First Call.” 

And Leon was there, his arm bandaged and his body aching, but standing at attention for those first morning drills. His squad mates had eyed him as he filed in, and in the quiet moments as they waited for Major Krauser to arrive, it was Williams that spoke up at last. “Hell of a night, huh?” 

The laughter that followed was hushed and dry. The sort that was brought about by enduring a shared hardship.

 Leon couldn’t help but smile as Alenko nudged him with a grin. “Good to see you made it, Kennedy.” 

Leon just shrugged. “Wouldn’t miss it.” 

By the time Krauser arrived, Leon’s squad, though tired, though beaten down, was ready. They all stood tall, their jaws set firmly as the Major passed them each a practice knife, the silver blades dull in the dim light of the morning. Combat drills weren’t usually run so early, but Leon knew not to expect Krauser to adhere to a schedule. So, he braced himself, taking some deep breaths as he looked for the appearance you’d told him you would be making. 

Instead, the Major found another way to surprise them. 

“Hold onto those today,” Krauser instructed, pointing to the knife that he’d just handed to Shinoda. The Major was grinning, because of course he fucking was. “Be ready to use them. Now, get your gear.” 

Leon realized then that you’d perhaps only told him half of the final test. He’d assumed a fight with you meant what it usually did: you working your way down the line in the training yard, later in the day. Instead, he learned very quickly that day that Krauser had something else in mind. 

It wasn’t long into the forced march that he saw you - or what he came to realize was you. He hadn’t been sure at first; all he’d seen was the shape of a person moving through the trees. Then, like a shadow, you’d emerged, and there was steel flashing at the throat of the recruit that had fallen behind the rest. 

It was over in a few seconds, and your opponent barely had time to pull his knife from its sheath. Then, he was forced down onto the dirt path, his arm held down and your blade at the back of his neck. 

Leon and the rest of his unit went for their own knives, until Krauser’s voice halted them. “No, no. This isn’t your fight,” he hissed, and everyone stilled. “Don’t worry, the Sergeant has plenty of time. You’ll all get a chance to play.” Leon was suddenly aware of his heart beating more heavily as you stood, helping your defeated opponent up as you did. The intensity he’d come to know from you was back, a suit of armor that kept you well-protected as you moved off the path and into the trees once more. Armor that he saw a chink in when you met his eyes briefly, and he saw a challenge sparkling there in the low light. Then you were gone, and the game truly began. 

And a brutal game it was. 

You didn’t play fair - and Krauser likely had instructed you to do just that. There were nine more recruits to fight through, and it soon became clear that you were taking your time, choosing moments when they wouldn’t expect it. You went after one during the morning exercises, attacking when the recruit was doing push-ups. Leon managed to shout his comrade a warning, letting him get up in time to mount a defense. In the end, though, it didn’t matter. 

Shinoda’s fight came at breakfast, right as he set his food down. The violence earned shouts from the other recruits watching, a savage chorus cheering on the combat. Shinoda was able to use the tables to his advantage, and after a few minutes of cat and mouse play, he managed to land slashes on your arm and leg. 

You still ended the fight as the victor, though, with a slash across the belly. 

“You two train together,” Williams pulled Leon aside, as the group was headed to the firing range. Paranoia had everyone in a stranglehold, and they were all dealing with it in their own way. Williams, it seemed, wanted to plan ahead. “Anything to watch out for? Weaknesses?” 

Leon wasn’t sure how to answer. He knew you better than they did, true, but pointing out your weaknesses felt like a betrayal. Even if you were, in essence, picking them off one by one. But then, would it even matter if they knew? Would they be able to adjust in time to beat you? 

Luckily, Alenko was there to return the favor from the night before and saved Leon from answering. “If you don’t know by now, then you haven’t been paying attention,” he said. 

Alenko must have been paying attention, though, because when you rushed him only moments later, he held his own well enough. At least, he did, until you pulled another blade into the fight - one concealed at the small of your back, beneath your shirt. 

Then, even Leon who had fought you more than anyone else on base felt nervous. You’d never used two knives before, not that he’d seen. Still, as he watched your exchange with Alenko, he realized that you must have been practicing as much with your own squad. You danced with the twin fangs well, and secured another victory in doing so. When you locked your blade against Alenko’s throat, your eyes found Leon’s, and any frustrations he might have had about this new development melted away. 

He’d asked you not to go easy on him, after all. 

So Leon awaited his turn, keeping his guard up with the rest of his squad as the day went by. Some of them came close, but none of them managed to score a victory against you. Not when you had the element of surprise and were armed just as they were. He watched each fight - not quite the easy affairs they once were, but still incredible to behold. At least, as far as Leon was concerned, they were incredible. Steel was an art with you - a song that only you knew the steps to. 

Still, he didn’t let his focus waver. He had to get through this and then, perhaps, he could entertain those thoughts. 

If you were willing. 

Instead of thinking of how beautiful you looked with those weapons, Leon focused on how you were just a touch slower to act with your off-hand, when you had two knives out. How you would sometimes go for the binds he knew you favored, only to reconsider and go for an attack at the last minute. 

Williams was the ninth fight, and she nearly had you. As strong as she was, and with her reach, she was able to cage your weapon against your leg, and nearly ran you through with a stab. Then, your other hand went for your second knife, and you spun to the side. The dulled blade met her neck, and then only Leon remained. 

“Of course Kennedy gets saved for last,” Williams grumbled, not happy with losing. 

Leon wasn’t sure what it meant that everyone had lost so far, but he did his best not to let it affect him. Krauser had trained them well. You had given him the tools he needed to win. All he needed to do was keep alert and apply what he’d learned. 

He kept an eye out through his drills and hand-to-hand sparring and everything in between. The tension dragged just long enough for the anxiety to begin to creep in, with Leon watching for you around every corner. He knew how to stay alert. How to move carefully and watch closely. How to react quickly, if he needed to. He knew that was likely all that saved him, when the time came. 

He was sparring with Alenko when you made your move. He almost didn’t realize you were approaching - Alenko’s eyes widening, and the sound of quick footsteps were the only warning he got. 

He got his block up just in time to fend off the stab you brought down on him, and staved off another as you brought your blade down and around, switching hands. It led to the two of you being locked together for a moment, his hands closed around either of your wrists and your eyes fixed on each other. Leon saw that flare of life in your eyes, the same way you’d looked the night you kissed him, and it sent electricity through him. 

You brought your leg up, kicking him away. Leon took the opportunity to draw his own blade, nostrils flaring as he bent his knees. Raised his guard. 

Something unspoken passed between the two of you - warm and charged - and then you were both rushing forward. 

Leon couldn’t even say what happened in those first few seconds. All he knew was that you moved, and he moved with you, a series of attacks, blocks and ripostes that he got through purely on instinct. His body remembered where to go, what to do, your lessons and Krauser’s ingrained in his bones. He felt your knife brush against his forearm as you twisted it. He felt his own blade do the same when you didn’t get out of the way fast enough. 

When the two of you separated, you were both breathing heavy, neither one of you down for the count. 

And you were almost smiling. 

 “Not going to use both?” Leon asked, pointing at your waist where he knew the second knife was hidden. It was a risk, but you weren’t as used to fighting with the two blades, he’d seen it. Maybe, if you took the bait, you would trip up. Make a mistake. Then he might be able to win.

Or, he’d get cut to theoretical ribbons. 

Either way, he was about to find out because you took the bait. You didn’t give him a response as you pulled your second knife out - you only looked at him with a raised brow and a tilted head. He knew that look, now. It was the expression you took on when you were sure you were going to win. Your funeral. 

Leon found some pride in the fact that, even as you rushed him with two blades, he wasn’t panicked as he used to be. Even with an injured arm, he held his ground. 

His squad mates cheered him on as he traded slashes and stabs with you, but it was all just noise to him. All he could really hear was the sound of the knives parting air, and the sharp exhales you both gave as you attacked and defended. The hiss of pain he made as your knife slashed against his bandages on a failed evasion. God, you were fast. You hardly gave him a moment to breathe, and with two weapons, Leon was on the defensive. He would go for an attack on your arm, and you would counter cut to his arm with your right hand, your other going for his belly. He would dodge a stab to his stomach only to have to block a slash at his throat. 

His mind rushed as he tried to think of a way to get you to trip up. 

He slashed at a diagonal, high to low. Your blades chased his arm as you retreated, then turned towards his midsection. Back arching away to avoid the attack, Leon pressed forward, going for your left shoulder. A feint, one that you raised a block for. The redirected attack was caught, wrist against wrist. 

You made a mistake, then. 

You went for the disarm on instinct, and Leon saw the split second as you changed your mind, deciding that you could end the fight then and there. It was all the time he needed, and he let the knife in his hand fall. 

His left hand was there to catch it, to slash at the arm attacking him and then go for your stomach. You grunted as the first attack landed, the second missing by a hair’s breadth. More cheers, but Leon only heard one thing; the voice in his own mind. 

Damn. 

The knives in your hands flipped, and then you were holding them in a reverse grip. The same way Krauser preferred. 

You were going to end the fight, Leon could see it in your eyes. 

You moved first, attacking high and low. Shoulder, knee - Leon blocked both with wide eyes. Tried to slash down at you but had to move his hand out of the way of your counter cut. 

A flash of steel as you went for his throat. 

Another as he leaned away, and your second knife hooked at the back of his ankle. 

He was falling, then, and his free arm couldn’t stop both the blades you followed him down with. 

But he could raise his own knife in time. 

You settled on top of him, the points of both of your blades finding his throat . . .

. . . and your eyes went wide as you realized you’d been met with steel in your chest. 

You both would have died together, if it were a real fight. One more slow than the other, perhaps, but you’d still assured each other’s end. 

A draw. The closest anyone today had come to winning against you. 

And as Leon looked up at you, his heart nearly burst, because you were smiling at him with so much pride. He couldn’t help but smile back, and the world around the two of you ceased to be. It was no more than a second, but it would stay with Leon for much longer; the image of you above him, eyes sparkling, the sun above you outlining you in gold. You looked from his eyes to his lips and back again, and he swore that you decided something then and there. 

Then, the moment ended. You stood, placing both of your knives in one hand and reaching the other down. When you helped him up, Leon felt like he was floating rather than standing. 

⧫⧫⧫

In the end, only five of ten were deemed ready to move up to the next level of training. A woman named Lawson, who you’d exchanged maybe five words with and Shinoda, who you’d fought the day Krauser had pitted you against two at the same time. Williams and Alenko had passed, too, and you weren’t surprised by the news. Both were good soldiers, and they’d earned their new place in your squad. 

The fifth - the only one you’d truly cared about - was making his way to you now, his eyes somehow bright even after everything he’d endured in the last few hours. But then, he was one of the strongest people you knew. Of course he could make it through these tests and still have it in him to smile when he saw you. 

“Still managed to get another surprise in there, after all,” he said, and the good humor in his voice set you at ease. 

“And you handled it. Told you, you’re getting good at this.” 

“Guess I am,” Leon nodded, before his eyes took on a more serious light. “You still want to have that talk?” 

You expected dread at the mention of it, but instead you just nodded, a sense of inevitability washing over you. After all, you’d had days to reconcile what it was you were feeling. It was time to stop hiding from it. 

“Yeah,” you nodded, looking to the open window of the officer’s barracks and then back. This wasn’t the sort of conversation you wanted to have in earshot of Krauser or anyone else. Especially Krauser. “Let’s walk.” 

And so the two of you set out across the base, tracing a little ways away from the walls. The first few minutes were spent in a comfortable silence, one that you didn’t mind. It was a little reprieve for both of you from the day’s events, a moment to just take in the sounds of evening crickets and the way the sky was getting ready to put on its evening show. 

Calm could only last for so long, though. The two of you understood that better than anyone. And after everything either of you had survived, you didn’t want this to be the thing that finally made you run for your life. So, you waited until you reached the spot you’d been searching for - that little corner behind the mess hall where the cameras were blind and the shadows were long. Leon didn’t question as you led him there, or as you went and leaned against the wall. He settled in beside you, not too close, but not too far. Just within reach.

“Quiet spot,” he observed. 

“That’s the idea,” you nodded. Then, you took a breath and went on. “You said we should just talk about what we’re feeling next time - be flat out.” It was now or never. And you wouldn’t forgive yourself if you let it slip into the latter. “I’m ready to have that talk, if you are.” 

Leon looked over at you, and the hope behind his baby blues was too damn much. “Yeah,” he nodded, “I’m ready.” 

And there was the open ocean, uncharted and unyielding, stretching out before you. Waiting for you to take the plunge. 

Well, fuck it. 

“We’re training to fight things that take people and turn them into something else. Take their souls.” You hated that your voice already started to strain, but you went on. “If it doesn’t happen to us, then there’s a million other things that could go wrong. Us focusing on each other could make us slip up. And when we’re done here, we probably won’t even be put on the same missions half the time. It’s a bad idea. Us being together.” There was some bitter humor in your tone as all of those hard truths were given voice and form. Humor, because there was still one thing that overshadowed them. “And the worst part is that I know all of that . . .”

You didn’t give yourself a chance to second guess.

“. . . and it doesn’t make me want it any less.” 

Leon turned towards you fully, and his gaze drew you in. Unavoidable. Inescapable. You were sure that, in that moment, no one could have looked away from him. Not when he looked so beautifully and unexpectedly elated. You wished you could keep the world from taking that joy from him. 

“You mean that?” 

“I do.”

Then, he blinked and laughed a little. “You’re kind of a tease, you know that?” 

You grinned. “Trust me, pretty boy, you haven’t seen anything yet.” 

“Will I?” He didn’t miss a beat, and you were a little pleased with him catching you off guard like that. 

“That depends,” you countered, turning to face him more fully. You wanted an equal playing field. “Your turn. What are you feeling?” 

Leon didn’t take long to answer. “I think that you know already . . .” you had to give him that much, “. . . but honestly, I think you’ve been the best thing about this place.” 

That admission was almost enough to knock you off your damn feet. A little humor was your only defense. “Pretty sad fucking state of affairs for the base, then.” 

“I’m serious.” He moved a little closer. “Having you has made this all easier. And I meant what I said.” The pink blush dusting his cheeks and ears betrayed his nerves, but he was pushing through it anyway, holding your gaze and speaking in a hushed tone. “You didn’t push things too far.” He looked down at your lips. 

“How far is ‘too far’, then?” you asked, and you almost couldn’t hear your own voice over the pounding in your ears as you leaned in. It was Leon’s last chance to back out. To take the sensible path. Your last chance, too. 

“If we ever get there, I’ll let you know.” 

You’d known it was going to end this way. Still, when the two of you met in the middle, lips crashing together, you felt like you’d been thrown from the top of a building without a parachute. 

All you could do was fall. 

And you fell into the movements of his mouth against yours all too easily, less desperate than the last time. That had been all adrenaline and desire. This, you could tell, was something else. You could feel it in the way his arms moved around you, holding you so gently. So reverently. A hand came up to your jaw, and you responded in kind by putting a hand at his back, feeling the muscles that he had earned through so much pain and perseverance. You pulled him into you, taking care this time to memorize how his body felt against yours - to marvel at how right it felt, despite the distant warnings of your mind. 

Warnings that grew more and more distant as the kiss went on, silenced by a greater desire. A will to get it right, this time. A second chance at a first, you thought, as you wove your other hand into his hair. He groaned a little at the touch, and you couldn’t say what possessed you to slip your tongue between his lips. All you knew was that he didn’t pull away. He met you in equal measure, breathing heavy against you. 

So warm. 

So real. 

The steadiness of it began to turn into something else. Liquid fire, melting away at your belly. You went on kissing him, almost to spite your worries. To fly in the face of the nerves that had choked you day after day. 

Each moment was a risk, but you couldn’t care less. Not when it was Leon in your arms and on your lips. 

It didn’t seem like he cared much, either. 

It might have been seconds or hours by the time you separated. Either way, you were both panting when you got the chance to really breathe, your lips swollen and shining in the low light. “Too far?” you asked, grinning like a fox because you already knew his answer. 

“God, no,” Leon shook his head, laughing.

Your hand traveled from Leon’s hair to his face, in a more tender gesture than you perhaps intended. Still, you couldn’t deny that something in your heart stirred as he leaned into the touch. 

And the smile he gave you . . . it was enough to split the world in two.

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Chapter Index

A/N: The final (for now) Dawid Podsiadło song rec is the "Little Stranger", I had that on repeat while I was writing these last few chapters.

Broken record here, but seriously, thank you all so much for reading! It means the world to me! Stay happy and healthy, and I'll see you in the next chapter!

[oncewhenalongtimeago]

Just Like Magic pt 2

Pairing: Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III x Reader

Words: 5,492 

An oddity or an omen?

Tags: Witch!reader, optimistic/cheery reader, female reader, httyd 1, unedited

<Previous - Next>

Hiccup sighed, breath pressing out from dry lips, feeling generally blazing as if he himself were just as fiery as the hearth before him, all mortar and brick pasted together, covered in its own dust and pebble. It had been fed to oblivion, just as raging with the need to eat and burn as it was bright. 

His thumb ached in a dull, bone-strained way, fighting against the grip of a two-looped metal handle. His fingers were nearly numb, slightly buzzing even as he worked, everything in them taut, and yet Hiccup could feel vaguely as they twitched with the thought to release.

The stretch of all of his fingers, running the flat part of his thumb against one of the callouses along his pointer finger- It was a habit which, as of late, he had taken up with unfortunate vigor- or maybe it was something old, another thing that had come to him while evading his notice.

The smithy was heady with the smell of smoke and melted, burning metal. It was the kind of air that had his head light, and yet it brought him closer to his work, filling his mind with nothing but heavy, deep focus.

It was not so much of a fog in the sense that he was visibly impaired, for there were no clearly visible grays, even with the soot so thick in his throat it could have been mistaken for water- no, to his mind, the tables and tools placed around him were ambiguous. Unreal. They didn’t exist to him- not the leather of the wrapped handle beneath his palms, uneven and worn, thin enough for the blunt ends of dry fingers to scratch against carpal, nor the working movement of his arm, pressing in a way that strained. 

Nothing apart of Hiccup nor around him existed beyond what they could do for him, unimportant. Discarded.

It was a feeling that brought him to other places and yet rooted him here, like the twisting, hard legs of a tree, thick and old, his arms not his but the muscles of twice as many men as there were generations who’d lived on Berk- strong men, leathered men, mighty men and warriors. The old and crafty, the thick-skinned and head-thickened.

With his eyes focused on nothing but orange light and darkness, though he could not at all feel the latter, it was almost enough to bring his mind away from- from the dragon.

By the morning, he would have left it for a day and one cooling night.

Hiccup had only woken, scrounged up his own meal and had barely anything in his stomach by the time his father declared that he would be sent into the arena.

All of his vigor- his passion- his readiness for battle- it was all gone. He’d never been prepared. He was no man, too much of a coward to take charge of his own adulthood and to enter into the next era with force as his forebears had done.

The pounding of hot metal -which hadn’t at all registered to his ears before- was suddenly too loud.

With a sudden jerk, Hiccup stopped.

With a grimace, he maneuvered his prongs so that he could vaguely examine his work, looking with the fruitless eyes of a teen whose momentary passion for his practice was waning, his heart twinging with apprehension as his focus was replaced with the feeling of ‘giving up.’

There was always work to be done after a raid; busywork, chores, many other things. The last task was always smithing; Making new. Forging modish pieces for those who’d lost them.

Hiccup tilted his head to the side slightly as darker flakes formed over the longest stretches of his work- it was naught but one knife of two, which, when it came to the actual smithing, would usually not require anymore but a mold for metal and heavy sharpening on the grinder. 

What would usually be either cut short and filed into a point by the stem, or made into a handle and a ball at the end, so leather might wrap around it securer was instead stretched and bent upwards so that the hot metal could form its own grip as if it was one half of a shear with a hold just the same as the prong Hiccup used to carry it.

He preferred it- there was less artistry in it. After forging, Hiccup would rather do carpentry over any other sort of work with either paint or finer, golder alloys, and yet this way of handle-crafting was simpler. It would certainly be most pleasant for Hiccup to get his work done as fast as possible. Gobber would scold him for his laziness later. 

Gobber would whack him over the head for a lot of things and let him free to do twice as many others. 

Gobber had wandered off sometime in the afternoon -rag of a smock included- so he was probably done until the morn, though the smoke in the forge, the need to chide and the threat of Hiccup’s own complaining might lure him back soon enough.

Hiccup wouldn’t give him any more fuel for worry- he kept the forge counter shutters open this time, which should keep him happy enough.

He felt one singular line of sweat run down his face, tickling down the skin of his cheek and then sweeping under the line of his jaw as he exhaled. 

He was unsure when he had placed down his hammer and yet he didn’t care much at all, exhaling as a large waft of cooler night air pressed against his back.

The forge doors were usually only opened during a raid and while both Hiccup and Gobber were smithing- to keep the Cough from setting in, or some such similar thing.

Hiccup huffed and rolled his eyes. Usually there was enough space between the cracks to allow in air while being wide enough to block out most rain and hail- they had better ventilation than any place else on Berk.

He liked it better than the Chief’s hut for that very reason- though it was comfortably warm during the winter months, in the summer it was unbearable. 

No smoke hole meant that they had to open all the doors whenever they roasted anything inside, and they were too far away to steal away any real smoke, so his space by the roof was smoggy in the nights, which left him unable to sleep, tossing and turning ‘till morning.

 There was definitely not enough to air the feeling of misery out from the space in his loft, nor the smell of the fish he’d left rotting in his bed, which he discarded at the last moment, feeling too ill to eat anything but slightly moldy bread.

It was in a bucket now by the door, which was as hygienic as he could have bothered to be about it in the moment.

The smell had probably been trapped there for hours- it was inescapable by the time Hiccup had bothered to make off the same way the forge’s heat sometimes made the overwhelming stench of Gobber’s lost dirty socks worse- nearly as terrible as they were unfindable, no matter how hard Hiccup looked.

He was mystified as to the reason his father hadn’t brought up the smell. He would have gotten rid of it sooner, though regardless, eventually it would be just another thing for his father to scold him about and he had been feeling particularly moody.

With a tired shake of his head and the deep hunch of his shoulders, Hiccup turned, flinging the piece and the prongs across the nearly gray surface of a long bench with a sudden, tumultuous awnry. 

Hiccup had to resist the urge to run a hand through his hair and throw his smock sternly to the ground, wincing as he heard metal make sharp contact with stone.

The piece would pay for his negligence later, yet he found it hard to care.

Loosening his shoulders again, opening his eyes, clenching his fists and flexing his wrists, Hiccup stilled. 

He willed that the feeling pricking up and down his back went away, adjusting his sweat cooled tunic. It felt obscenely thin then, thin and blowing with the evening breeze, what was once nice making his back feel naked and exposed.

He adjusted his collar, walking past a worked anvil and grabbing hold of a very thin bucket handle, intending to cradle the bottom of the bucket as its weight shifted with the thick sound of sloshing water.

He wasn’t able to get a solid grip before hot metal met flesh.

He cursed. Immediately startled, Hiccup dropped the bucket, causing it to crash and roll over the uneven stone floor, clattering violently.

“Just my luck,” Hiccup said dryly. He always had the worst of it.

Hiccup cursed as he shook boiling water off the bottoms of his shoes, hopping ungainly from one to the other- he could already feel his soles sticking to the ground, pulling with what sounded more like a wet hiss than a pop, as day-old residue -forest sap, dragon’s blood and animal mess- melted back into a sticky paste.

He always dropped the bucket. It was just as much of a certainty as anything else was in here- stepping in it, on it, stubbing his toe or grabbing orange metal.

He huffed, quickly wiping his heated palms against his smock. It was more of a habit than anything, something he’d never been able to shake off. His hands had long since ceased to feel the heat of fire after one too many burns and the growth of thicker skin.

As he settled and the wiping of his hands slowed, eventually coming to a full stop, his wrists falling limply to his sides, he realized that some water had managed to make its way into the furnace anyhow. It hadn’t tempered the flames one bit, though it did smother a great deal of the embers floating out from its face, the space inside the kiln now more red-washed than lit by bright white fire.

A full bucket would have done nothing to put out the fire, anyways. 

The rest of it he’d deal with later. He’d- he needed the light still and he still felt too petty and hurt to pick the bucket back up, one side of it still glowing slightly red.

He had enough mind to stand straight and to kick it to the side with the edge of his boot, grimacing as fur clung to sweaty ankles. The fur lining of his shoe often did him more hel than help in the forge. 

His boots were too bulky- sweltering on the worst days and oppressive during the best. He’d grown up in boots like these, wide and too easy to trip over. At least that’s what Gobber said- that very last bit, anyhow. 

Sometimes he wondered if he’d be less clumsy if he got rid of them.

Eager to turn his hands away from the mess and to shake off the thickness in his hands, Hiccup cracked his knuckles with a grunt, stepping forwards and placing both of his palm on the sides of the table, the one before the two open window doors, glowering down at a piece of his earlier work with another ball of budding frustration.

It was a knife that had been ready for mounting on a thick, small piece of wood. It stuck out of the table, ready to be carved into a handle. Unfortunately, by no hand but Hiccup’s own, it  had been bent wickedly to the side.

It now stood horizontal to the table with the block only half on the end, crushed bark scattered everywhere.

Hiccup- well, he’d messed it up pretty bad. He should have known better -he should have known himself- and yet he still messed it up.

He’d wanted to be a Viking and he’d messed that up, too.

Everyone -Astrid especially- probably thought he was a loser and a compulsive liar, which… He was. He wasn’t exactly packing on the muscle, that wasn’t too hard to see, and he didn’t exactly do a great job of covering that up. Brushing it off? Yes, but that was all feigned bravado.

If he hadn't found the dragon he’d still have known he’d shot it down, but what did that matter? He thought he’d shot many other dragons down and yet he'd been proven wrong enough for his word not to count.

A great job of ‘proving himself’ he’d done- and he couldn’t even shake the thought of the dragon from his mind, feeling bad for it. He did this.

The heat of the fire, smothered though it was, emanated in such a way that Hiccup felt as if there was a blanket at his back, sweltering and oppressive.

Leaning even further against his arms, which were half bent, too far apart to put any real weight on, he furrowed his brows and let out another annoyed exhale.

The metal was too bent out of shape to fix, not that he would’ve been able to fix it up anyways, all lighter and looking slightly ripped in the one way metal never should. If he hammered it now, it’d probably bend in the wrong direction, and he’d have to wrestle with it to get it back.

Maybe he’d made the blade too thin- sanded it down too much, melted stuff off when he wasn’t looking. Even if he was able to hammer it back into the vertical direction, it would have been obviously twisted and lumpy at the bending point.  He’d be risking damaging another part of the blade, too. He could try and reheat it, but he’d have to pull it off the log, and that… Reforging would still weaken the integrity of the blade. He could fix the outside imperfections and yet without completely redoing it, the inside would still be messed up.

A good warrior didn’t use knives for dragon fighting, though if it came down to it, and it probably would, it’d definitely fold against dragon hide.

“Great,” Hiccup stepped back, letting one arm loose and running a hand down the side of his face. “Wonderful.”

He loathed being there more than he ever had.

Hiccup resisted the urge to look back and glare at his room- the back room reserved for him with his sketches pasted and hammered onto the wall, with rods and sanded wooden panels laying all over. It seemed no matter where he looked he couldn’t help but to be reminded of all the messes he’d made.

If he just decided not to listen to his Dad, what with training and all, what were the chances of him being dragged into the arena anyways? 

“Who are you?” 

Hiccup’s shoulders jumped in that sudden-stiff way, looking upwards with a slightly astonished blink, wondering where in the world that voice had come from, “Me?” 

Hiccup spent a short while just blinking and staring, not really looking before he even processed anything. 

Slowly, he turned to his side.

You were a lot closer to the counter than he’d have been in the right mind to process, a girl around his age with dangling baubles at the ends of your sleeves, palms pressed into the wooden counter before the two of you. They were nothing he could stare at too long without being impolite, though that never stopped him.

If he was going to be honest, he’d never seen you before, either.

“Who else?” You asked, your eyes darting to the side for just a moment.

At first glance, to him, you seemed somewhat unassuming, unaware of the fact that you’d just snuck up on him, though he couldn’t have imagined that was easy to miss, so you must have been being polite. Sneaking up on him wouldn’t have been difficult, on purpose or not, especially considering how occupied he’d been.

Hiccup’s eyes darted from side to side, slightly embarrassed at having been caught in such a foul mood.

The sky above was gray and blue, though mostly gray. It was an environment suited to his agonies. 

Hiccup wasn’t surprised. For some odd reason, all of his poorest days were terrible, no-good mud-in-boots sort of days, and since all of his days were poor, most of his days ended up being abhorrently rainy. There was something meaningful in that, he supposed- if by ‘meaning’ he meant ‘inescapable misery.’

Though the sea more than likely contributed to its solidity, there was a wind brushing in so chilling it could be naught but the kind that appeared just before a long rain with the both lively and sorrowful smell of burgeoning sky-water permeating the air.

There was not a single soul around besides the two of you, which was both a mercy for him, a balm to his hurt sensibilities, and quite peculiar. 

The stones embedded into the clearings around and the dilapidated feel to the clan homes stationed by the font of the forge meant that the world had never felt less real, all unfeeling object.

Your liveliness gave you a certain strength- a power that deemed you one of the many things Gobber might have tried and failed to charm away with his superstitious rituals and baubles, symbols written in sheep’s blood across thresholds and along wooden doorframe.

The brushing of your clothes lit a feeling in him which whistled past the eerie hollow in his gut, a sense that told him to shrink back and close the window shutters. It screamed at him, all chilled and sharp, though it didn’t say, ‘no.’ 

‘Temptation,’ It screeched instead. ‘The wrong way.’

“I’m...” He spoke slowly, brows raised, wondering if he was speaking with a devil. He’d done a lot of speaking with devils recently. “You really don’t know?”

Hiccup didn’t know everyone and yet it was just his luck that everyone knew him, by face if not painfully long name.

The clan houses belonged to Berk’s most prized warriors which meant that, in times of trouble, and as a reward to those with privilege, they were the ones with the easiest access to the smithy and therefore the weapons supply. That was not to say, though, that the smithy did not receive patrons of all sorts- farmers for the sharpening of scythes and the repairing of a loose bolt in their bull’s harness, fishermen for a new casing for their compass- if they hadn’t seen him, which was rare, because Hiccup didn’t care to keep track of many people at all, he’d have at least seen them.

He hadn’t heard of anyone new coming their way- he expected no notable imports, and yet even then, on Berk, any traveler was big news. For all it was worth, it would have been made into a event.

Even if someone new did appear, his father might have ordered them shot down before their ship even reached the docks with all their battle ready warriors sent off into the fog. 

There was hardly anything defensible left. Anything manageable went off to war; long travel boats were armed and fortified in less than a day. Anything that was not war-ready was repurposed for the sake of fishing. Even most of their catapults had gone with.

“Oh, I don’t spend so much time in town.” You must have read the silent question in his eyes, “But I was born here. …And raised.”

Your response seemed practiced, as if maybe you’d been asked this question a few times before, which wouldn’t have surprised Hiccup.

By some stroke of fate, you didn’t know him, which meant you’d never seen him before. Which meant- well, he wasn’t sure if that was good or bad, though the disgruntled churning in his middle told him that it was probably bad, which was in and of itself spectacular.

With his eyes, he could see nothing but a girl his age asking about a bent knife, yet… In that moment, he felt reckless in that free, strung-out, apathetic way. At this point, he was willing to sell his chance at the afterlife for scraps.

“...Raids?” Hiccup asked touchily.

“Never in town for the raids. Always in the forest,” You blinked at him, “I’m not interested in warring.”

“Not interested in warring?”

…Odd.

“War is interesting,” You said amicably. “But I like other things more.”

Very odd.

“Hiccup.” Hiccup grimaced, listening to the sound of his own feet shifting against stone as he moved his weight from one foot to the other. He spoke before you could even think to ask the question,  “-My name. ...I work in the forge.”

You hummed, eyes glancing to the side as you considered something. Hiccup wasn’t sure if that meant that you recognized him or not.

“Why’d you come in today?” Hiccup asked, slightly put off. He sounded, should he say it, a tad irritated, mostly at being intruded on. He had the right to be.

“Felt like it,” You smiled, before pausing for just a moment. “You seem troubled.”

Hiccup considered you suspiciously still before he grimaced and nodded, shifting his shoulders as he leaned back down at the bench again. 

Any other day and he might have been glad for the attention. But now…?

“Knife,” Hiccup said curtly, furrowing his brows, examining another long scratch by one side of the blade. Definitely too thin. Maybe he’d accidentally mixed something else in with the iron. He spoke with nearly a grumble, “I thought I could fix it, but…”

“Really?”

“The bend on the nail,” Hiccup looked at you wearily, “It’s a soft point- I’ve been messing with it too much.”

“That’s too bad.”

“It’s fine- I’ll probably need to get a new one, anyways- I’ll have to melt this one down…” Hiccup shook his head slightly, frustrated, “Scrap metal. I don’t even know if it’s usable.”

“I’ve never seen anyone do this before,” You smiled, placing your palms against wood and peering over the counter slightly, staring at him intently in a way that made him slightly uneasy.

What, smack a knife with a hammer?

Hiccup leaned back a tad and then some more as you rested on your elbows.

“Could you try again so I can see?” 

It was his turn to ask, “Really?” though even before you could speak again, he’d moved some, “Another feeling, then?”

He reached backwards with a hesitant hand towards the edge of a bench to his back left, all cluttered as most things in the forge were, especially then, grasping with weak and weary fingers for anything. 

You nodded, beaming, “Yes.”

His fingers touched something, cool from what Hiccup knew instinctively was disuse. It was also… crusted. Was it rust or was it food residue? 

One was fixable and the other… It would require a lot of work. He needed to stop eating in the forge.

“It’s just going to-...” Hiccup trailed off, staring at you for a long moment, then glancing back at his hand, pulling his boon out in front of him.

It was another set of prongs, one with a squarer end, better for clamping down on the smaller rods. It was no hammer, but it had a thick, blunt end. 

It was crusted by the handle by some white-blueish-flaked something, which could have been mold, though it was otherwise unscratched, which meant that it was new, even if it was covered in soot. He hadn’t used it in a while- it might not have even been his.

Hiccup grimaced, weighing it in his hand with a bounce before deciding better of it and setting it aside with the hollow sound of metal meeting wood.

Even if it was blunt, it wouldn’t throw weight properly, which would make for a pathetic blow, and if it landed wrong, it would damage both the setting of the two prongs and the bit keeping it all together. Even a novice could tell he was hitting the blade half-heartedly- faking it, not that he cared at all for his own fakeness.

The moment he pulled his eyes away from you, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He didn’t keep them away for long.

“I’m sure it won’t give you trouble,” You insisted, leaning over the counter slightly, resting the weight off your full upper half on its surface in a way that looked quite childish.

Maybe you really were just a girl. A girl his age though, so maybe a bit too old to ogle at knives, but… Well, Hiccup would be a hypocrite if he decided to dish out any judgment.

He took a few steps back into the darkness of the forge, though he kept his eye on you, certain this time he knew where his hammer was, grabbing for it with the same unsure hand as before, missing and somehow conveniently managing to not step in the bucket in the process.

Though he usually had the foresight to kick the bucket aside, he really half expected to step into it as he stumbled back.

Hiccup tried not to look so uneasy as he grabbed for his hammer again- he missed it, of course, his surprise nearly causing him to fall back anyways. He made an effort to compensate by nearly jumping forward and then spent the moment after grimacing at his own failure to try to make it look as if he’d always meant to do that.

His hand slapped against the ring of stone around the kiln’s base before he was able to grab his hammer, the handle still warm from the furnace’s heat and his own hand’s accumulated warmth. He stepped forwards again with both more confidence and a face that was stiff with his efforts to keep it slack.

He was still staring at you when he did it, tapping the knife’s bent handle lightly- half-heartedly, and hoped to the Gods that that would be a good enough show for you. 

Hiccup refused to look down as he did it. This would be the first time he did his best to ward off any girl’s attention. He did say he’d be fine with any girlfriend, though he didn’t think he’d try his luck with this mystery girl, preferring the idea that he might rather be left alone to his dragon and his near-paranoid frustration.

Still staring into your eyes, his focus and apprehension was so strong that he felt nearly hypnotized, though he didn’t stare at any place in particular on your face.

 He was startled when his hammer came down again and met solid wood, not necessarily because he didn’t expect it, but because his arm had hardly bent, its impact landing  closer to him than to where it had been bent before, causing his shoulders to jump.

Looking down and blinking slowly, his eyes met a perfectly straight extrusion from the wooden countertop, flat metal and secured wood.

Hiccup picked up the knife by the handle. He’d had to jerk against the countertop table with half his weight, the muscles in his upper and lower arms tensing briefly before it’d dislodged somewhat violently, causing him to take an uneasy step back.

Settling, he rested his still-closed fist with the handle against the countertop, ogling at the knife’s blade. 

He was astonished as he noticed that the bend was gone with no soft bits or twisted, torn metal. If it bent with just a light tap, it couldn’t be sound- he was surely hitting it at the wrong angle, too.

He adjusted it in his hands so he was holding the wood piece closer to the blade, and with an unsteady but effective enough grip, tested it by pressing the flat side of it against wood, putting as much force as he could behind it, slightly weary of the fact that if the blade slipped and snapped it would surely launch and cut him in the face or on the arm, perhaps.

He felt no give at all. He heard no cracking or any creaking struggle.

There was a thump as he placed it back onto the table and turned the wood branch piece to the side, pushing it with his palm then grabbing onto the handle with fingers only just enough to touch the edge of the table on one side, curling around the wood’s thick base.

He pressed his finger to the sharp part of the blade and felt the flat of his middle finger run down it, dippling along its jagged edge, skin there too thick to be cut.

He heard nothing but the wind as he looked up, the motion slow, at where you had been standing in silence the whole time.

You then smiled at him ambiguously.

“Seems like it wanted to be righted.” You said slyly, as if you found yourself to be completely normal. Hiccup had the inkling that you weren’t just talking about the knife. “Can’t always do things with force. You need a gentler hand. Like… a crook. A sheep’s guide.”

Hiccup blinked at you deliriously, squinting suddenly as harsh light hit his eyes.

While he had been occupied, things had seemed to get lighter. Happier, yellower.

The sky no longer smelt as if it was about to rain, which Hiccup would have typically brushed off as a symptom of his smoke-slogged nostrils if not for the fact that the grass outside seemed greener where it had previously looked absent, and if it wasn’t for the fact that the sky seemed to be no longer darkening.

He squinted with the sudden forcefulness of the change, eyes darting from side to side.

Hiccup didn’t believe in magic or witches or even Gods most of the time, and yet- “What…”

As he watched you, his spare palm rested against the table, flat, feeling at tiny scratches and a long groove in its surface. He didn’t take it in so much as know they were there- Some of the scratches were ones he’d made, many he’d experienced, a mixed chronological biography of both his life and anyone else who’d been at the counter the past ten years.

Without looking, he pressed one finger deeper into the groove, knowing that he would have to repair it somehow, despite all the various, nearly-identical nicks and grooves all over the forge. 

“You need to listen- the wind tells more than anyone else is kind enough to hear.” You hummed pleasantly again, “I hope whatever calls you finds you well.”

When he’d finally thought to look back at you, you’d already left, the only thing visible to him being your back and sunlight.

This was the first time he’d ever met anyone weirder than him.

“What was that?” Hiccup asked, not sure he hadn’t imagined it -and you- at all. He blinked tiredly, his astonishment lifting his brows even as his lids threatened to fall.

A witch for sure. Or…

 Hiccup blinked groggily as the light of the first morning hit his eyes. Had he worked through the night? He was sure it’d just been…

He scrubbed at the backs of his ears wearily, feeling greasy hairs split between his fingers.

From the corner of his eye, he caught Gobber with his smock still on, stumbling quickly down from the direction which led to both Hiccup’s house and the Great hall. He was just visible past what he could see over your shoulder, long, muddled green grass parting before him and all at once the illusion was broken, the eerie feeling of being alone lost just as it usually was the moment anyone became truly aware of the fact that they were not alone.

Hiccup had no idea where he’d been this past night- drunk at the hall, maybe. Celebrating what could be the traveling warriors’ lasts, as always.

Hiccup sighed deeply. The knife was unbent, and yet his troubles remained. At least now he could be miserable in the sun instead- until soon, when his father would be sent off. 

He’d still have to be there when that happened- should be about now, actually, while the air was still cool. Hiccup… He might miss it this time. But his father… He should be there. In case he didn’t come back whole.

There would be the night to follow after that to languish in his woes, and then… dragon training.

Even with his dread, he couldn’t miss it. 

Even with his failure to kill the dragon, Hiccup felt the strain of expectation on his heart -the eyes of his father, the weight of an axe in his hand- and he heard the small part of him that was still eager. Still… Anticipatory.

After a few long, torturous moments, in which he struggled to undo the knot by his back, Hiccup really did throw his smock down this time, leaving the forge and the knife abandoned as he began to unwillingly, quickly make way down to the docks.

[thesightstoshowyou]

Freeze

- A Sights Original -

Unnamed Male Character x F Reader (NSFW)

(A/N: Are you a fight, flight, or freeze kind of person? I’m more of a “freezer” myself. This was based on a dream I had the other night. Happy late Valentine’s Day to my favorite pervs.)

Warnings: Very polite noncon, mentions of unresolved medical issues, threats, knife usage, praise, forced orgasm

~~

Paper crumples in your palm. Your brows furrow, scowl deepening as you stomp down the sidewalk. With each annoyed step, your knee twinges, bone grating on bone, the joint popping painfully.

This is the third doctor you’ve been to, the third time your concerns have been dismissed. You’re too young to have arthritis. Take some ibuprofen for a week, the pain will go away. Give it time.

You have given it time. You’ve given it weeks. Months. An entire year. At what age do doctors start taking you seriously?

Your dress billows around your thighs, ruffled by the breeze. The temperature plummeted while you were at the clinic. Shivering, you wrap your arms around yourself. Should have brought a jacket.

In the distance is the parking garage. Having to walk this far is not helping your knee. You’re nearly limping by the time you make it to the staircase leading to the lower levels.

Prickling on the back of your neck.

Discreetly, you scan your surroundings. Out of the corner of your eye is a man. You make a mental note of his appearance: Tall—maybe a little over 6ft—blonde, short cropped hair, lean, white t-shirt, ripped jeans.

It’s probably nothing. He’s just going to his car too.

But he’s staring right at you.

The stairs are difficult. Your knee clicks and the ache deepens with each hurried step. Your leg threatens to buckle every time it must hold your weight. Your knuckles blanche with how tightly you grip the railing. Breathe, breathe, slow your pulse, keep calm, it’s okay, stop panicking—

Tap, tap, tap. Footsteps behind you, closer now, matching your hurried pace. Your fingers fumble with the zipper of your purse. Frantically, you shove the crumpled doctor’s notes in your bag and search for your keys. You should have gotten them out sooner, what a stupid mistake….

Last two stairs, almost there, you can see your car just across the lot, look around, is there anyone near, can you yell for help? It’s so empty, there are only three other vehicles. Your phone! Idiot. It’s in your bag too, call the cops, hurry—

The footfalls suddenly disappear from behind you and you half turn in time to see the man leap clean over the railing. Effortlessly, he lands and uses the rail to swing himself around to face you and block your path.

“Hey,” he says, grinning wide like you’re an old friend. This close, you see a raised scar running from his brow and down across his eyelid. On the side of his face, near his left ear is a tattooed symbol or pattern of some kind.

You don’t waste time studying the composition, instead twisting on your heel and racing back up the stairs, heart in your throat. Adrenaline helps dull the discomfort in your knee, but your leg still trembles until you must clutch the railing.

You don’t make it far. He’s so much quicker, taking the stairs two at a time and gripping your upper arm to pull your hand from your purse and stop your hasty retreat. He whips you around and gently pushes you against the kneewall. His opposite palm comes up to cover your mouth, as pointless as it is. You’re too frozen in terror to react yet, your voice trapped in your throat.

What strikes you first is his grin. He’s smiling so warmly, his dark eyes lit up with such joy. It makes you second guess your fear, like maybe you should know him, like you should be just as thrilled.

You falter only for a second. A quiet click heralds the feeling of steel at your throat. Your eyes widen in horror and wildly dart around—no cameras, no people, you’re alone—as you hold your breath and stay as still as you can.

“Hey, I really don’t wanna kill you, but I’ll have to if you scream okay?” He speaks softly as the thumb of the hand covering your mouth caresses your cheek, a sick imitation of comfort.

Quickly, you nod, and the man’s smile widens. He huffs a relieved laugh, his palm sliding from your mouth to rest on your waist. The knife stays where it is, hovering just over your throat.

His kind expression is so jarring, so alien to the situation. He should be glowering like a villain, not smiling like a friend.

“Y-you can take my purse, please, I d-don’t have cash—

“Shhh,” he whispers with a chuckle, shaking his head like you made a silly joke. The hand on our waist slides lower. The warm, calloused skin of his palm brushes your thigh to push your skirt higher.

Terror chokes you, a strangled little squeak leaving your lips. It becomes horribly apparent what this is, what’s actually happening to you now with each inch his hand claims.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispers, leaning in to brush his nose against yours. You shake in his grip and clench your eyes shut, your breath only coming in sharp gasps. The scream is there now in the back of your throat, begging to be freed, but the blade now resting on your neck keeps it in check.

“P-Please, please don’t, please—

“It’s okay, I promise it won’t hurt, see…?” he murmurs, fingertips stroking your folds through your panties. A quiet whimper escapes, tears pooling in your lashes. He’s right, it doesn’t hurt, but that doesn’t make it any less shocking.

“What’s your name?” he asks, the gentle rumble of his voice buzzing against your palms.

Palms? When did you place them on his chest?

You’re not sure why you tell him, but you do, your name leaving you in a shaky whisper only he can hear.

“I love that. So pretty like you. I knew you would be really, really good for me.” His digits circle your clothed clit, languid circles that make your toes curl in your shoes. You despise the wetness gathering in your underwear and the wanting heat curling in your belly.

Your nails twist in his shirt when he nudges your panties to the side to touch you unhindered. When he finds you dripping, his pleased gasp makes you sink your teeth into your bottom lip. You could almost forget about the knife like this. Almost.

Your cheeks burn, mortification constricting your chest when your cunt squelches around his digits. He offers a needy groan in response and pumps his fingers until you’re fighting the urge to buck your hips.

What the fuck is wrong with you?!

“I can’t wait, sorry—sorry, god, you’re such a good girl,” he mutters, wet fingers sliding from your channel so he can shove his hand in his pocket. He produces a condom wrapper. Bringing it to his mouth, he rips it open with his teeth. Dexterously, he works open his pants to free his leaking cock and slides the rubber down his length.

Your heart stutters in your chest and you desperately shake your head when he hooks his hand under your thigh to lift your leg. A grimace twists your features when all your weight is put on your bad knee. Your hand flies to the railing to steady yourself.

“What—oh right, you were limping, I’m sorry.” Hurriedly, he sets your leg down and lifts the other, easing the pain in your knee. Confusion and dread addle your mind; you’re torn between his consideration and trauma he is about to inflict.

You can’t fight or flee with the knife at your throat. You don’t know how to react when he hooks a thumb in the crotch of your underwear to tug the soaked fabric to the side. All you manage is a pathetic whine as the tears pooling in your lashes streak down your face.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he chants like he’s trying to soothe an injured child. You tense, every single instinct in your body screaming at you to do something, but you’re trapped in your own body, like your brain is disconnected from the rest of you.

Eagerly, he lines up and surges into your slippery cunt. You barely manage to contain your shriek behind your teeth, his hand flying to your mouth to cover the strangled sound you emit. You look up at him through despairing, watery eyes, inhaling the scent of yourself on his fingers, your pleas of “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” muffled by his palm.

He groans through his teeth, eyes fluttering, hips grinding against you when he rolls them. “It’s—ahh—it’s okay, honey, you didn’t mean it, I know it was an accident. I know you can be quiet for me,” he purrs and you’re…relieved.

His hand leaves your lips to return to your trembling thigh. He spreads you open to make room for deeper thrusts. It’s tender, though, the way he ruts up into you. He pushes you tighter into the wall, pins you there with his weight, holds you close like a lover.

Hushed moans wash across your skin when he leans down to drag his lips through your tears. There’s praise too, ‘so good,’ and ‘thank you,’ murmured near your ear.

Inside, you’re burning. Every gentle thrust sends pleasurable shock waves through your belly while conflict rages in your mind. It shouldn’t feel this way! You shouldn’t be fighting moans, your fingers shouldn’t be digging into his shoulder, you shouldn’t be leaking down your thighs, and you most assuredly shouldn’t be climbing the precipice of climax.

The man’s hand slips from your leg and his fingers quickly locate your clit to rub more torturous circles. You suck in air through your teeth and furiously shake your head. If you cum, you’ll never forgive yourself.

“Please cum with me, baby?” He moans softly and adds, “I’d love that so much.” With the way the molten knot in your gut tightens with each passing second, you realize you don’t have a choice.

Eyes snapping shut, quivering lips falling open in a silent cry, the knot unravels. Slick muscles spasm and grip the throbbing length buried within you. A strained exhale escapes from the man’s throat when his cock twitches and spills into the condom. For one, brief moment, you consider thanking him for using one.

The hand holding the knife shifts so thumb and forefinger can grip your chin and tip your head back. You sob against his lips when they press to yours. It’s too tender a gesture for what just occurred.

Would it have been less distressing if he’d been cruel?

“Thank you for being so good for me,” he murmurs against your mouth before pulling away. You snap your knees shut as he steps back. Your skin prickles. The loss of his body heat makes you aware of the chilly air billowing down the stairs.

Quickly righting his clothes, he flashes you another disarming grin and departs. Back up the stairs he goes, jumping two at a time. You watch him leave, tears cooling on your face.

Now, the only sounds echoing through the darkened garage are your haggard breaths and quiet sniffling. You’re alone. Slowly, you sink onto a step, legs shaking like a newborn calf. You stare blankly at the goosebumps dotting your skin.

Should have brought a jacket.

[briar-ffxiv]

FFXIV Write #12 - Quarry

FFXIV Write 2024 Master Post

Prompt #12 - Quarry

Trigger Warning: Blood, violence, injuries. Not overly graphic, but present because, well, I wrote Zenos for the first time!

This is my particular take about how the end of Rhalgr's Reach (aka the first time meeting Zenos) went for Briar.

Briar's ribs ached as he panted, one knee on stony ground and a hand steadying him. With his free hand, he reached to touch his side. He grimaced as each breath caused pain and a glance showed his fingers smeared with red. Gritting his teeth, the half-Elezen glanced at his bow, but the weapon was useless now. The slash of a sword had severed the string even as it sliced into his flesh. Forcing the pain and fear away, Briar turned his eyes toward his opponent.

Zenos yae Galvus.

The crown prince of the Garlean Empire was an imposing, alien figure in his eyes. Towering near two fulms over Briar, he was wrapped in jagged, dark plate armour with a bone-white mask. There was only the occasional flash of light from the eyes within to mark the prince as a man instead of a machine. As he watched, Zenos flicked his sword absently, sending drops of blood across the sand to clean the blade.

All around them, there was chaos in Rhalgr's Reach. The dead and the dying were everywhere. The Ala Mhigan Resistance was desperately trying to their own against the Garlean soldiers. Somewhere nearby Y'shtola lay in the sands, protected by a frantic Lyse. Krile, Aliasaie, and Alphinaud were doing their best to get the wounded to safety.

But at the moment, none of that mattered.

In this moment, there was only Zenos and the wide sand stretched between them as the statue of the Destroyer looked down.

"Will you run, Beast?" Zenos tilted his helm as he took a step toward Briar. "Will that fierce spirit break?"

In answer, Briar stood slowly, hearing the soft platter of blood drops hitting the sand. Reaching for the sheath on his thigh, he pulled out the curved knife, gripping it as he walked to meet Zenos.

"Good!" The laugh boomed out of Zenos as he walked faster. "Let the beast bare its fang at me!"

Without meeting to, Briar showed his teeth at Zenos, green eyes sharp as he darted forward. He twisted to the side, narrowly avoiding the slash of the long samurai sword. Briar lashed out, knife scraping along Zeno's leg near the knee. He gave a frustrated snarl under his breath as he threw himself away to avoid a backward strike at him. The Garlean Steel prevented Zenos from being hamstrung, but the boldness of Briar's attack had him barking another laugh.

The Garlean prince attacked in a flurry of strikes, although his movements were almost lazy. Briar hissed and twisted, dodging and twisting, forced back step by step. But he gave grudgingly, teeth still showing and eyes locked on Zenos. While his determination did not waiver, he was not the warrior Zenos was and his stamina faded.

A small stumble was all it took for a brutal backhand to slam into his chest, sending his slim frame through the air to crash on the blood-stained sand. Briar rolled and twisted, coming to his hands and knees, body heaving and sweat drenching his thin leather armour. He started to rise, only to give a strangled gasp as a gauntlet-covered hand seized his throat and jerked him upward.

Briar gagged, vision blurring and full of spots as Zenos squeezed with casual viciousness. The sharp points of the armour pierced his skin, sending trickles down his neck and chest as the half-Elezen dangled from the ground. "Pathetic," Zenos sighed, voice strangely soft as he brought Briar closer to his face. "Such potential to be a fine quarry but--!"

His words turned into a grunt of surprise as Briar twisted suddenly. One hand grabbed Zenos's wrist, jerking the armour aside just enough for the half-Elezen to plunge the short blade into the Garlean's forearm. At the same moment, Briar coiled like a snake and slammed both heels into the prince's helm with everything he could manage. And it was enough, if only just.

Zenos staggered back, grip loosening around to drop Briar to the ground. The half-Elezen sucked in a deep breath, only to cough and spit blood from his injured throat. His fingers were still curled around his dagger though, now red with Garlean blood. He staggered to his feet, free hand at his own throat to try and staunch the bleeding.

Zenos stared down at the slim little Eorzean with wild red hair and green eyes that gleamed with a quiet fury. He watched as Briar showed his teeth yet again in a blood-tinted snarl, even as he swayed in place, dizzy from wounds and lack of air. That savage gaze did not waver though, despite blood trickling down Briar's chin and his thin chest heaved with the effort to breathe.

The Garlean tilted his head, absently reaching up to remove his helm. He shook long blond hair out of his face as he hooked the helmet to his waist. He studied the slow drip of blood from his injured forearm. He reached up to wipe away a small smear of blood from his nose. Elegant features furrowed a bit as he considered the battered but defiant Briar. The sight of the slim half-Elezen still standing his ground made Zenos's lips twitch up in a very faint smile.

Then Zenos simply turned away. Without another word or glance, he simply stalked away, departing the field. Briar stared after him, watching the last of Garlean soldiers quickly moving to follow their prince out of Rhalgr's Reach.

Only then did Briar shudder, knees giving way so he fell to the sand. He gave a strangled gasp, spitting out blood again. A wave of pain and exhaustion swam over his vision and he only dimly heard General Aldynn shouting his name and calling a healer. Briar made an effort to rise, but darkness washed over him. The last thing he was aware of was Raubahn's hand catching him before he hit the ground as the pain faded into nothingness.

[kagecreep]

Punishment (VxMC)

(Killer Chat)

Description: More than anything humans want to be understood. V exposes you to his work. Plaster mind beside Stone mind. Warnings: Gore, corruption... the usual

Notes: more notes on Ao3 WC: 2.7k

━─━────༺༻────━─━

It is a special anger.

A vitriol that punishes and pleases; pleasure in the infliction, thick vines of steel down and down again. It splatters––like mud, warmed by summer, in splashing boots in winding, younger evenings. Coating and sticky, that filthy, enveloping embrace.

You wrench it in and a cry is wrenched out of you in return. Equal scales. Aching and wanton. It sings in the street out back of the bar. You are singing in the street out back of the bar.

If rage is blinding, then the satisfaction of satiated rage is sheer ecstasy. Your heart rolls around in your body and brings it everywhere; blood rushing, veins rolling, singing, dancing entwined with nerves beneath your skin. Everything is singing. Your grin is dancing over your face, crooked and twisting, lips agape and teeth dripping with thick, red clots. He is already gone. The sins linger in his body. 

You cut in and try to remove them, try to salvage what is left from the putridity of his actions in life. 

Knife squelch and tendon rip. Remove genitalia, remove eyes. Remove hands. All used in detriment. Nothing righteous ever came from his hands.

You cut in and pull out his teeth, stretch the muscles and rip slowly at the tongue, cutting the muscle bit by bit, watching how the blood flows back into his throat and pools there till you can't see your own fingers working in his cold mouth.

You want to bite in. Jagged teeth rending flesh away from bone, animal teeth spitting fat and intestine––but you don't want him in your mouth. It's his desire to be in the wanting mouth of a beautiful specimen. You will give him nothing of the sort.

Besides, Valentin is still watching you. He does not approve of cannibalism. It is not so easily washed from the material body. Instead, you shove the tongue in the puffy, open wound where his genitalia once hung. A pleasing and useless tongue.

"That's enough," Valentin says, places a firm hand on your shoulder, and pulls you away.

You stumble off and land backwards, bloody hands scraping across the freezing, wet cement. Your body is shaking. Animal bones want to pounce. But the humanity lingers in Valentin, slowly seeping into you, as animal greed drips out and pools, and is absorbed by the flood.

You didn't understand before; you thought you did, thought you comprehended the drive and will of Valentin. It made sense and you admired his flowers––the logic that gave his actions meaning.

It's enlightenment. Freedom. He brought you here, brought you to the garden. He pulled away the blinding sun to see the wilted underside of humanity. Roots of Eden's tree reaching for nutrients; blood in the soil. A man crawling out of a bar, sick with alcohol and false morals like leprosy on his brain, clutching a woman by the neck. Slowly dimming the glow.

If your hands cause you to sin, cut it off and throw them away –– if your lungs cause you to live, cut it off and throw them away.

No one listens in the alley. No one wanders its bleeding walls. No eyes blink in the molding mortar between the bricks, so you leave the body to festering rot, and trudge out, and crawl into his car covered in blood. The sickness creeps in; the stickiness, peeling blood in the shape of your fingerprints. It flecks off and falls onto the murmuring floor of his car.

You never saw anyone getting raped before. Like a statistic in your philosophy, your respect for humanity trembles and shrinks in on itself.

"Why did you take me out there?" You ask quietly, knowing the answer.

His hands tighten around the steering wheel, creaking leather against leather.

"I believe it is judicious for you to know what it is I do, so you have no delusions as to my nature... nor the nature of humanity," he says, staring pointedly at the road ahead.

It's not a full lie. 

"You're not telling me everything," you murmur––a whispering song. "For all your talk of duty... I can tell. it's pleasure that drives you more than anything. You won't even admit it."

Your fingers crawl over his, nails gently scraping over the back of his hand. Blood flakes off and falls into his lap. You shift in your seat, crawl up onto your knees, and lean over, shaking in the moving car. You say your prayer.

"You enjoy killing psychos. I think it's the only joy you get in life. I think death is your purpose for living," you hiss into his ear. "But you're still human. Desperately aching to be understood. Having me accept your runaway justice wasn't enough. You needed to inundate me in the pleasure of some sick fuck's blood."

You spit the last words. They land on his face. He flinches away, lips tightening, eyes piercing the road ahead.

"I've seen you work before. That loving passion you put into it, every blazing wound you wreak. I guess... it never registered before. You were right." You trail upwards, and the back of your fingers brush down the side of his face. "I needed to experience it myself to understand."

Rarely is Valentin ever lost for what to say; his elegance betrays the silence into knowledge. He doesn't want to admit to the truth of anything you've said, so it is better to say nothing at all.

You watch him for a moment more with dark eyes, lips parted in soft breaths, before collapsing back in your seat and sinking into the cushion. Your eyes flutter shut and you breathe deeply, relaxation like a heavy blanket coating you.

"I understand you, Valentin," you murmur, words slurred on your heavy tongue. "I understand."

You hold his hand. A lover reaching out over daises and wildgrass.

His intensity, boiling in the seat beside you, does not escape your notice in the passing yellow streetlamps. But you say nothing; you curl up in your seat, cheek pressed against the freezing car wall, and try to fall asleep in your skin of crusted blood.

~+~

Bodies are made to be consumed. Consumed and then consumed again. A tenfold consummation. God is crying out to you and you are not hearing it. God is on His knees travelling through the rough current of Valentin's arteries, begging you to come home. You have cut the tether of your mind––the frail, radio connection between creator and creation. God's pleas are pounding against your fingers.

"Does it feel good?" You whisper, breath across Valentin's face as you lay atop him in bed. "To be understood?"

He can barely answer. Barely strain a reply out from beneath your fingers. They rest against his throat, barely pushing and barely there, and yet a worthy vice for his mind all the same.

"I believe your assessment of human nature is... lacking," he says, words gritted behind gritted teeth.

Fingers slide down, frigid bone against burning, firey organs––larynx, esophagus, trachea. Soft and pliant like the raw meat harvested fresh from a wound.

"Tell me what it lacks, my dear," you murmur, entranced at the point where body meets body. Finger against bare chest.

"There is more to human desire than the will to be understood." His eyes search your absent expression, and tuck stray hairs behind your ear. His warm hand is cupping your freezing cheek. "There exists also the will to create... and the ability to love."

You practically jump at the chance to prove him wrong.

"Creation is but an exposition of the mind. Appreciators of art nothing but voyeurs to the artist. And the artist, that creator... desperately wants to be understood. Why else pry open your being to the cold eyes of the ignorant? Hoping to save them? That's pride," you hiss. "Do you feel pleasure when you cut yourself open and see your heat seep into the cold? Are you happy to be sharing your heat with the world?"

Your words are a garbled mess, stringing together like the fat that strings together your brain cells, little electrical pulses that lead nowhere. Thoughts crying out in muted desperation, choking on the afterimages of a man's blood on your hands. Clotted blood, freezing in the winter air, damming up your thoughts. You are drowning in it.

I AM YOUR FREEZING COLD.

He strokes your cheekbone with his thumb, staring into your eyes.

"Do not lose yourself, my love," he murmurs.

A prayer.

"I am not lost if I am within you," you reply, thought sinking into decay, sinking into veins––beating aorta the cavernous atrium the seeking ventricles. 

You want to cry with desperation. What you want is not something you will ever receive. Again you imagine the heat of his body evaporating into the midnight; hot, steaming blood on the cold cement. Bitter gravel and sweet iron cells against your wanting tongue. The freezing cold and warmth.

"Lost in my lungs," he says. He is still searching your eyes.

YOU ARE MY PASSION FIRES.

"Lost everywhere within you," you say with a smile. "No, your proposition is not correct. What you've given me are results clouded by optimistic desire. But... they are rooted elsewhere. Creation is pride and still desire to be known. And love..."

He raises his brows expectantly, subtly. You barely notice. He is wanting your answer.

"Love is consuming," you whisper, in broken voices, breaking voices in your hands that clatter and tear down your bookcases and lamps and tapestries.

You are warming your freezing hands on his neck and he is sighing in relief. Succor for his fever. Relief for your joints aching with the cold.

"When you love bread, and fruit, you eat it," you say, knuckles just below his jaw. "You pick beautiful flowers and they die. You love your movies and television, your books and poetry... and it's called consuming content-–because you eat it, digest it, and spit it back out as refuse and filth, a mangled and misunderstood thing. You love someone... you eat them from the inside out. Consume their love and thoughts and bodies. Eat their hearts. Cut them out..."

Your body is shaking from the cold. Your hand against his throat is not enough. No longer can you hold yourself above him; your arms, aching from the cold, collapse and weaken, and his searing heat catches you from below. Skin against his skin. It is burning you and you love it, you sink into it, you tremble again and shake and wish you could shudder forever in his arms like a broken doll unable to wind up again. He brings the thin blanket over your shoulders. His arms encase you and the heat spreads. The blood clots are unfreezing, melting, and slowly thought leaks back into your head.

You are crying out to God and He is not hearing it because He is inside you within you pulsing within you and He is too busy keeping you alive and keeping you warm. Valentin has tied a knot between two frayed ends of a cord plugged into the wall. 

Falling Raining down like stardust the mercy of His love we ask Do you love me? And there is no answer no answer but knowing we are known

God is wrapping you up in His arms like a child swaddled by its mother. God is pressing His lips to your forehead and silently removing the last flecks of dried blood, and God is not telling you that you missed some spots while cleaning yourself up, and God is not telling you that the sight of you on your knees before death made him cry. Valentin will never tell you that the sight of you on your knees before your kill made him cry.

Valentin wraps you up in his arms and kisses you over and over. You continue to shiver against him––that aching cold transfers to his wounded heart as you slowly warm up––and deaf fingers roam up and down his waist, tracing like lace skeins of frost. They melt and drip into sweat as you drift lower down his stomach, then up to his chest––touch that melts off his body, rounds into pearls, and drops into God. He shivers with you. He presses into you, mumbling, wanting, and desiring. His mouth is ready to consume, ready to be consumed.

His lips are soft but they are not as warm as his hands. They press first into your neck, pulling in, skin between teeth as arteries roll around and veins pull like harp strings beneath the weight. Your eyes roll back into your head, lungs sucking in a sharp, frigid breath.

"I love you, my dear," he whispers, through tears and wounds, words burning your chest as his teeth crawl down, mouth still wanting and open.

You tug on what your numb fingers can grasp. Strong, rounded shoulders and thick braids. Rough claws over jawbone and clavicle.

"You feel it, don't you?" You say in a shaking voice. "Desire that is consuming that is greed."

He pulls away, shadowed eyes piercing you.

"And you love that you are wanted," Valentin says, fingers digging into your bare skin. "It does not cross your mind whether I desire you in gentle or violent ways. It is only that you are wanted at all that, to you, is of importance." His grip lessens, and a glimmer of dim, bunker light shines in his gaze. "That worries me, my love."

"It shouldn't," you say.

"And yet it does," he says. "Do you not have anything to say to quell my fretting heart?"

You eat the truth down, chewing around the bitter dregs and wondering what mottled things to spit out.

Instead you reach up, run your hand over the side of his skull, feel the shaved hair and the warmth of his face, and cradle it like it is the galaxy contained within the white calcium of human bone.

You are crying now. It is so cold.

"Do you understand me?" You ask in broken glass shards, clenched in your grasping palm. Trembling like a dog with paws frozen to the middle of a street.

You are just the same––you are desperate to be known, to be understood. You peel open your ribcage and hope desperately that Valentin feels the same desire to curl up in the ventricles of your beating, aching heart. 

But he does not. His love for you does not shatter the earth like yours does. Despite his monstrosities in life such sins do not reach his heart, he is pure and his love is pure and it is nothing but warmth and softness, and it breaks your fucking heart.

Beneath it all a wretched guilt. Blood stains your hands. You scrubbed for fifteen minutes till the raw scratched skin was as red as the blood of the man you killed, and you wonder, sobbing, if Valentin will ever forgive you for falling, if his mercy extends to the damned souls he hunts, if there is a reason or an excuse in his mind that pardons you from the avenging will of God. But deep down you know you don't care about God's mercy or His will or even His love. Valentin, shining halo Valentin, with crooked, blood-stained fur wings––Valentin and his green, Eden-filled eyes––he is all you care about.

You bawl and choke on your own cruel tears and keen and claw desperate in your hope that if you are pathetic enough he might take pity on you. It is being ripped from your vocal cords and you cannot say anything else.

I love you, I love you, I love you.

That aching, desirous prayer echoes back to you vacant of its origin and you hear it for what it is––a selfish, egoistical, grasping appetite that will never be satiated no matter how full you stuff your mouth with Valentin's love and sense.

You are a starving, rabid thing. Flesh pulled taut over bone. Shards poking through the skin. Your body is made to be consumed.

You think yourself a broken, sharp thing. Cutting Valentin's heart into pieces.

Instead, he has broken you. Valentin has refused to consume you.

[avvail-whumps]

‘guns for hire’ — end of the line #21

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content warnings: multiple whumpers, intimate whumper, non-con touching (not sexual), fever, denied medicine, denied food, untreated past injuries, vomiting, manhandling, suicidal ideation, knife violence, blood, strangulation, near death experience, gun violence, minor gore, somewhat stockholm syndrome, character death

Leo supposed he got one moment of somewhat peace during Roy’s absence. 

It had been one time when they’d cuffed him to a metal pipe outside and left him there after Bran had had his fun. The night was already creeping in, dark clouds emerging in the sky, and the rumbling of thunder erupted in a deep tone. 

He’d long abandoned the idea of pulling his arm out of the cuff. It had only achieved raw skin and pain whenever he would shift positions. Instead, he pulled his knees to his chest, and sat there for the night. The wind whistled by his ears, biting into his skin, but he found he couldn’t care much. The rain began pelting down once it was dark enough, and the damp water soaked into his clothes uncomfortably. Still, Leo was completely alone with his thoughts. 

Listening to the natural sound of nature after so long being tossed and dragged around, barely conscious in Roy’s home, was refreshing. Even though he was soaked down to his bones, Leo could stare off into the distance and let the rain numb the swollen injuries on his face and ribs. 

He must have been forgotten about. The sun was already high in the sky, and Leo was running on restless, minimal hours of sleep. His back ached, and his head was throbbing with an intense pain. 

It was Joey that eventually came to get him, unlocking his cuff and granting his stiff limbs a moment to stretch. He hissed as he helped him onto his feet, tugging him back into the house. Nobody was on the first floor, so Leo was able to force some food down into his stomach to stop the trembling that had picked up in his hands. It didn’t take long until he was throwing the little snack up again, face flushed with an awful fever. 

He spent most of his sickness unconscious. The only times he awoke was when Bran was bored, seemingly unbothered about his current lethargic status. But that was nothing new. Leo was out by three blows, and woke up still in a tangled, bloody heap on the ground. 

Leo wished he had the strength to finish himself off. He thought about stealing a gun, but he couldn’t even find the strength to hold onto any relatively weighty objects by himself. He was being kept on the brink of death through his relentless injuries and lack of medicine, food and water, but not enough to send him teetering over the edge. That was torture enough in of itself. 

He caught a glimpse of himself one time in the mirror. 

He was almost horrified by the person that stared back, nearly unrecognisable. It had made him almost crumble into tears, but he was too exhausted to even do that. 

Leo thought a lot about his father when he was alone. He wondered if he was safe, after Roy’s ominous warning and exposing those candid photographs of him. There was a lot Leo wanted to say to his father, and he feared he might never get to utter them again.

Maybe the police had stopped their search. Perhaps they’d closed his case upon being unable to find any sufficient evidence as to where he was. Leo wondered what his father was thinking. It ached in his core to think what his father might be like after losing both his wife, and his son. Maybe his mother had resurfaced again at the realisation that Leo was missing. Maybe they had reunited to share in their grief, though he found that thought quite impossible. 

Leo was struggling to close his window, when the sound of the door clattering open broke him out of his daze. A gasp tore from his throat as he saw Finger in the doorway, beer in hand, eyes a little unfocused. His lips were curved into a smug, weak smirk, staggering inside with a low whistle. 

“Fuck, man,” he sucked in through his teeth. His words were slurred. Leo could tell he was drunk. “Glad you’re in here.” 

Leo froze, his eyes widening in fear. He tried to take a step backwards, but the man launched forward, fingers twisting into his shirt. It tightened along his throat, and a pained gasp caught in his throat. The beer can clattered to the ground, the pungent liquid seeping out onto the floorboards. He could smell it wafting off the mercenary, and he knew this wasn’t the first can he’d had. 

“You’re getting kinda boring, you know,” he huffed, unfocused eyes dancing across his face. “I mean, I can only carve up something enough times before it starts to piss me off.” 

Leo tried to pull away, but the fingerless man jerked him forward. It made his head throb in excruciating nausea from the sudden movement, and his stomach sank at the various black spots that began guarding the edge of his vision. There was a heated anger in those hooded eyes that scared Leo. Scared him more than usual, like this horrible dread trying to tell him he needed to get out of there. 

Finger yanked out a knife from his belt, and Leo let out a quiet whimper. 

“Boring,” the man drawled, sniffing. “Make some real noise.” 

A hard pressure stabbed into his side, and Leo lurched forward as the knife settled into his flesh. The air was pushed out of his lungs, choked gasp tightening in his throat. Finger yanked it out with a scowl, and Leo couldn’t hold himself up anymore. He smacked onto the ground when the fingerless man shoved him, stars popping in his vision when the already bruised back of his skull hit the floor. 

The man was on him in seconds. 

Leo didn’t even have time to process the fact that Finger had dug a knife into his side. Crippling pain overtook him, but the delayed scream was cut off when his hands latched around his throat violently. Leo squirmed, his slippery hands, coated with his own blood, clasping against his fingers. 

“They always squirm the best like this,” the drunk mercenary sighed, his eyes lighting with fury. He was crushing his windpipe; Leo choked, his legs frantically kicking out from behind him as the mercenary pushed his weight into his neck. The unbearable pressure was making his eyes burn, vision wavering. He frantically tried digging his fingers under the mercenary’s stern grasp, but it was no use. The agony ripping through his side was helping along the painfully dreaded experience, panic making his vision blur. His thoughts raced. 

He couldn’t breathe. His lungs were burning ferociously, and the blood in his head was throbbing. Tears welled in his eyes as the spinning face of Finger became distorted and fuzzy, realising with a dreaded heart that he was going to die. He was going to die. The mercenary tightened his grasp, fingernails sinking into his skin. Leo couldn’t even fathom a gurgled choking noise, steadily slowing heartbeat consuming his head. 

His eyelids fluttered uselessly. 

Just as his hands twitched into stillness, a loud banging sound jerked his eyes open. He was met with the disturbing sight of Finger’s pale face. His right eye looked as though it had been squashed against his skull, the back of his head blown out by the force of the bullet. Patters of blood dripped onto Leo’s face, and with a surge, the body slumped forward next to him. 

The grip left his neck. 

Leo erupted into a horrific coughing fit as the air rushed frantically back into his lungs. He choked on the bile in his throat, and could hardly muster the strength to clutch onto his chest. 

“I never liked him much anyway,” Roy murmured under his breath, a somewhat annoyed edge to his voice. He tucked the gun back into his belt, and kicked the lifeless body away. Leo’s heart leapt into his throat. There was no doubt that even through his quickly disappearing vision, that was him. The sound of his voice simply sent Leo into a dazed frenzy. 

For the first time in a long while, adrenaline erupted into his veins. Leo somehow found the strength to find his feet, and throw himself at Roy without a single care in the world. He clutched tightly onto him as the tears began to roll freely down his face, sucking in ragged sobs as he relished in the fact that this was real. 

No more of the other mercenary’s taunts and beatings. No more of their twisted games. 

He was safer like this. 

Roy chuckled softly under his breath, his arms coming to wrap around Leo in turn. He hadn’t been held like this so long, and it made his stomach tingle with butterflies. “Guess you missed me, huh, lion?” 

He buried himself into everything he needed. A warmth. A pleasant, home-like scent. A pair of arms around him. Leo couldn’t believe how much he’d missed a nice touch, one that wasn’t drawing back to bring him agonising pain. Despite clutching onto Roy with a vice grip, he could feel himself slipping. His knees buckled under his weight, and he felt the mercenary’s arms tighten around him in confusion. 

“Lion?” 

A wave of dizziness slammed into him, and he felt himself being lowered onto the ground. Roy’s gaze snapped to his hand when he realised it was covered in blood, and then tilted his head to get a look at the gushing wound on his side. Leo’s eyes were already rolling to the back of his head, a horrible, cold clamminess breaking out along his skin. 

Roy sighed in annoyance. “Shit.” 

The secretary’s breathing thinned out. Throughout it all, he was still determined not to let go of the man’s shirt. Maybe then, he would be sure that none of this was a dream. 

He heard Roy calling out for Joey, and then everything went black.

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[dudeyuri]

I'm having thoughts and feelings about bad buddy must be a day that ends in y. But like, last episode tomorrow, kind of verklempt, need to word vomit

My first watch of Bad Buddy kind of smacked me upside the head. I know this is not a unique experience. I was left reeling for a bit. Watching Bad Buddy was the first thing I did in 2023 and I watched all 12 episodes in one sitting like a glutton and I stayed up til 1am even though I had to get up at 4am the next day (I haven't done stupid shit like that since college). Then I started my rewatch the next day. Then I put it aside for months because it was actually a physical ache in my chest when I thought about it. I just...never?? encountered such a fulfilling narrative that followed through on all its promises. Even with its deliberate deceptions and twists and uncertainties - I put my trust in Bad Buddy's narrative and was rewarded for doing so like never before.

It got me from the first episode - the first episode did what I think almost every first episode should do: tell you exactly what the story is going to be, without telling you exactly what the story is going to be. Fantastic writing, deliberate pacing, satisfying character development, pitch-perfect acting, all top-notch. It kept the energy up all throughout even as it got heavier, and stuck the landing in such a profound and bittersweet way. This was the first Thai BL I've ever watched, and probably the third BL I've ever watched period. One of my first impressions after finishing it even for the first time was that it was, maybe above all else, self aware.

My initial impression was also not a unique one: so far this is funny, charming, an exciting premise. And by episode 4 I was starting to get hit with it: this story is all those things and a knife in your gut, a lump in your throat. And it's queer, and it's tragic. Like, from the jump we see the two households both alike in dignity, we know what this is: it's Romeo and Juliet (or Kwan and Riam). We know how it ends. Pran knows how it ends. They teased us the whole show with Pran's decor, his doorknob hanger, like this show's version of a comedy and tragedy mask - what's it going to be? How's it going to end? Everyone watching knows how romcoms typically end. But everyone also knows how Romeo and Juliet ends.

In a move that can really only be described as revolutionary, Bad Buddy decided that queering the Romeo and Juliet narrative meant a happy ending. With caveats, but happy and alive and together. It was as simple as two characters finding their agency in a world trying to deprive them of it, seeing every path around them that led to tragedy, and instead trailblazing a new one that led to happiness. (everything that could be said about this has already been said; I look to this essay by @chickenstrangers often!! helped me make sense of pat gets shot lol. MK I hope you're not sick of people linking this left and right). It's a narrative choice that resounds.

I was personally struck by that specific pain Pat and Pran experience, the pain of having to lie to your parents and keep love a secret from them - is there a queer person out there who doesn't relate to that in a bone-achingly deep way? Regardless of your relationship with your family. Having to partition yourself like this is part of the queer experience. And it's exhausting because you just have to live like this. It's exhausting because the people who are supposed to love you have made a liar of you instead. You can be surviving and thriving and happy, but your parents will still ask your siblings about their love lives and ask you about the weather (too real??? oops). There's a hint at a possible thawing in the final episode that gives hope, but Bad Buddy does not magically make the parents realize they were wrong and accept their sons' love - I mean, that just doesn't happen. It would have made for a disingenuous ending, it would have been a disservice to the narrative and to the viewers and to the metaphor. If you're lucky enough to have parents who would, you're lucky. It's a sad truth. "We can't change the world...but the world can't change us either."

At first glance, Bad Buddy plays in the "BL bubble". Upon a slightly closer examination Bad Buddy says there can never really be a bubble--stories aren't crafted in a vacuum, the dominant ideology that is homophobia traumatizes and endangers and oppresses all who do not align with it, still there are happy endings for us here. We find each other and carve them out ourselves. To say all this, and to not veer into heavy-handed "yeah okay we get it" territory is a feat honestly! Seldom accomplished in such a riveting and sexy way! How refreshing! Bad Buddy reminded me of reading a good poem - upon first read, a good poem is about "a thing," and it's evocative as is and you don't even have to read it again to enjoy it. But you can also consider it carefully and unearth "the other thing," a deeper meaning, the answer to "why was this written?". Bad Buddy trusts its viewers to get there. I mean I know it's really not much of a hidden message, but again, they are subtle with it, iykyk etc. BB doesn't hold our hand, but it takes our trust and respects it and doesn't break it (though it shakes the jar, like quite a bit, lol. All good stories should tbh).

I think a lot about the form, too. In a less capable storyteller's hands 12 one-hour-long episodes can drag (I'm thinking of some recent gmmtv BLs lol), or even not be enough (I feel like I personally see that in a lot of western shows whose fanbases are out here begging for second seasons to tie up loose ends). P'Aof (and co.) knew exactly what to do with 12 episodes. Has anyone in the entire history of TeleVision ever known what to do with 12 one-hour-long episodes as undeniably as P'Aof and co in making Bad Buddy??

I know I'm being a little dramatic, excessively lauding good writing like this. Like yeah stories should be good and thoughtful and make sense, of fucking course. But I just have to appreciate it in a genre, in a capitalist reality, where a story does not have to be profound or clever or full of love to be marketable. They truly did not have to go this hard. (Though the writer in me who now considers Aof a personal idol also thinks: yes of course they absolutely did have to go this hard in fact It Is The Only Way). I'm so so grateful for it for so many reasons!! And I didn't even breach the topic of how fun and sexy I think Pat and Pran are together. Didn't even mention the fingersucking, the scent kink, the kissies - all genuinely just as important to me as everything else. It's all in the making of a good story! I am taking notes through my tears and I am so thankful