#pls read the CWs

[astro-nomaly]

The Graveyard Shift: Attack Dog

GUESS WHO'S BACK FROM THE PSYCH WARRDDDDDD

Me? Posting two au spin-off snippets in one day? Well, technically two days bc it's 12 am now, but whatever. Anyways uh @mother-spore-missa @highbookwormofthecentury flirty anon that I'm somewhat convinced is @chaotetothecore here's some graveyard shift content

For context: in the official AU, Akita runs away when her brother is mutilated, and ends up in Jamanakai in time for Harumi and Lloyd to also show up. Here, she decides to get revenge instead of running. I literally just spell-checked this so don't expect poetry here mkay

CW: blood and gore, cult setting, stalking, emotional manipulation, magical slavery (?), non-consensual touching, dehumanization, non-sexual restraints, body horror (kinda), psychological horror (also kinda), brief instance of casual cannibalism, graphic murder, graphic description of a corpse, obsessive behavior, implied torture. Uh I think that's it but if anyone thinks I need to include smth else lemme know mkay content under the cut

Frigid droplets of water slid down the slick black stones of the catacombs, congealing on the edge between the walls and floor. It was cold enough to freeze, creating slick patches of frost in the otherwise arid room.

It didn't bother her any. She was quite used to the cold by now.

She hummed, her voice soft and lilting, near silent. The polaroid picture of a young boy - 15, at most - with bleach blonde hair and radioactive green eyes sat on the frigid desk before her, in the corner of her personal 'study'. The boy's pitch black sclera matched her own, though her irises were a hot, intense pink. A sharp painted nail languidly tapped against the boy's head. He was facing in another direction, unaware of the photo being taken through his window.

So, so stupid. She couldn't wait to use that. This little liminal might just turn out to be her favorite plaything yet. Of course…

"You're so much more than that," she whispered near-silently, her nail tracing his soft jawline. By this point, she knew more about this boy than he knew about himself. Every facet of his life, from his favorite meal to the order he tied his shoes in - left, then right - was meticulously observed and recorded. This boy was more than a fun toy, more than another target.

Lloyd Garmadon would be her savior. The Conduit… the Conduit would free her. He could make her a real person again.

Her eyes flickered at movement in her peripherals. A dim laptop, grimy from dust and muck, featured glitching grey security camera footage. A woman, mid-forties, silently screamed and banged on deepstone bars. She chuckled, leaning her head on pale white knuckles. Misako Montgomery Garmadon, hair askew and glasses broken on the floor, screamed her pathetic little throat out. You'd think after nearly two months, the woman would have given up.

Entertainment like this made her glad she hadn't just killed the woman. And, of course, it really would have been such a hassle…

A creaky mrow disrupted her thoughts. Without moving her head, she looked at the source. The cracked, dirty skeleton of a house cat greeted her. The flesh and fur of the animal was long gone, leaving behind grimy, but perfectly preserved bones, meticulously assembled in its exact skeletal structure. All except the neck, twisted and cracked beyond repair.

The reanimated skeleton hopped onto her desk, uncaring of the cold, and butted against her chest. She smiled, a rare thing, and skimmed the tip of her finger over its head. Her pet batted at her long, snow-white hair.

"Funny… isn't it?" She whispered. The unnamed cat paid her no mind, twisting its dull talons in her hair. She hummed, watching as Misako Garmadon finally gave up and slumped against the wall, shivering. "She's so… desperate. For someone who doesn't even realize she's gone. Can you believe it? All I have to do to shatter that hope… is send a text." She pulled Misako's phone from her pocket, holding it between her pointer and middle finger like a trump card. She thought about it, teasing the woman's son's contact. She could picture it now - the blonde would light up like a child on Christmas morning, ever-so-happy to have attention from mommy dearest. Hell, she could pull up the footage of his apartment this second and watch it in real time. It was tempting to go visit Misako herself, just to watch the woman crumble as she saw her son freely offering up information of his day to a complete stranger.

Ah, but alas, she had things to do. The time to act was closing in, and she needed to make sure Jamanakai was ready for the Conduit.

Her cat looked up at her with black, soulless eyes and gave another mrow. She smiled, thin-lipped. "It'll have to wait," she whispered, stroking a dainty finger along the skeleton's cracked skull. The cat rumbled in imitation of a purr, pressing against her skin. Its tail curled up around her hand as she stroked it.

She sighed, leaning back in her rickety chair. The room was dim, lit only by the artificial putrid green light pouring in from stained glass windows. Of course, they were only decorative - she was so deep underground, light had no hope of reaching this place. The room was bare, walls lined in knick-knacks. The skull of a fox was nestled between dead vines, the skeleton of a snake with its maw wide open curled around a jar of black-sclera eyeballs swimming in green. A few dozen books filled the empty shelf space.

A small kitchenette lined most of the back wall. Putrid ingredients - the bones of animals and human alike, the throbbing organs of a few dozen organisms, the bottled souls of the damned - filled the space. The only non-practical decoration in the room was her tea set. Smooth, uncracked porcelain teacups and a pot sat upon a short wooden table, covered by a lacy white tablecloth. Ghost plants - drooping white flowers with petals like bells - scattered across every inch of her room. Officially, this space was simply a room to work in. Unofficially, it was her safe haven. Far more comfortable than her real bedroom, anyhow.

A boot tapped against the ground. Her thoughts these days were consumed by the Conduit - how she would befriend him, how she would manipulate the awakening of his powers, how she would lead him back to the catacombs - so much so that there was little room for anything else. Should all go according to plan, she would lure the Conduit to Jamanakai Village, isolating him completely and utterly. In such a Thin, liminal space, his connection to the Veil would awaken quickly. No, it was getting him to use those powers that had her in a bind.

For her purposes, he needed to be powerful. But if he was powerful, then she couldn't force him to do a damn thing - so she needed him to want to do it. So manipulation it was. Luckily, she was quite the master of it.

The cat suddenly arched its back, hissing violently. With no vocal cords, it was more of a scratchy, nails-on-a-chalkboard grinding of bones, but it was the effort that counted. She frowned, following her cat's lifeless stare to the heavy, ornate black door. Distantly, she could hear the sound of a scuffle.

Hm. More interesting than her Conduit homework, surely. Really, she knew the boy up, down, left, right, and sideways at this point. She stood from her seat, hair falling around her shoulders listlessly. The cat hopped from the desk to curl around her neck, still hissing, now directly into her ear. The sound didn't bother her after all this time.

She entered the long, dark hallways of the catacombs. The occasional stained glass window interrupted the bleak halls, providing artificial light. This far down, torches were too risky. She walked down the long, wide, arched hall, boots clicking against cracked stone. The further she walked, the louder the sound of fighting got.

Finally, she reached an open space. The room was wide, circular, almost like a colosseum. No, she thought, looking down from the upper level to the carnage below, exactly like a colosseum.

The sight was gruesome. Bodies, torn open and guts spilling across the pristine marble, lay scattered across the underground cathedral. Their faces were marred in blood, skin torn from their bones. Their torsos had entire chunks ripped out by violent teeth, tendons and organs broken across their bodies as they dripped bloody fluids.

In the center of it all, a giant white wolf. The beast growled, powerful teeth bared in a violent snarl. Its maw dripped red, congealing around its paws. It was bigger than any animal had any right to be. She looked gazed, interested, at the set of three red-tipped tails and six powerful legs. Two small eyes glared underneath larger ones, glowing a solid red with sheer rage. A changeling, then, or 'formling' as they were occasionally called.

A dozen members of the compound, all liminals and armed with spirit-amulets, yelled as they sent Poltergeist after Poltergeist, Haunting after Haunting, but the changeling wolf didn't waver. Its jaws, teeth glimmering with sick red, snapped around the ghostly forms, ripping already incorporeal bodies in two.

She hummed, leaning on the iron banister as she watched the carnage unfold. The wolf sprang forward, targeting a lowly member - weak, cowardly, stupid to boot - and tore into his torso, flinging his limp body across the colosseum. It hit the wall with a sick, broken crack, sliding down and leaving a trail of gore behind. The cat on her shoulder hissed, arching, and she shushed it. This was far too interesting to intervene.

To her delight, the white beast shifted, form rippling as the white body became a white cloak. The skin of a white wolf covered the form of a young girl. She had dark skin and thin, angry red eyes. A tail, still attached to her body, twitched behind her. A pair of white ears sprouted from her wild black hair. She was dressed in layered whites accented with red, and sported a sharp dagger at her side.

"Where is he?!" The girl screamed, voice cracking in her rage. A man took the transformation as invitation to attack - the changeling cut his throat. She savagely ripped into him with snarls and growls, plunging her blade into his throat again and again.

"My," she whispered from her vantage point high above, "this keeps up, we won't have anything but ghosts."

It wouldn't be such a bad thing. Most of these people were terribly incompetent. Ah, but alas, the Overlord would be displeased to lose his little sycophants.

God. As if she gave a shit about the Overlord. What a fucking loser.

But… the vessel would be disappointed if she just sat back and let people die.

Her thoughts were interrupted by some man, early twenties perhaps, with black sclera and pale blue irises. He gasped, hunching over as he caught his breath. She only looked down on his, expression flat and disinterested.

"Q-Quiet One! There's a changeling-"

"I'm aware," she cut him off. He fell silent immediately, eyes flicking up to her cold face. She pursed her lips, turning her neck to look down on the changeling in question.

She had become a girl again, though snarled like a beast all the same. In a fluid motion, she dropped down, sweeping her legs to topple her opponent. She wasted no time in pouncing, plunging her blade down into his chest like a lamb to the slaughter.

The Quiet One smiled thinly, her eyes thinning into sharp crescents. "Restrain her. And keep her alive and unharmed. Should she be in any less than perfect condition…" from the corner of her eye, she glared at the pathetic, sniveling man before her, looking up at her like some kind of god.

An angry god.

"…I won't hesitate to let her hunt the lot of you down like mutts."

The man swallowed, bowing his head shakily. "Y-yes, Quiet One."

The Quiet One smiled, clapping her hands together cheerfully. "Fantastic. Bring her to me when you're done."

The man jerked his head in a nod and ran off, shouting all the while. The Quiet One remained in place a little while longer, watching the changeling girl slaughter liminals like they were an infestation to be eradicated.

Yes… she'd do nicely.

Within the pale, dark room, she flicked her hand. The crystal laced around her neck glowed a sharp pink color, and a ghoulish figure rose from inside. Its form was muddled around the edges, undefined. It could only form the vague shape of a human, shroud in shadow. Two glowing pits replaced its eyes, and a sharp, jagged slit replaced its mouth.

It moved accordingly, mindless in its task. Floating through the room, it rearranged furniture, drawing up two thick chairs on either side of her tea set. The Quiet One sat down, facing the door, and silently commanded her ghoul to make tea in the back. Times like this, she could almost tolerate the thing's presence.

Just as her kettle began to steam, the door was shoved open. The Quiet One narrowed her eyes at the loud noise disrupting her room, and the cat on her shoulder hissed, leaping out of sight. No less than four liminals, all with black sclera, forcibly dragged the changeling girl through. Their skin was torn from their flesh, sharp wounds ripping into muscle and sinew as they bled all over her nice floor. The changeling girl was unharmed, save for a thick bruise across her face.

Hm. It was acceptable. Annoying, though. She'd have preferred the changeling unharmed at all.

She flicked her hand. "Leave her."

The changeling, muzzled, growled sharply. The other four glanced between each other uncertainly. "But… Quiet One-"

"Now."

Her voice alone cast a chill over the men, and they stiffened. One jerked his head in a short bow, then led the other three out of the room. The door locked behind them.

The changeling watched them go, confusion temporarily clouding her anger. She eyed the Quiet One warily, fists clenched at her sides. They'd stripped her of her knives, and likely wrapped that vengestone so tightly around her neck that if she even thought of shifting, it would strangle her.

Perfect.

She leaned back, crossing her legs daintily. "Hello," she whispered softly. She gestured to the chair on the other side of her. "Please, sit."

Those hot red eyes glowed, and the changeling's face contorted into an ugly, angry expression. She snarled from behind her muzzle and shot forward, sharp hands poised to kill.

The Quiet One rolled her eyes with a low sigh. She flicked her hand, and at once, ghoulish hands, sharp and dripping mucky slime, curled from the stone. Dozens strong, they gripped the girl's arms, hair, legs, collar. The changeling wolf shrieked, surprised, as she was halted inches away from the Quiet One's face.

The Quiet One grinned, showing off the barest hint of her own teeth. She rose one dainty finger, and tapped the girl's muzzle. "Boop," she giggled. Those red eyes widened, probably shocked at her audacity, before the dripping hands forcibly dragged her backward. She was bodily shoved into the other chair, restrained in ghoulish claws.

She let the changeling to struggle futilely, watching her all the while. Where she'd once assumed the girl's cheeks were stained in blood, there were sharp red tattoos. Three on each cheek, like little claw marks, framing her blood-red eyes. The Quiet One could only smile wider at the sight.

They matched.

"Are you done, yet?" She asked, mostly just to see if it would annoy the other girl. She couldn't be older than 16, and was terribly pissy. Sure enough, the changeling growled, eyes flaming behind the muzzle. The Quiet One giggled at the sight.

"You caused quite the scene, down there. I saw it - you were magnificent, really." The changeling paused her struggles at the words, confused to hear her enemy complimenting her. The Quiet One betrayed no malice, leaving her own expression open and genuine.

Well, as genuine as she of all people could ever be.

She leaned forward, resting her chin in her palm. "Really, it was… wow. You know?Just, inspiring, really. You must be pretty powerful - or very well trained."

She internally snickered at her own pun. Just like a dog. I wonder how she'll fair on a leash?

The changeling kept staring, wary, but she seemed to relax ever so slightly. She kept her furred boots planted firmly on the stone floor, her arms restrained to the thin armrests of the chair. The Quiet One hummed, feigning sympathy.

"That must be uncomfortable. I am sorry - but if you keep trying to kill me, I can't release you. But, here - let me help a little."

She snapped two thin fingers. One of the hands around the changeling's upper arm rose at the silent command, twisting in the stale air. The changeling hissed, leaning as far as she could away from it. Uncaring, the long, thin claw-like fingers slowly pressed at the muzzle. It smoothly undid the straps, releasing the wolf-girl's jaw.

The changeling watched it return to position, working her jaw. The Quiet One remained silent, waiting to see how the girl would react. She turned her glare over, staring daggers into the Quiet One's eyes.

"…who are you?" The changeling rasped. She had a pretty voice, with a thick accent that curved her r's. The white wolf's ears on her head flicked.

She grinned. "The Quiet One. And you?"

The changeling hunched her shoulders, wary. But eventually, she relented. "…Akita," she mumbled.

"No last name?"

"No."

The Quiet One hummed. Her finger lazily trailed the silver design of the table between them. Akita twitched at the movement, her arms reflexively straining against the ghoulish claws that held her down. She growled quietly.

"Let me go," Akita snapped. Her shoulder jerked, trying to break free. A slender, clawed hand dug further into her clothes, breaking the fabric as it dug into her skin. Akita hissed in pain.

The Quiet One only watched. Her eyes transfixed on the pale red that pooled around the tear, slowly dying the pure white. It was a much lighter red than the blood of her victims, splattered across her front, still dripping from her mouth…

Hm. She had quite the bite, didn't she? The Quiet One wondered just how much those teeth could pierce skin. Enough to rip out a man's jugular, surely.

…who's he?

The Quiet One's eyes sparkled at the thought. "No can do, sweetheart," she whispered back cheerily, "'fraid you caused quite the ruckus. You know, if the Overlord or - oh, god forbid - the Mistress had been there…" She trailed off, letting Akita feel the discomfort, the silent threat. Then, she shrugged, as though nothing had ever been wrong at all. "Good thing I'm the one who caught you. Anyone else would be happy to throw you down a shallow grave."

Akita gave her a wary, but curious, look. She remained silent, but the Quiet One could see the way she longed to ask her question.

3….2…1….

"…why didn't you?"

Bingo.

She grinned sharply, baring her teeth like fangs. "That's just the question, isn't it?" Her fingers tapped along the silver table like stick-people doing a can-can, dramatically tip-tip-tipping on the metal. "You interest me, 'Kita. The way you fought - oh, sure, very impressive. But I want to know the why."

"Why?"

"Mm-hm!" She gave Akita a squinty, closed-eyed smile. "You've got a story, hon. Like… oh, I don't know… him?"

The single word, the eerie little taunt, immediately threw Akita into a frenzy. She snarled, jerking forward in her chair. The ghoulish claws grappled at her, tearing through fabric and underclothes and eventually even skin, but she didn't notice. Akita got as close as she possibly could to the Quiet One, close enough for her to see the blood still pooling in the changeling's mouth.

"Tell me where he is!" Akita screamed. A slender hand, skin peeling off of bone, scraped against the girl's face. Akita didn't spare it a thought. "Tell me where he is so I can rip his throat out!"

The kettle screamed.

The Quiet One scooted her chair back, standing. She didn't spare the screaming changeling another glance as she quietly walked to the back of her room, taking the kettle off the stove top. Akita continued to yell and snarl, caught up in an angry frenzy. The Quiet One simply poured two cups of tea, pouring enough sugar to kill a small child into her own.

She returned to her seat quietly, giving Akita a look. The girl's chest heaved, but she had shut up. Her teeth remained bared in a threat. She almost laughed - what could this changeling do to her?

Her enemies, on the other hand…

"Are you done yet?" She asked. She took care to make her tone amused, not cruel or patronizing. Akita growled, deep in her throat.

"Where is he."

The Quiet One crossed her legs and took a languid sip from her cup. The tea was already cooling. "Sweetheart, I can't help if I don't know who he is."

Akita blinked. "Help?"

"Of course!" She placed the second cup, a pretty red-pink color, in front of Akita. She obviously couldn't grab it, but the invitation - the intent - was clear. "Nobody fights like that unless they've been wronged. I mean… you come, storming into a liminal stronghold, murdering everyone in sight without so much as an explanation? I'm invested."

"I'm not telling you anything," Akita snapped.

"Shame," she sighed. "Because I really thought we would be able to help each other."

Akita just thinned her lips. The Quiet Oneinternally swore. This girl just had to be so stubborn…

Patience.

She gave Akita another kind smile, sympathy dripped from every pore. "I'm trying to help. Someone has to pay for that debacle downstairs, and everyone wants it to be you. But, if you just gave me something to work with, we might be able to work something out, the two us."

"Bite. Me."

The corner of her eye twitched. If she had more time for this, she could draw it out. Put the girl in a dark little cell, long enough for her to forget the passage of time as hours blurred into days. She could cement herself as the one true confidant in the changeling's life. Alas, her extended mission with the Conduit was fast approaching. If she was going to take advantage of this opportunity, she had to do so now.

How annoying.

"I don't want to hurt you," she continued to needle at Akita. Then, something clicked. She set her cup down, porcelain clicking against silver. "…but you have been hurt, haven't you?"

Akita stiffened. Her white, fluffy ears pinned themselves to her head. The Quiet One had to suppress her grin.

There it is.

She kept her face sympathetic, leaning in. She didn't like guess-work, but something told her she was right on the money.

"Changelings have two souls," she said softly, and watched as Akita's pupils shrunk, "it's what enables your shape-shifting. But it's not so simple - they're intertwined, practically a single soul all on their own. It's fascinating. But you avoid us, and we avoid you. So the only reason you would be here, in the thick of it all… is if one us hurt you first."

Akita's jaw clenched, an instinctive attempt to beat back her own tears. "Shut up! Shut up!"

"It's him, isn't it?" The Quiet One pressed. Akita was just on the verge of cracking, she only had to give the girl a nudge…

"Shut up! You don't know anything!"

The Quiet One stood, rounding the table. She leaned down next to Akita, whispering in the wolf's ear on her head.

"He's done something to someone you love. Hasn't he? What did he do? I know what it's like to be afraid of men. Tell me what he did to you - let me help."

Akita's breath hitched, once, twice. Then she broke down, head bowing in defeat as hot tears ran down her face. The Quiet One, out of sight, grinned. She cooed, leaning her hip against the chair as she cradled the changeling's head, pulling the girl into a loose embrace.

"Oh, you poor thing," she pet the coily, wild black hair as Akita sobbed and sobbed. The girl leaned into her, desperately seeking the meager comfort. It was like she'd forgotten who had her tied up in the first place.

Oh, but she was so good at it, wasn't she? It was hard for anyone to not feel soothed by a pretty, sympathetic girl, ready to provide comfort and understanding. And for Akita, to be met with someone her age, with such understanding… oh, it was just too fucking easy.

Akita sobbed into her chest as the Quiet One continued to pet her hair, smiling down at the changeling like a cat who'd caught her mouse. When Akita could barely breathe through her sobs, the Quiet One cradled her jaw, lifting her face. Her thumb skimmed over the thick bruise, pressing in ever so slightly. Just enough for Akita to feel the sting.

"You've been so hurt," she whispered. In Akita's wide eyes, she saw herself. Long, pin-straight white hair, the upper half of her face coated in thick red paint, her eyes shining against the pitch black of her sclera - a bloody angel. Her other hand, the one not pressed into Akita's bruise, came around the smooth back the sweaty hair from the girl's forehead. "Tell me how to fix it."

Akita sniffled. "My brother," she gasped wetly. Her eyes shut, like the words were just too painful. Her head leaned further into the Quiet One's chest, begging for comfort. "My brother, my- Kataru, he- he tore him apart!"

"Your brother? What was he?"

"A bear!" Akita screamed, spittle flying from her mouth. Tears mingled with snot and spit as her chest heaved again, anger and grief mingling together. Both were emotions the Quiet One was familiar with. "That- that monster, he tore him apart! He tore my brother in two, he doesn't even- doesn't recognize me anymore!"

"Oh?" The Quiet One carded her hands over the base of Akita's ears, making them twitch.

Akita slumped. "He doesn't even- he doesn't even recognize me," she whispered. Tears dripped from her jaw, landing in the growing puddle in her lap. All she could do was press herself into the Quiet One, shaking and trembling head to toe. How broken. How utterly defeated.

She hummed, still stroking the changeling. Her kind were so susceptible to physical kindness, weren't they? Oh, how fun it would be to see how far she could take it…

How pliant.

"You mean… like this?" She leaned over Akita's shoulder. The amulet around her neck slipped from the collar of her black cheongsam, hanging midair. It glowed in pink, and hot pink smoke drifted from it's core. Akita watched, wide eyed, as the figures of a human and bear took shape, entwining in each other. The Quiet One blew onto the smoke like a birthday candle, and the two figures were torn from one another. Akita's breath hitched at the sight, wide-eyed as she stared at the human figure. It bent over, clutching its head with a silent scream before it vanished, no more than simple smoke.

Akita's chest jumped. Her breathing stuttered, uneven and fractured. Then, just as the Quiet One predicted, her face contorted dramatically, fury bleeding from every pore. "where is he," she hissed, barely restrained. "Where the hell is he?!"

The Quiet One hummed, amused. She straightened, her amulet falling back against her chest. "Just give me a name, sweetheart," she cooed, clasping her hands together, "and I'll let you rip out his jugular."

Akita stared up at her, dumbfounded. The Quiet One only smiled. The changeling snarled, fangs dripping blood, "Vex."

"Perfect," the Quiet One purred. Her hand cupped the amulet. It glowed briefly, and she felt the soul slip out the room, gone to find the man. "Don't you worry, doll. I'll let you kill him. I'll let you take as long as you want to do it."

She hummed to herself, slowly walking around the room in big, dramatic steps, hands clasped behind her back. Akita watched her like a hawk. The Quiet One spun in a slow, wide circle as she fell back into her desk, kicking one hand over the other, as casual and open as you please. Her hand swiped up a thin polaroid of the Conduit, sitting in his desk at school, bent over a book with his headphones on. The angle of the picture was taken from below, snapped by a phone under a desk.

"If," she said, spinning the polaroid around so Akita could see its star, "you help me in return."

Akita leaned back. She was no longer angry with the Quiet One - if anything, the promise of revenge had endeared her to the changeling. "…help you?" She asked warily.

"Mm-hm!" She chirped. "See, I need to get this boy. Very powerful, so the Overlord and Mistress need him for some plan or another-" as if she didn't know exactly what the Conduit would be used for, as if she hadn't slaved away for it her entire fucking life, "-I won't bore you with the details. Trouble is, it's all on me. The planning, the execution - so much work! But, if you help me…" she trailed off, leaving the floor open for Akita's questions.

"…why?"

She snickered. "Because, little pup, if you do, I won't just let you kill Vex… I'll Bind him."

Akita's eyes flashed. "Bind?"

"I'll tether his dead soul to an object." she plucked a pen from her desk, twirling it between her fingers. "And give it to you. You'll get to torture him forever, and he'll never die, and he'll never escape."

She could see the hunger in Akita's eyes, the raw thirst for revenge. She was so, so close… maybe just one final push.

Akita's eyes flicked back and forth, clearly torn. "But… he's just a- a person-"

The Quiet One waved her off. "Oh, we won't hurt him! The Conduit has unfettered access to the Veil. Someone so powerful, someone who's only born once a century tops… sweetheart, he'll be worshipped. I'm going to bring him from a lonely little nobody," she released the polaroid, letting it flutter to the floor. She stepped off the desk, crushing the polaroid beneath her shoe. "-to divine."

Akita bit her lip. "…but…"

One more push. Just a tease.

"And, you know," she cut Akita off, tapping her chin, "someone so powerful… with enough experience - that's where you come in - he could even put your brother back together."

Akita's eyes widened, snapping up to her. Those pinprick irises, the sweat and blood coating her, the wild hair in her face - Akita was the picture of desperate.

Desperate, and obsessed.

"Fix him?" She whispered, transfixed. The Quiet One giggled, scooping up her pretty porcelain tea cup. She took a sip, relishing the way Akita didn't so much as blink, completely and utterly focused solely on her.

She sighed as she set the cup back down. "Yep," she popped the p, "Good as new. Just like that." Her two fingers snapped. Akita blinked.

For a long, long moment, the chamber was silent. Akita's face was bathed in hellish purple glow from the windows, making her appear ghostly in her blood-stained white clothes. Blood dribbled from the red claw marks in her cheeks, almost as though they were open wounds in her skin.

The Quiet One's eyes narrowed pleasantly at the sight. They even matched.

"Come on, Akita. One little boy, and Brother Bear comes home."

Then, jerkily, Akita nodded. "Yes," she gasped, "yes, yes, yes."

The Quiet One shrieked with a giggle, unable to contain herself. She was at Akita's side in a second, snatching up her jaw and forcing those red eyes to meet her own. Her nail pressed into Akita's split bottom lip, breaking the thin skin. Blood pooled immediately, seeping into her own paper-white skin.

She leaned in until their noses were practically touching. "Give me your name," she whispered. Akita swallowed.

"I- I did."

"No," she giggled. Her lips grew wide in a wolfish smile, stretching far across her cheeks - too far. "Your True Name. The secret one."

Akita recoiled, but the Quiet One's hand held her in place. "But-"

"A contract," she said, "I have to abide by the contract."

Akita swallowed, but gave no protest. The Quiet One trailed a sharp nail down the contours of the changeling's face. "You'll do as I say," she purred, "with no hesitation. You will follow my orders, and abide by my wishes. You will be mine. And when we have the Conduit, and he has fulfilled my needs, I'll have him fix Brother Bear. Then, you will be released."

Akita breathed slowly through her nose. Her throat bobbed as she stared into the Quiet One's eyes. Then, eyes shining through tear tracks, she nodded. "I agree," she whispered.

Just like that. Her entire life, signed away with two little words.

The Quiet One snapped two fingers, and the slender hands released Akita, retreating back into the stone floors. Akita flexed her arms, and the Quiet One released her jaw. Akita beckoned for her to lean in. Ever-so-quietly, she whispered into her ear, the True Name of a fae flowing from red lips dyed in blood.

The connection was immediate. Just as the last syllable passed her lips, a shining red collar appeared around Akita's neck. It tightened against dark skin, settling firmly. There was no clasp, no strap to remove it.

All mine.

The Quiet One stood up straight, satisfied. What a wonderful opportunity that had stumbled across her path. Yes, this would be so much better. Instead of trying to keep up the charade as Garmadon Junior's best friend, his stalker, his 'enemy' in the dark of night… she would have Akita do it. The changeling would play the part of mysterious villain, would coax the Conduit's powers to the surface.

She pat Akita on the head. "Good dog."

Akita bent her head, teeth glinting. "You promised I could kill him."

The Quiet One giggled, practically prancing across the room to the iron door. "And you will, puppy."

She opened the door with a flourish. Akita's snarl ripped through the air, and on a whim, the Quiet One flicked her hand. Amazingly, Akita fell silent. Incredible. Her orders didn't even need to be audible.

A pale man with greasy sideburns and a handlebar mustache greeted her. He was over a foot taller, but bowed to her all the same. Simpering little coward.

The Quiet One watched him through thin, crescent moon eyes as he straightened back up. "Quiet One," he said reverently, pressing his hand to his chest. He stepped inside the room, and the iron door banged shut behind him. The Quiet One flicked her hand again, and a barely-visible spirit locked it. "You called for me?"

She knew his type. Little men with littler appendages, stewing in their own inflated sense of self-importance. Like she'd said - simpering coward.

She clasped her hand behind her back. "Vex," she said. None of the kindness or amusement she'd spent on Akita colored her voice. She cocked her head like a bird, as though curious. "Riddle me this: which one of us has the eternal, unshaking favor of the Overlord and Mistress?"

Vex blinked. He stammered, averting his gaze. "Q-Quiet One, what-"

"Answer the question."

Vex swallowed. "You, Quiet One."

She cocked her head to the other side. "And which one of us… is in charge, here?"

"Y-you are, Quiet One," Vex responded again. She hummed, rocking on her heels girlishly.

"Exactly. And, which one of us has the power to kill you at any moment, with zero consequences whatsoever?" Her teeth gleamed.

Vex's eyes widened, and he stepped back with a nervous laugh. "Quiet One, if I've somehow misstepped-"

"Answer the fucking question."

Vex froze. "…y-you do, Quiet One."

She grinned sharply, fangs glinting purple light. "Wrong!" She said cheerily. "She does."

She stepped to the side, releasing Akita from her order. Immediately, a gigantic wolf leapt past her, barreling into Vex. The man only had time to scream, futilely blocking his face, before the snarling wolf ripped into him.

The Quiet One cackled, shrieking with mad laughter as the screams of the damned and the wails of a girl wronged filled the chamber. Ghouls and spirits clawed their way from the floor, drawn to the frenzy of blood and gore. Akita shifted, back and forth, digging into Vex. Her claws found their way into his ribcage, tearing at bone and snapping, treating the bloody white bones like blades to stab and mutilate with. Her wolf's teeth clamped around his jugular, ripping and tearing until pained screams became desperate bloody gurgles.

The Quiet One laughed and laughed, draping herself over her large, ornate desk. She hummed a giggly tune to Vex's pain, to Akita's snaps and snarls and cries. Two fingers held the image of Lloyd Garmadon, asleep in his own bed.

"Oh, Conduit," she breathed, enraptured in the image. Hearts practically pulsed in her pink eyes, obsession filling her chest. "This is going to be so fun."

She giggled again, falling back into her chair and kicking her feet up on the desk, crossing them at the ankle. Her cat appeared from some dark corner, winding around her neck. She absently scratched it, closing her eyes and listening to the gore taking place only a few feet away.

Finally, after a long minute of Vex's gurgles and thrashing slowly dying down, they fell silent. A bang shook the desk, and the Quiet One cracked an eye open. Akita held Vex's corpse by the neck, chest heaving. Blood and tissue caked her mouth, splattered across her skin. Her clothes were more red than white, the stain of blood growing. She had Vex's desecrated face pressed down into the desk.

The man's eyes were still open, glassy and dripping blood of their own. His face was torn, skin sloughing off the muscle and bones. Bits of brain splattered his greasy hair. His throat, especially, was ripped practically in two, as though Akita had attempting to behead him. Tissue spilled out from the wound, splattered across her desk. Already, the body stunk of rot.

Akita's teeth were bared, showing off the fresh blood. "Bind him," she demanded, "I'm not done."

The Quiet One lifted her hand, and a pitch black leash extended from the loop of Akita's collar. She wrapped it around her hand and tugged, jerking Akita forward until they were practically touching.

It was a show. A show of what Akita had signed up for - of just who she belonged to. An attack dog, leashed down, to be sent after whoever she wished.

"You'll have your fun," she whispered. Her lips stretched into a wide, wide smile, the corners of her mouth reaching too far up her cheeks. She bared her own large teeth in the imitation of a smile.

Only one of them had a wolf's teeth, and it wasn't the girl with blood caking her mouth.

(Or, well. Blood was in her mouth as well.)

With her other hand, she dipped into Vex's mutilated neck, She cleanly scooped up bloody muscle - a vocal cord - and slipped the bloody mess past her own rips. Blood dribbled down her chin, splattering on the desk beneath her. Akita's eyes widened at the casual cannibalism.

Oh, she could feel herself falling for this dog already.

"Don't bite the hand that feeds you, mutt."

[kangals]

friendly advice from vetmed: I know that when your animal has an infection that is generating a lot of discharge, you want to describe that to the veterinarian, because it’s a concerning sign. that is true. I also know that the most common word for this type of discharge is “pus,” so it’s logical that that’s the word that you’ll use when describing what’s going on. and in English, we often add a “-y” when we’re using a word as a descriptor.

but. the word. the word you are looking for. is purulent.

please stop sending in messages telling the doctor that your dog has a “pussy wound.”

[soupdweller]

a scene i think about a lot from @cerebrafluids's Play the Game

[bassboosted-moon-chao]

"Professor, look out!"

At that moment, the knight's sword plunged into the Professor's left arm.

Textless version, paragraph and ramble underneath!

So! Wandering Castle, what a fucking novel. I first read a relatively okay (somewhat rough) fan translation of it a year ago, and it had me FLOORED. Layton gets stabbed a few times in this one, there's fights over uranium and Scottish(?) (Northland-ish) folklore, and many, many shitty people I think Tumblr would love.

The scene of the silver knight impaling Layton in the arm, only for him to get back on his feet and keep fighting despite, is one that gripped me by the throat. He also... spends the rest of the novel with a gaping bloody sword wound in his arm just. casually. because why even bother when you're too busy dealing with some sick little bastard putting you through these shitty trials. Luke threatens to kill everyone via. murder-suicide electrocution in one beat and I was absolutely stunned. Wild fucking novel. It goes from 1 to 100 very very quickly. It's like if you took the batshittery of the original trilogy, and amped it up in intensity because now they're allowed blood, serious injury and mild bad language. Seriously recommend finding translations if you can.

[sirmanmister]

💥💥💥 BOOM POW GET KILLED GET KILLED GET KILLED!!!!!

This is a redraw from January 6 2023, in honour of it being 1 YEAR since I posted the last chapter of The Father(s) and Son(s)!!!!! A little bit over a year actually because it was April 10th and it took me a little while to draw this lol

So much has changed in the span of a year omg. And for THE BETTER?? Like I’m going to school, I made and lost friends, I’m slowly but surely getting over some social anxiety (still a wip tho!!! 😭😭) and I’ve found so many cool mutuals and artists and just!!!! AAA!! Not to mention my art skills have improved a whole HELL of a lot!! LMAO

I don’t write as much as I did when I wrote my fic initially, and I feel bad for that sometimes, but it’s just a testament to how things have gotten a lot better for me and it’s not bad that I’m busy. I’m still trying to cobble together some more writing to eventually get another fic out, cuz I do genuinely miss it, but we’ll get there when we get there!

Anyway. TYSM TO EVERYBODY THATS STUCK AROUND FOR SO LONG/CAME HERE FROM MY FIC IN THE FIRST PLACE I LOVE YOU ALL AND YOU MADE MY LIFE BETTER!! 🫶🫶🫶🫶

Pspsps closeups/old pic under the cut!!

[zorosdimples]

UNDER HIS THUMB ꒰ uraume x reader x sukuna ꒱

minors and blank/ageless blogs do not interact—i will block you. cw: suggestive content. nonconsensual nudity. dubious touching. brief descriptions of cannibalism and violence. suicide mention. reader is referred to as “bride” and “wife.” reader has breasts. wc: 1053. notes: uraume ily—please ditch shitkuna for me <3 (based on this idea)

A fire blazes in the yawning hearth, bathing your bedchamber in a warm titian. The shadows of flames leap and dance across the cragged stone walls—a solar flare—a cosmic spectacle. Logs and branches resembling human bones sputter and spark, crackling in your ears. You shift in your seat. 

The diaphanous veil remains pinned to your crown as Uraume’s fingers move deftly through your locks, the sweeping gossamer that brushes your ankles now pooling on the floor. They unravel the intricate updo they crafted for the ceremony, your hair a glowing halo in the firelight, head bowed in gentle subservience. The pins that bite at your scalp are crusted in blood; the sharp pain has long-since softened into a dull throb.

“I hate him,” you announce. 

(It’s how you cope with your precarious situation: burying your fears beneath carefully woven layers of disdain.) 

Barren aside from a bed, a wardrobe, and an armchair, your threadbare accommodations are as cozy as a dungeon. No torch, tapestry, or looking glass adorns the walls. Your companion’s expression is hidden as they continue their work atop your head.

Uraume chastises you after a few beats, affectation frigid as ice. “You shouldn’t speak of your husband in such a manner.” 

You snort. This one-sided union will only further scar the ugly face of matrimony; looking upon your captor with respect or affection is as likely as you kissing the cheek of your slain mother a final time. “My ‘husband’ for all of ten minutes.”

“And still your husband, nonetheless.”

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” you snap. 

Uraume pushes you to your feet and fluffs the veil with a hum. They circle you, appraising your body—the flimsy, silken robe that ripples across your curves hides nothing from their piercing stare—then, for what must be the fifth time, they adjust the knot that holds the garment together. When their eyes meet yours, you find yourself falling for the ruse, plucking fresh buds from a field of fuchsia.

How you wish their gaze held more than cool indifference.

Ever perceptive, they reach out to gingerly tuck a wayward strand behind your ear; if you close your eyes and still your heaving chest, you can pretend that it’s an intimate gesture—the touch of a lover. “Rarely do we have a say in our own fates,” Uraume muses. 

Fidgeting with your fingers, you quell the urge to embrace your attendant. (It’s a disgraceful thought for a newlywed. But you can’t spool in the words that unfurl from your lips, the edges raw, frayed with longing.)

“I would have taken my life if it hadn’t been for you, Uraume. I can’t stand him.” 

“Master Sukuna would never allow you to harm yourself.” 

“Tch—that vile brute cares little for my well being.” Hatred flares within your chest, your once-blooming heart now withered with rot. Tears of anguish blur your vision and make each syllable tremble. “If he didn’t want to harm me, he wouldn’t have murdered and feasted on my family.” 

A smile tucks itself in the corners of Uraume’s lips like a secret, though you miss it—misty-eyed and waist-deep in a deluge of painful memories. “You seem to forget that I prepared their flesh at my lord’s behest.” 

“I can’t fault you for being trapped under his thumb; you’re kinder than you give yourself credit for, anyhow.” 

They chuckle darkly. “And what leads you to believe that?” 

It doesn’t occur to you until this moment that you’ve edged closer to Uraume. If you leaned forward, you would smell the frost on their porcelain skin, taste the mint on their breath. Despite yourself, you reach out, cupping their cheek. 

“You’ve been my devoted caretaker since I arrived, patient and helpful at every turn. Your presence is the only constant here—my sole comfort.”

“Oh? Is my blushing bride ready to consummate our unholy union?” A rumbling voice cracks the tense air open like a bone, marrow seeping out, juices staining the tender earth. 

Your neck snaps to the doorway. Your monster of a husband nearly blots out the frame with his inhuman physique, clothed in nothing but a simple pair of black trousers, both sets of arms crossed. Disgust pinches your brow and purses your lips; you sneer. 

“With you? Never.”

Amused by your vehemence, the King of Curses approaches you, both mouths curled into wolfish grins. Uraume bows as Sukuna invades your space, two clawed hands wrapping around your waist, the other two cradling your skull. He demands your attention, irises a wine-dark sea of skeletons and ichor. A cursed siren urges you to plunge into its depths. End your suffering.

“Uraume—has my wife been inappropriate with you in my absence?” 

Without hesitation, they answer: “Yes, my lord.” 

Several sets of eyes—one belonging to Uraume, the others to Sukuna—gorge on your discomfort. You bristle under their scrutiny, and fruitlessly attempt to rip yourself from your husband’s grasp, nails scratching angry lines across his tattooed forearms. 

He clicks his tongue. “My naughty little bride.”  

Bile burns your throat at the mock-endearment, bitterness coating your tongue. For as resolved as you’ve been, you shake with rage, the hulking beast before you stoking the embers of your wrath. He smiles something sharp and wicked before releasing you. You stumble backwards, limp as a ragdoll. 

“Uraume,” Sukuna commands. 

There’s an unspoken agreement between master and servant. When Uraume steps forward and swiftly unties your robes, you shriek, the fabric slipping open to expose your nude form. They proceed to rip the garment from your body; it falls to the floor in wispy shreds. 

Attempting to preserve your dignity, you scramble to wrap an arm around your chest and press a palm between your legs. “This hardly seems proper,” you pant. 

Sukuna snickers as he sits at the foot of your bed, spreading his legs. “How else is a ‘vile brute’ supposed to learn the intricacies of his little wife’s body if not through careful examination?” 

As much as you want to spew poison at him, you gasp when Uraume’s chilly lips graze the arch of your neck, their delicate hands slipping up to caress the swell of your breasts. Unable to stifle the moan that warbles past your lips, you make the sinister decision to revel in this pleasure—no matter how short-lived, underhanded, or wrong it may be.

[moth-flowers]

moth-flowers #21

[phrysic]

“when is a monster not a monster? oh, when you love it.”

[recovering-vamp]

[birrdies]

dead; by birrdie 14.9k, 1 chapter (complete*)

[angeart]

hhau mimic arc rambles - part IV: the inbetween (make the danger feel good)

(~11 k words) // other parts & au masterpost here

there's a bunch of things in this one that might make some people want to skip it. please be aware this tips into suggestive stuff (ok maybe a notch beyond the line, but nothing too explicit). there's certainly intimacy, nudity (that was there all along but now we Pay Attention To It) and more prominent cws would probably be... everything around vex instincts. so mentions of: blood, biting, consensual violence, blood/fear-play, prey-play?? they're deranged. i tried to keep it as tame as possible lol but be aware those are the topics and tones.

in case you skip this one, just know this is when scar and grian start to be truly intimate, and this is when grian gets the mating bite from scar (neither of them are aware that's what it is; there's a whole bunch of bites.) (dEranged.) also, there's more wing touches.

rp based, so wordy. <3 this follows directly after the wing spiral so we're still in the hotspring cave

---

The moment slowly tips into something else as they both lay on the spread-out cloak, fire crackling behind Grian’s back, his still somewhat-damp wing slung gingerly across Scar.

It all drags at Scar’s heartstrings, watching as Grian navigates his way through the maze back to something sensible, something more like himself. Freckles barely show in the flickering light, eyes dark and shiny from recent emotions, a bruised spot on his lip from nervous biting. Grian’s hair falls around him in soft, golden strands, fire painting over them with copper.

“You’re…” Scar stops, almost scared to finish the sentence. It feels like they’ve reached a comfortable silence after what felt like literal hours of agony. But he’s already broken it, so— He tucks his head into Grian’s hand, smothering the words into his palm. “… so beautiful.”

He looks at Grian’s eyes when he says it. No part of his wings, even though he means to include every bit of him. But he needs Grian to know he means it whether the feathers are included or not.

A swell of emotions rushes through Grian at that; he isn’t sure how to react, all he knows is he feels heat and tingling, and it’s so, so very different from the tingling of that numbness from earlier. This is nervous, skittish, warm, present. He feels rooted to the moment, to the softness of Scar’s eyes and his breath against Grian’s palm and—

And he feels like Scar is a hot spring and Grian is floating, melting into it.

“You can’t— You can’t say that,” he sputters, not quite able to pull forth any better quips than something stumbling and lost and irredeemably flustered. “What do you even mean.”

As soon as he says that, he realises those words might be a mistake. He doesn’t want Scar to answer.

Grian’s mind spins for something else to jump to, and he blurts out, ridiculously: “It’s because you washed my hair.” (He doesn’t quite remember that either. He regrets falling asleep so fast, although he can’t deny he slept so well, even if only briefly. He… really needed that.)

“Mm,” Scar mumbles into Grian’s palm again, buzzing his lips there. “No, I thought that before I washed your hair, too.” He was meaning not to say something embarrassing again, but failed completely.

Grian’s mind snags on the way Scar’s words feel against his palm, a riveting, delightful experience that he wishes to relive a million times. His thumb gingerly brushes across the heated skin of Scar’s cheek, but he keeps his palm in place, ready to catch any and all words that might spill out of Scar’s lips. 

“You’re silly and sappy,” Grian accuses, but it sounds so achingly soft and fond.

Scar changes his mind almost instantly about not saying embarrassing things, seeking out more of that softness Grian’s voice holds— that simplicity and affection. He’ll keep saying embarrassing things if he gets that. It’s worth it.

“This is true,” he admits easily. “But I’m also right.”

Craning his neck, Grian leans in to place a kiss against Scar’s face, tender and loving. (He’s weaving all the gratitude into it, all the affection, all the apologies and forgiveness all at once.) “You’re also ridiculous,” he adds, a little bit cheekily, but it again carries no bite, words made of cotton and warmth.

His wing shifts higher, covering their upper torsos and faces, dunking them into more darkness—something that instantly makes Grian sleepy. The fire crackles behind his back, somewhat still keeping up, although definitely in need of more fuel. 

Grian doesn’t want to move.

“Also true.” Scar nods. “Thank you for noticing.” 

There’s an unsaid thank you for so many more things in the way Scar delivers the line so seriously: Thank you for speaking to me. Thank you for shielding us with your wings. Thank you for going along with my shenanigans. 

Thank you for being here. 

Scar wants to fall asleep then and there, unperturbed by the mess of remaining concerns that still plague them, but he tries to be the strong one here. “…I should fuel the fire. Maybe set up a small perimeter so we can both get some sleep?” 

He wants to sleep beside Grian. He doesn’t want to take turns keeping watch.

And isn’t that a wonderful thought? For both of them to be able to sleep at the same time, curled up together by a warm fire?

They don’t get that often.

Grian latches onto that hope, pushing his fatigued body up as he gingerly releases Scar from the cocoony hold of his wing. He offers to help even though his mind still feels a little slow, body a little off; if he can assist Scar and make this happen, then he wants to do it.

Scar gets up reluctantly, but he’s pleasantly surprised how little his muscles protest after the nice soothing bath they received. That’s a rarity. He directs Grian to check up on the fire while he’ll make some walls, promising cuddles at the end of it. 

The idea of that sort of reward makes pushing through their exhaustion and putting in the effort worth it.

Tending the fire isn't a skill they needed on Hermitcraft, but through trial and error, they learned the best ways to distribute fuel materials for the most efficiency and the least smoke. It comes to Grian easily now, automatic, and notably it takes much less time than wall building.

Once satisfied, Grian looks over at Scar, asking if he should help with the wall. After all, the faster they're done, the faster they can cuddle. 

Scar nods, noting he’s sleepy and he might miss spots. A second pair of eyes to check after him would be good, and any help is certainly appreciated, especially since it’s their safety at stake here. He’s using a bit of a hodgepodge arrangement of materials, just doing the minimum to keep mobs out, but it’ll do, as long as they do it properly. 

Grian pushes himself to his feet; his wings feel a little strange, and he can't quite tell why, but he swerves away from thinking about it. His muscles feel weak, wanting to go back to blissful resting, looking forward to sleep. A faint lightheadedness hits him at the first step, but a short pause and a deep breath is enough to chase it away.

He slots himself next to Scar, reaching to take some materials from him. As soon as he's in his orbit, Scar can’t help but reach over and lightly touch him on the waist, pulling him in for a brief, only slightly-awkward kiss. He smiles, toothy and real, before handing off some of his materials, whistling to himself like it didn’t happen as he turns back around.

Grian can't help but adore and crave the easy intimacy; the way he's reached for and tugged and kissed, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He gravitates towards Scar in return, peeking at him and quietly studying his expression as Scar whistles and works.

There isn't terribly much needed to do with the walls, and Grian fixes up his end to the best of his capabilities given his energy level, then makes sure to look over Scar's work as requested, too, making sure they don't miss something due to fatigue. (Mistakes are too costly here. They can’t afford them.)

When they're done, Grian clicks his tongue appraisingly. "It's not a terracotta shack, but it'll do."

Scar snickers, highly amused by the callback. “Yeah, it might actually be uglier. I should put up a sign for any googlies to leave a review.” He slips in behind Grian and kisses the top of his head, wrapping his arms around his waist. “Mmm, warm clothes?”

Grian shifts his wings gently out of the way, but he itches to press himself against Scar, so he clumsily turns around in his loose grip, trying to maintain some space for his feathers as he goes. 

Somehow, now that this is all very intentional, without the mental fog and fresh tears and jumbled cravings, this feels more intimate. Their bare chests are near each other, reverberating with heartbeats and moving with their breaths, and there's so much skin and—

Timidly, Grian's fingers find Scar's waist, a featherlight touch exploring upwards, fingertips counting across the lower ribs.

He leans in and presses a soft kiss to Scar's jaw. "Mm." His head tips and he rests his forehead against the spot he's just kissed. His hand travels higher, across Scar's chest, to his shoulder, mapping out his skin. "Warm clothes," he agrees, even though nothing about his actions suggests that.

Scar shivers at the drawn out touch over his bare skin, ears flicking wildly as his heart stutters in his chest for a moment. Sure, he’s no stranger to walking about without a shirt, but people don’t typically touch— 

He rather likes it when Grian does, however.

Not nearly as bold, Scar settles for tracing small shapes over Grian’s sides, gentle and reverent.  “And warm cuddles,” he adds, also not making any move to do so.

Grian hums at Scar's touch; on nothing but wishful instinct, he moves closer, trying to get deeper into Scar's hold. (He wants Scar's hands to wrap around him. To envelop him fully and properly.) (He wants to be held.) (He wants to be wanted, in a way so wholly different from what this world demands.)

He tips his head and presses a kiss to the side of Scar's throat as his fingertips dance from Scar's shoulders across his collarbone. He likes this. Being able to trace paths across Scar's skin. To, hopefully, provide him with something that can touch him without causing pain and scarring. 

The air is cold on the back of his neck, and he figures Scar is not any better off, without having the extra fluff of feathers shielding his spine. He tucks a small sigh against the hollow of Scar's throat, because he knows he should pull away. He knows they should get dressed. His legs feel weak underneath him, craving a bed. (There's no bed here) 

"Yeah... Yeah. Let's go get some rest."

He's still not moving to make any of it happen.

Scar really doesn’t want Grian to let go of him right now (nor does he want to let go), so he’s glad Grian is yet to make a move to leave. He’s tired and cold and wants to go to sleep, but after the absolute rollercoaster back and forth of emotions, Scar is too attached to this moment of serenity. 

In a spur of stubborn refusal, Scar strengthens his grip and lifts, hoisting Grian up just enough so that maybe he can walk them both over. He pulls the avian tight, letting him secure his balance onto him.

And it’s silly, because they’re really not even that far from the fire— and they still need to separate to put on their clothes. They’re still only in their underwear, which makes Scar’s ears twitch again when it occurs to him.

But it’s worth it.

Just a little more contact.

He needs it so bad.

Grian lets out a delighted chirp in surprise as Scar's hold on him tightens, and then— then he loses contact with the ground. He tips forward, easily trusting Scar with his weight, and he giggles quietly against the crook of Scar's neck. His wings unfurl, instinctively seeking out balance. (He doesn't remember when was the last time they felt free to do this; to give in to instincts.) (He isn't even paying attention to them, not really aware that it is happening.)

Without complaint, he presses himself against Scar, and oh, this is different. This is skin on skin. This is—

“Mhm, off to sleep with us!” Scar cheers as he presses Grian close to his chest.

Grian wraps his arms around Scar's shoulders and stays close, heart hammering against his chest in a way that Scar's surely bound to feel, right against his own ribcage. He coos in a flustered encouragement at Scar's statement. Off to sleep. (He'd go anywhere Scar takes him right now. He'd stay anywhere Scar puts him. He'd be anywhere Scar wants him.)

Maybe the earlier struggle was all worth it if Scar gets to hear those sweet little chirps pressed into his neck and feel Grian’s heartbeat against his own fluttering chest. Past anxieties forgotten, Scar is entirely smitten. He feels warm even though logically he shouldn’t. He hums a jaunty tune while he walks them both back over to the fire, pleased with himself and the entirely unnecessary decision to carry Grian. 

And Grian happily lets himself be carried, even though he could’ve easily taken those four steps himself. He isn’t carried out of necessity (for once). He’s being carried because Scar wants to carry him, wants to hold him, wants to keep him pressed close. It warms Grian, too. It makes him feel cherished and safe.

But he’s always been made of mischief, and he can’t help it. He tips his head, lips brushing over the skin of Scar’s throat, and then he’s baring his teeth, letting them come into the gentlest contact with the skin. (Just to tease.) (Just for the reaction.) (His hold on Scar tightens just in case he’s about to be dropped in response.)

Scar’s legs wobble as he muffles a tiny yelp, but he’s been trained to deal with Grian’s tendency toward menace, so he does manage to stay on his feet and keep his grip. 

If he dips just a little and lightly pinches at Grian’s sides though? Deserved. 

“Youuuu…” Scar warns, attempting to growl even though it comes out purely silly. “You love to tempt fate, don’t you?”

Grian takes a sharp breath and squirms as Scar dips, holding onto him. (Even if Scar did want to drop him, Grian refuses to go easily.) At Scar's light disgruntlement, Grian huffs out a breathless laugh, all of it right against Scar's pulsepoint. His teeth are back on Scar's skin, still gentle, but he does apply a little bit more pressure this time, cheekily. 

"Maybe I do." He sounds entirely too cheerful and unbothered, another quiet laughter broken against Scar's throat.

“Mmmm,” Scar grumbles, holding back a full-body shiver. It’s definitely the chill. Definitely.

In retaliation, Scar takes one large step to finish their path to the fire, then dips Grian even lower, threatening to plop him back down on the cloak. “Then accept your fate, you rascal!” Scar cackles, wriggling his fingers at Grian’s sides to try to get him to forcibly let go and fall the rest of the way down to the floor.

Grian laughs openly now—at Scar's attempts to get him off. At his grumbles. At being called a rascal. He delights in it and stays stubbornly clinging to Scar, wrapping his legs around him for extra security.

"I like to tempt fate, Scar, not accept it," he informs him all too giddily, voice still heavily tinged by laughter. "And you can't get rid of me."

Scar snickers, amused by his new clinging bird accessory. “Ah, I wouldn’t dream of it, but—“ He exaggeratively sways from side to side like he’s trying to shake Grian off (he’s really not). “—pesky birds deserve retribution!”

Grian still holds on, unwilling to lose. He cranes his neck, on his way to the next mayhem. "Well then you're going to have to try harder," he lectures. And he lightly squeezes Scar's earlobe in his teeth. (It's not his fault it was so perfectly within reach.) (It's not his fault he has zero impulse control when he gets pesky.)

Scar opens his mouth to say something in return, but all that comes out is a flustered squeak. His face properly flushes as his ear attempts to flick out of reach. ”Griannn!!” he whines, embarrassment obvious in his tone. He’s released his hands at this point, but Grian’s grip is all too secure. So now his hands wave about in the air pathetically, unable to decide on exactly what retribution is in order for Grian.

Grian laughs, a bright, joyful, unbridled cackle pressed against the sensitive patch of skin directly under Scar's ear. His wings flap lightly (the fire flickers momentarily, sparks sent flying, explosive like Grian's soul) at the loss of Scar's hold as he rebalances himself, but remains clingily wrapped against Scar, not budging. "Yes, Scar?" he hums innocently.

Scar finally settles on some form of revenge, bringing out his claws and trailing a very long drag of his nails up Grian’s spine, careful not to actually scratch— just a graze, just a tickle, just a suggestion. He can’t go too far without risking touching the wings, but he does what he can. Grumbles again in response to the innocent hum from a very not innocent bird. “Menace,” he breathes out, still somewhat dazed.

Grian doesn't even try not to shudder under the graze of Scar's claws; he's sure Scar can feel the way he took in breath, then held it in, too. The uptick of his heart rams against Scar's ribs as Grian presses closer, an instinctual back-arch to the sensation.

He still manages to laugh again, a breathless little thing. "Your menace, though."

And it's surprisingly easy, to give himself over to Scar, in a world where everyone wants to own a part of him.

Scar stops that slow drag of claws, settling somewhere in the middle of Grian’s back and instead tapping them there as he hums out what comes across a bit too much like a low growl. It’s not meant to be threatening— it’s not even meant to come out at all, really— it was supposed to be an exaggerated groan, but it instead comes off as a deeply satisfied confirmation. 

“Mine,” Scar concedes, voice barely a whisper, before remembering they’re meant to be teasing. “… Lucky me.” 

Except he’s still not kidding.

And yet despite the fondness with which Scar means it, there's an instant swell of something ugly in Grian at the words lucky me, a razor-edged impulse to make Scar regret those words, to show him just how wrong he is— but he swallows it all down, in a moment of uncharacteristic quiet after all the giggling. He presses himself closer to Scar, takes a deep breath, tries to claw his way back to that pesky playfulness from just seconds ago.

Instead of more teasing, he tips into tenderness. His hold loosens, and he presses his lips to the side of Scar's neck. 

He isn't sure Scar understands just how his Grian is. 

A breathless half-chuckle leaves him despite himself. And he can't help but ask, quietly, edging shyness. "Does that mean you're mine...?" He's okay with the answer being no. He'll still be Scar's, heart and soul. But... He just wants to know. To hear Scar say it. "My ridiculous person?" These words come easier, softer, more playful.

Scar’s hands shift back to holding Grian, claws fading away into harmlessness. He tries to lean his head back to see him, to look at him as the words fall into place so easily. But Grian doesn't let him pull away, doesn't let him move to see his face; he burrows, hiding himself in the crook of Scar's neck. His wings fold—still loose, instead of what they're used to—feathers slotting over Scar's skin without a hassle. 

Scar doesn’t mind Grian’s insistence on keeping his face pressed close. He likes that as well. In fact, he gives up on dropping Grian down at all and plops himself onto the cloak with Grian still attached. 

“Always,” he replies, voice still low and grainy, but filled to the brim with affection. “Always yes.”

"Always," Grian echoes quietly, and the word leaves his tongue like something precious and fragile.

Feeling sappy, as usual, Scar tacks on, “… Have been for a while.”

Words line themselves up in Grian's mind like poison, things to fight back and argue with, to explain that this is not going to be good for Scar. That he really, really isn’t lucky for this.

He swallows them all down. This isn't about that. This isn't and shouldn't be about that.

Scar is saying something incredibly fond, and Grian shouldn't try to destroy it.

His wings press tighter, feathers still slumped right over Scar's arms. 

"... Can we keep it that way...?" he asks in the end.

“Mm, I’d like to, yes.” Scar nods, teeth clacking as he grows a big grin. He takes one hand to fumble for Grian’s sweater.

"Okay." Grian pauses, and then adds in a soft murmur: "Me too." He feels Scar move, but doesn't process what he's reaching for. Grian just stays clinging to him, placated by Scar's words and his hold.

Scar brings the warm fabric over to their bare skin. It makes him giggle slightly at the heat, because it means at least one of his ideas tonight was good. “Here,” he says as he pushes the sweater in between them for the warmth. “As much as I’d love to offer to help you dress—“ he clicks his teeth again in amusement. “—might be a little difficult.”

Taking the soft, warm fabric, Grian puffs his cheeks in an overdramatic pout. "Don't need help, I know how to dress myself." That being said, he still doesn't let go of his wrap around Scar, even though this isn't the best position for putting clothes on.

“Oh I know, but I like to touch you,” Scar goads, grinning innocently.

Grian's cheeks heat up, the words spurring him enough to pull away just to be able to look at Scar, wide-eyed and flustered. "You wh—"

“Hm?” Scar continues to grin, innocent as ever. He looks over Grian, seeing the red trickle over his cheeks. “Oh I think you heard me, but I can repeat myself if you want?” Now that he has the chance, he leans his face in close to Grian, even completing the act with a goofy wink.

"No!" Grian immediately says as his hands fling up, covering Scar's mouth just in case he'd do it anyway, and oh, it's good that Scar is sitting down and holding Grian, because if they were still up, Grian'd definitely fall. His wings fling out anyway, just in case, gathering his balance. The sweater pools between them, a warm barrier between their chests. "That— You don't have to repeat it," Grian blabbers, red.

Scar kisses the palms that cover his mouth, several times like an attack to free himself from the hand prison. He muffles into them as well in between kisses: “But I want to!”

"Scaaaar," Grian groans, and he releases Scar from his hold, only to bury his own very red and very warm face in his freshly-free palms.

Scar follows those hands despite just being freed, kissing them again now that they cover Grian’s face. “I mean you’re not making a lot of progress putting on your sweater— are you sure you don’t want help?” His hands find their way to Grian’s chest, pressing lightly right in the middle.

Grian's heart positively skips a beat, a tiny squeak leaving him at the offer. He's dissipating, too flustered to really form words. 

He wants to scold Scar again. 

He wants to tell him he's fine, he can dress himself. 

He wants to tell him that, actually, yes, Scar can help, whatever that help would actually mean.

Instead he just grumbles something incoherent and flustered into his palms.

Still feeling playfully devious, Scar slides his hands up Grian’s chest over to his bare arms, grabbing slightly and pulling them upward. His movements are needlessly slow and incredibly drawn-out. “Well it would help if you raised your arms like this…” he teases, far too pleased with himself for the shade of red that’s spreading across Grian’s skin

Grian's palms are still pressed to his face, the angle Scar tugs at slightly awkward, but it doesn't make the explosion of sensations rushing through him any weaker. Scar's touch is so delicate, so slow, Grian can't help but go insane under it. 

He makes more incomprehensible noises into his palms. His arms shiver under Scar's fingertips. The hold of his palms over his face relents a little bit, not because he doesn't want to be hidden anymore, but because everything in him yearns to give in to Scar's guidance, no matter Scar's goals.

Gingerly, the palms leave Grian’s face, his arms lifting the littlest bit. His eyes shine, flooded by some deep, rich and raw—and entirely flustered—emotion. His lips are slightly parted, cheeks flushed— and then his earwings fling to take the spot his hands occupied just a moment ago, hiding him away from Scar's gaze in a flash.

Scar’s entire plan comes to a stumbling halt when he sees Grian’s face. His eyes are shamelessly drawn to Grian’s lips, the way they hang open ever so slightly, framed by reddened cheeks and accented freckles. 

He’s momentarily stunned, enamored by the gorgeous sight before him, but it’s stolen away all too soon. And with the earwings no less, so he can’t exactly pry them off. 

He decides to drag his hands back down to settle in the dip of Grian’s shoulders, no longer fooling either of them into believing this has anything to do with helping. “Hey—“ he starts, unsure of what to say exactly, but gosh does he want to see Grian’s face again. “Don’t hide from me,” he croons, voice low and sultry.

Scar's touch is electrifying, sending sparking signals across Grian's body, something culminating in the pit of his stomach. He's asked not to hide, but his embarrassment only rises, at the implication that revealing himself would mean being plunged straight to being seen, Scar's eyes surely intense and scrutinising.

He whines a little, breathing deeply but shakily against Scar's hands.

And then he shifts the earwings, just a little bit, half-obliding, peeking through the feathers.

Scar is about to complain, insist Grian show his entire face, but this is even cuter and he can hardly handle it. His expression shifts into something softer, adoring. Instead of his drawling voice from before, confident and insistent, Scar speaks timidly, an easy smile spread across his face. “… Hi, pretty.”

Grian huffs against his feathers; his earwings twitch, wanting to go back to shielding him as embarrassment swirls in between his ribs, spreading incessant warmth through his face. 

But he is drawn to Scar, like a damned moth to a flame, and he can't pry his eyes away from the soft fondness in Scar's green ones. "Hi," he returns, voice cracking.

Scar leans down to place a kiss on Grian’s chin where his feathers don’t quite reach. He wants to say so many things, keep showering Grian with compliments, but he spares him. He lingers close to Grian’s lips with a sly smile, eyes flickering up to meet his. “… Your sweater’s gonna get cold.”

With Scar this close, Grian's earwings twitch a little bit more out of the way—not out of unwillingness to brush against Scar, but because— Well. Grian's tightening stomach has something to say about Scar hovering so close to his lips. 

"Don't care." it's hushed, but entirely dismissive. Grian’s eyes roam across Scar's face, returning the favour of lingering at the sight of his lips, taking in the curvature of them, remembering how soft and warm they feel pressed against his skin.

Scar grins when Grian doesn’t take the out, so he doesn’t waste any time capturing those lips from him, desperate and yearning. His fingertips dig into the soft skin directly next to his neck, pulling Grian in as close as he can.

Grian leans in easily, without resistance, meeting Scar back. His earwings fall completely away from his face, his eyes closing. His own hands find their spots on the sides of Scar's face.

Without breaking the kiss, Scar grabs at the sweater and places it next to them and the fire, not necessarily with the idea to keep it warm, but simply so there’s nothing in their way— Scar likes it when their skin brushes together. It’s vulnerable and exciting all at once, something satisfying about baring yourself for someone in a world that would normally punish such foolishness. 

His hands are back on Grian in an instant, and he closes his eyes as he traces over more of that skin, exploring and teasing all the same.

Entranced, Grian hums against Scar's lips. He shifts, tracing kisses from the corner of his mouth down across his cheek and jaw, until he finds his spot right under Scar's ear. One of his hands slides back, fingers dragging over the back of Scar's neck until they reach his hairline and dip in. 

It's tantalising, to be this vulnerable and open. To have his skin, soft and defenceless, right under Scar's fingertips to map and do whatever he pleases with. To trust Scar fully, boundlessly.

He doesn't want to stop.

"Scar." He breathes his name right there, on that sensitive patch of skin that he so adores. Right under Scar’s ear.

Intimacy wraps around them, tiny step by a tiny step and then suddenly all at once. 

They give in, drunkenly following its lead, forgetting all about the world that wants to relentlessly hunt them down, take apart their bodies for nothing more than bloodied trophies that will gather dust. 

Instead, they take each other apart in a completely different way. Entranced by their closeness, their skin heated, they familiarise themselves with a whole new vocal range of sounds that draw out of their throats, exploring what they have to offer. Giving and taking and unravelling.

Somewhere amidst it all, early on in this game they’ve invented for each other, Scar runs into the wall of impulsiveness that buzzes underneath his skin, begging for more. Because Grian is a daring menace, insinuating Scar should put him in his place if he doesn’t like his pesky retaliations. Telling him to do something about it if he finds it unfair, while his wings lift, half-unfolding. 

It’s a gesture made on instinct of Grian’s dazed mind, coaxing him to put his feathers on display in a situation where he feels completely safe and equally completely besides himself. The violet hue, freshly cleaned, dances with various shades in the firelight.

Scar’s eyes are instantly drawn in by the lifting feathers framing Grian, firelight dancing across Grian's skin and wings alike— Scar is so doomed. He feels entranced, so entangled by the myriad of sensations and desires that he almost doesn’t register how his fingers gravitate to the feathers. 

He stops himself quickly, breathing out a wisp of blue, and refocuses on a patch of freckles that spread across Grian’s chest as he processes what he almost did on instinct alone.

He wanted to touch. He wanted to touch so badly. He hasn’t seen Grian’s wings shine so brightly in months, or seen him bare the undersides like that to him ever before. He’s not sure what that means in bird body language, but he was almost certain it was an invitation.

But he would never forgive himself if he messed this moment up.

If he messed that up again. 

(It’s not fair that he can’t unravel Grian the same way Grian can with a nip to his sensitive vex ears. Scar wants to hear what kind of sounds Grian would make if he raked his fingers through his wings. Would it feel as good as Grian’s hands do in his hair? Better?)

Scar shudders, expelling those thoughts before he entirely spirals. The treacherous hand finds its way to Grian’s chest, tracing a pattern into those newly discovered freckles. His eyes flick back up, meeting Grian’s with a complicated expression— it’s one of slight conflict, immense adoration, but more than anything, intense desire. 

“…careful what you wish for there, G,” he says, restrained.

Grian hums, shuddering slightly under the touch of Scar's fingertips mapping out patterns on his skin. A purr-like coo makes it out of his throat, and his wings lift the littlest bit again, positioning themselves so perfectly within reach. 

His head is muddled, thoughts dragged through velvet that so softly covers up rationality and leaves behind something gently ravaging, able to pull the string and let him unknot into a puddle. But even through that, he is able to catch that torn expression Scar has, something not quite right in his eyes, the words almost a warning.

He can't decipher it.

He leans away; his wings stay where they are, half curled around them, a brillaintly violet feathery offering. His hips don't move either; it's just his upper back, making his spine arch. (He wants Scar's claws to rake over that curve—) He's watching Scar carefully, even though the firelight continues dancing across his dark irises in endless, unspooling want. 

"If it's unfair," he says, voice low, quiet, a purring string for Scar to follow. (He's always been good at pressing buttons. At not knowing limits. At trying and testing and teasing.) "Then do something about it," he suggests, because he doesn't know why Scar is looking so horribly conflicted, and he doesn't want this to be unfair; it should be mutual, and he's welcoming Scar to take, to even out the playing field. (He'd even let him tip the scales completely, if that's what Scar wants.) 

Scar does drag his other hand up that curve Grian’s making for him, although with no claws involved. He feels the dip in Grian’s back, that divot where he can rake his fingers over his spine. 

Another breath, another wisp of blue smoke. 

Scar’s claws emerge and he has to actively pull his fingers up to avoid scratching. 

It’s not fair because while Grian can lean into his instincts, use them as a familiar crutch, a display of trust and warmth— Scar’s not nearly so fortunate. Letting his vex urges surface would mean violence and danger and taking and— god Scar wants to take. 

And Grian is egging him on. His fingers twitch with want, tapping their pointed nails against soft, bare skin. If only Grian knew what he was asking for right now…

Scar’s hopelessly pulled along by that alluring string, that low purr that escapes from Grian’s throat. He thinks, dazedly, that maybe Grian does know. 

Especially since the drag of Scar's fingers—that moment of them shifting into claws—makes Grian arch more. Not away from it, but into it, encouraging, needy.

He knows what Scar is. He knows he's made of sharp things, claws that can tear and teeth that can bite.

He doesn't care.

He wants Scar, and he wants all of him, and—

His thoughts are slipping from him, dazed and lost in some deep, raw want that pulls him under. 

“Always a fan of the resistance, huh?” Scar’s tone is rough, not unlike a low, warning growl. 

Grian can’t help but grin, ever so cheeky, mayhem running wild in his veins. Scar was always the first one to witness this part of Grian. Whenever there's a spark of mischief, Grian feels drawn to him, wants him to see it, to catch on fire together with him.

And maybe Scar is. Catching on fire together with Grian. Because the next thing Grian knows, he's pushed back, he's pushed down, and—

He's a fan of resistance, but he gives to this so willingly. His eyes never leave Scar's as he lets Scar's hands dictate the way gravity shifts around him. His thighs remain wrapped around Scar even as his back lowers, wings spreading across the ground. (He spares one mindful thought to shift his wing to avoid the campfire. The feathers flutter, instead, near Scar's skin, wing curved upwards, almost brushing his shoulder.) 

He lays down, and he wonders, does this make it fair?

Or is there more?

He looks up at Scar, his heart wild in his chest but expression calm and endlessly fond. Waiting for the next step. Licking his parted lips, waiting to see what happens, wordlessly inviting Scar to do more. 

Scar’s eyes dart from the wing that curves around them back to Grian’s face when he sees Grian’s tongue slide over his lips. Shamelessly, he finds himself mirroring the motion, green gaze hungry.

"It felt good, you know," Grian murmurs, and it's the quietest thing. (He means the claws. The growls. The way Scar pushes and skirts taking more.) "It all does."

Grian’s words scream at Scar to let go, to let loose and see what it is exactly that he wants so desperately from Grian right now. 

Although he’s pretty sure he knows. 

He plants one hand firmly beside Grian’s head, using it to hold his weight, then uses the other to cup Grian's chin, two claws tilting his head while the others graze across his throat. 

Scar leans in closer, ghosting their lips together. “Still good?” he asks, though his voice seems so far away, like he’s floating astray as his resolve grows ever thinner. Instead of kissing him, Scar ducks down lower, pressing his lips just above Grian’s collarbone, kissing roughly enough to threaten a bruise.

The way Grian succumbs to Scar's touch is so simple. Through all the resistance in his soul, none is reserved for Scar right now; he's surrendered, a willing participant in the fate Scar strings up around them like a sticky, inescapable spiderweb. Grian's baring his neck, not shying from the claws; the most he does is let out a shaky breath, a tingle of promising excitement shooting through him like fireworks. 

He feels lightheaded in the best of ways.

"Good," he confirms, more a coo than a word, but the fraying string of vowels still makes sense.

It’s a dangerous game they’re playing, and they’re both aware of it. And they’re both still choosing to continue hurtling down this path.

The rein Scar has on his vex side demanding he takes more slackens, falls out of his grip at Grian’s goading tug. He lets out a low hum against Grian’s throat before slacking his jaw and biting. His fangs hook into the skin above his collarbone, threatening to break skin, but not quite yet. No blue magic escapes Scar’s mouth this time, only hot and heavy breath in between roughly teething at Grian’s soft skin, reeling at the feeling of blood coursing so close to his fangs. Instead the haze trickles across his irises, eyes flickering blue as he indulges instead of resists.

Grian's head is quickly becoming a mess, but it's a mess in the best of  ways. There's not a smidge of fear under his skin, and oh, isn't that something. It's entirely replaced by craving, by this submissive need to push Scar over the edge and take everything Scar gives him— and, equally, let Scar take everything he wants. 

Intoxicatingly vulnerable, Grian offers no defences, leaving himself wide open, tempting Scar to continue. The pain sparks, but it translates to pleasure; it says good good good, it makes Grian want to press closer to Scar, it makes him want to keep his neck bared, it makes him want to sink his own, dull fingernails into Scar's skin just to let him know that this feels wonderful.

A dizzying thought hits Grian, a hazy wondering if Scar knows Grian is giving him everything, right now. All of himself. Every little bit. He's putting himself completely at Scar's mercy. 

But maybe Scar knows.

Maybe he knows, because when Scar lifts up, looming over Grian, what he chooses to say is mine.

The word reverberates through Grian, shakes something at his core, but it feels warm. It feels tingly and like a precipice, but one he wants to fall over.

Breathless and defenceless, he chirps in affirmation, before he vocalises it in a hoarse half-whisper, and despite the pleased haze that coats every letter, something in his tone is almost daring: "Yours."

Scar loves that little chirp — he loves the confirmation, however daring it may be posed. In fact, he likes that particular detail a lot, because he's happy to oblige.

His fingers trail across the curves and freckles, exploring again now that he can shamelessly stare and watch for Grian's reaction. He meets Grian's gaze, vision still somewhat foggy, and he realizes he needs to say something now before he's too far gone to resist. Because he's slowly losing himself to the boundless desire to consume, whatever that may entail, and his skin is practically sizzling and singing every spot where feathers overlap…

Grian meets Scar's gaze back, equally dazed and indescribably present; a scalding, endless pool of emotions reflected in his eyes, open yet unreadable. He makes soft noises at Scar's touch over the tender skin, fingernails lightly dragging against Scar's back in response, but none of him is running away from this.

He's staying put, an obedient little prey, ready to be consumed.

"Grian," Scar forces out, leaning back in so his breath is felt over Grian’s cheek.

Grian's breath hitches instantly in response, eyes falling shut. His name sounds so sweet yet strained on Scar's lips, and he wants to take it from him, to unshackle those restraints around it.

But Scar's leaning over his cheek, not his lips, and Grian is nothing but obliging, baring his skin, whichever part of it Scar happens to desire.

"Scar," he returns in a hoarse whine, the need to call him back scalding hot in his veins. 

"You're—" Scar’s voice cracks, but it's different than before. It's like he's interrupted by a needy growl, teeth bared. But Scar recollects himself, eyes still blazing, alight with wild magic and yearning. "You're toeing a dangerous line here, y’know..." He's trying to be delicate about it, merely allude to the burst of primal emotion he's fighting to control. "... toying with a vex." He says it like it could just be a joke, a simple tease, but he's so entirely serious about it.

Ah.

There it is.

Grian suddenly understands all the complexity swirling through Scar's expression.

And he takes it without flinching. He hums, bringing one hand up, to brush through Scar's hair, fingertips reaching to the back of Scar's ear, teasing lightly. A featherlight touch.

"I know." 

It's so simple to admit.

His lips are slightly curved. A miniscule grin, something knowing, tender, welcoming.

He cranes his neck, leans in, steals a quick kiss.

"I know, Scar." 

And he's still right here. Still so willing. Still absolutely surrendered. One wing draped over Scar, the rest of him pliantly underneath him, neck tilting to regain its bared position, not a shred of survival instinct left on display.

Scar still swallows hard, nerves alight. He's certain his desire is practically a tangible thing now, magic thrumming across his skin and driving him crazy. 

"If you—" he starts, hoarse, still so very strained, speaking through his teeth as they involuntarily press tightly together. With a shaky breath, he admits it, timid, but determined to be entirely transparent by just how much his instincts are running wild: "I'm gonna want to touch them— you, your wings—" He wants it to be clear it's only because it's a part of Grian that he wants this, and he prays that's coming across, but words are so difficult to form in his dizzying haze. "... so if you don't want that, you need to tell me now."

Before I can't control myself, goes unsaid.

The conflict is so clear now, the way Scar is trying to hold back, for Grian, always for Grian.

Grian thinks maybe he wants Scar to let go. 

Thrill runs across his spine, delving into downy feathers that coat his back, as Scar says the word wings. It's not often Grian hears it on his tongue, with Scar always carefully skirting around it. And what would at other times make him uneasy, now makes Grian perk up—some bird instinct that's taking deep root in him, tangling into myriad of desires. 

Because, yes. Wings. Wings.

The feathers draped over Scar's bare skin move lightly, brushing against him. repositioning. Not leaving that point of contact. Not shying away.

The possibility looms in Grian's mind, something set ablaze at a deep dark precipice, and as he swallows thickly, all he can think of is: want.

Scar needs an answer, and Grian thinks maybe he can give him some. Maybe he can— Maybe they can—

He licks his lips and his fingers tenderly brush through the hair behind Scar's ear, trying to soothe him into this. "I can't promise it'll be okay..." he starts. And it's true. He can't. He's aware he's riddled with countless barely-buried triggers right under his skin (under his feathers—), all of it linked to a horrible terror, always just half a step from dreadfully raw, spiralling panic. But this, this feels different. This feels like maybe he could be something else, too. Like it doesn't have to be that.

He feels it, that glowing, intense desire to give himself over to Scar fully. A prey to a predator, shameless, fearless, unabashed. Untamed, both of them. Wild. 

He tilts his head. Strands of hair shining with shades of gold in the firelight shift, fall across his forehead and out of the way, soft and clean, thanks to Scar's careful, loving hands. 

The pause is there, hovering.

Grian is going to break it.

"But... Scar."

He lifts himself up, reaching for Scar; his hand tugs lightly at Scar's hair to aid him in his movement; his wing presses against Scar's back, too, helping Grian reach Scar's lips. He presses a tender kiss there, affectionate and pleading, and it tips into unbridled craving as he finishes with a flick of tongue and a gentle bite of his teeth.

"Make the danger feel good," he whispers, a half-purr half-growl tucked against the corner of Scar's mouth, breath hovering over the bitten spot on Scar's lip. 

And then Grian's hand falls away from Scar's hair. All of him falls away, as he lets himself lie back down, his gaze flickering with warmth and desire in the hot, glowing light of the firelight. He's putting himself here willingly, underneath Scar, defenceless, skin bared, chest lifting up with breaths as his heart hammers against his ribs.

"And then you can touch," he finishes hoarsely, so very quietly. Soft and inviting, equally as hopeful as it's needy, his eyes never leaving Scar's.

And it's still so very different, a craving driving him insane—he wanted Scar's claws on his feathers not too long ago, but that was for destruction, and this— this isn't that. This is something completely different, miles away from whatever that spiral from before was; something that leaves Grian's throat dry, warmth pooling in the pit of his stomach. 

He's playing with fire, and he fully intends to let it burn him. To consume him. He yearns desperately for this kind of intimacy, for Scar, Scar, Scar, for things to be something else for a moment. (Hands in his feathers and teeth on his skin and him amidst it all, willing, pliant, giving.)

Make the danger feel good, echoes throughout Scar's increasingly emptying mind— he's slipping further, those words are driving him wild. He blinks several times, trying to process the roundabout permission he's been granted, the chance to try if only he can fulfill the promise of pleasure amidst danger. He hopes to clear his vision, lift the haze for a moment to provide a coherent response, but each blink only serves to hide the swirl of vibrant blue that dances across his eyes, glowing brighter each time he opens them.

Grian watches, patient and silent, lips parted in invitation, as Scar processes what he's just said. He sees the brightness of his eyes, the blue wisps that dance around. He knows how fraying and thin Scar's self control is.

He wants it to snap.

Scar opens his mouth, but no words come out, just a needy, shaken huff before he's leaning down and devouring, barely even a kiss, more of an open drag of teeth that's pressed into Grian's mouth, nonsensical and demanding.

There are claws and fangs and a bright blue fog swirling around the both of them, fighting against the vibrance of the firelight and winning.

Despite the initial apprehension, it’s a wonder to Scar how he ever doubted himself, because of course he wouldn’t irreparably hurt Grian— protecting him is as ingrained in his instincts as anything else. It’s a spiral of both sides of his vex urges— to please and to devour— a dizzying mesh, a thrilling fusion of desires. 

They let themselves slip into this. Into controlled violence and hovering threats, into claws and fangs and blood, into nails dug into skin and bodies pressed close. Into danger that feels mindbogglingly good, stripping them of sanity as they keep, all too willingly, sinking deeper and deeper.

(Listen they’re little freaks they definitely should’ve negotiated a safe word before this all went down.) 

"Mmm." Grian groans, a drawn out sound. There’s a fresh bite wound at the side of his neck that throbs, overcome with sensations as the tender, broken skin meets air and Scar's mouth, the fresh, warm blood smeared around in the process. 

Deliriously, he tips his head to the side, eyes closed and hands trembling, giving that whole side of his throat to Scar. (He'd give him anything now. Anything.) 

Scar grins, teeth bared and lips slightly smeared with blood, when Grian cranes his neck even more, allowing for even further abuse. He presses in close again, kissing the spot using his wicked little smile. "You'd really give in so easily?" he murmurs against the bruised skin, tone as crackly as it is velvety, a contradictory blend. His words are playful, but his voice drops as he adds, pensive: "... only for me I'd hope."

There's a small spur at the words, a reminder that Grian's soul should be made of resisting, stitched through with endless, mischievous fights. And yet it leads nowhere, a dead end against Scar's breath at his throat, the velvety rumble of his voice. 

Grian whines, nonsensically, fingers weakly pawing at Scar's back without any real intention to sink in for now. His wing brushes over Scar again, a restless little motion of soft feathers, vulnerable prize caressing a vicious predator.

"For you," he echoes on a whine, barely remembering how to speak. And then he adds, laying himself bare and pliant, stripping all the defences and pressing control solely into Scar's palms (into his claws, into his teeth—): "Anything for you."

Scar practically keens at the admission, the surrender and for a second his voice is incredibly lucid as he lets out a quiet and almost incredulous, "gosh," words interlaced with a small chuckle. 

The chuckle anchors all of Grian's attention for a searing moment, a different kind of delight rushing wildly through him, curving his lips heedlessly into a triumphant smile. Knowing he's making Scar feel things tastes like victory, like a reward in itself, and he wants to gloat, taking it in, before he throws himself off the precipice and gives Scar more of himself, to exacerbate that, to make Scar tip into this  fall with him.

There's a more gentle, fond and intrigued touch down one of Grian's sides, a little less claw as Scar drags down his bare chest, but the tether snaps again as Scar licks over his lips, still hungry for more. The touch grows more purposeful and intense as he maps out his prey, testing the skin, seeking something. 

He spots whatever it is in the center of Grian's chest, the dip of his ribcage, something vulnerable and alive as he feels the rush of blood and a battered heartbeat under his fingertips. His claws tap there eagerly as his grin once again grows toothy and wild, presenting his expression to Grian and drinking in the sight of his own.

Grian shudders under the touch Scar traces across his chest, something soft and exploratory. Grian can feel his breath stutter against those fingertips, wonders how Scar feels about that; but his answer is right here, as his gaze meets Scar's at the attention-calling tap of his fingers. 

Breathlessly, Grian takes in Scar's grin, and oh, he's in trouble. His heart beats wildly against his ribs, somewhere under Scar's claws, as his eyes hang on Scar. Grian's irises are glowing with reflected blue, gaze as intense as it is hazed, vulnerability fighting with desire. His neck still throbs. The rush of urgent craving is ceaseless, drumming through his veins. 

With a pang of ache that travels all the way down to pool below his stomach, Grian leans up, not minding that there are claws in the way on his chest, reaching to press the smallest brush of his lips against Scar in an almost-kiss, reverent puff of breath tingling in its wake.

"Yours," he murmurs, pushing Scar on.

Scar has to reel in his claws so as not to break skin when Grian moves— that's his job to do— and he purrs lowly against Grian's lips, smile turning devilish when Grian's speaks, the word music to his happily-flicking ears. 

As pleased as he is by the gesture, he pushes Grian right back down where he belongs. 

With a tantalising, toothy smile Grian obeys without struggle, cooing in encouragement, a praise, an affirmation that Scar's doing what he should here.

There's a searing awareness of their roles tearing a path through him—something about Scar's ability to tear him apart at the slightest whim; something about his own helplessness; something about how he's essentially pinned down. The flush of dizzying, quivery pleasure he feels at the thought is disintegrating all of his rationality, rendering him into an all too willing prisoner of any and all of Scar's cravings.

Scar’s claws drag down Grian’s chest, enough to mark but not to break skin. He's toying with the idea, letting the thought of drawing blood dance across his mind, set something ablaze in his eyes. (But he shouldn't— not here— not too much…)

Grian shudders; his rapid breaths tremble right underneath all that sharpness, his fluttering heartbeat rabbity beyond a cage of ribs that suddenly feel all too brittle, paper-thin, a protection that means nothing if Scar decides he doesn't want it there.

And still, Grian pulls up no protections.

He’s a willing participant in this bloody abuse, letting Scar claw and bite, lost to the deliriousness of the sensations it brings. Like sea dragging him under, beckoning him to let it happen. 

And at some point down the line, soft feathers of Grian’s earwing brush across the back of Scar's hand that’s cupping his face. Grian wants him to know how much he's at his mercy, and how much he wants to be at his mercy.

Scar extends his fingers, no longer curling around Grian's cheeks, now experimentally carding through the feathers of the earwing that's been offered. He almost doesn't consciously register his decision to do so, he just feels something soft and knows he wants to touch, to claim, to pull, but no— No, he won’t. 

He is not going to harm Grian. Not like that.

He has other ways of claiming him after all. 

And while Scar might only be dazedly, barely aware of the shift and touch of his hand, it shoots across Grian's senses—the fingers burrowing into the soft feathers of his earwings.

It's got nothing with a conscious decision; Grian’s body is controlled by a nonsense of instincts, and they dictate him to go limp, drawing a low, soft sound of out him. His earwing twitches, at first away, then towards the touch, giving itself over just like the rest of him.

Scar feels the moment the earwing gives into him, and he's instantly thrilled, sliding the longer feathers in between his fingers and releasing a low purr. His other hand does the same, mirroring the touch on the other side. 

The earwing touches are enough to drive Grian insane, triggering something in him that's been dormant for too long, drawing out a spillage of pleading bird noises out of him. His wing that was lying sprawled across the ground lifts somewhat, curves, just to show off the feathers; they glisten with brilliant shades, reached both by blue wisps of magic and the warm glow of the campfire.

Scar shifts to more gentleness over the bruises, then reverently kisses the tips of Grian’s feathers, a soft little gesture he’s never been allowed to offer. His claws trace circles over the indents of his latest bite, and he leans to kiss and lightly suck on it, dazed from the taste of blood on his tongue.

And then he notices the wings.

The beautiful, multicolored span outlined by his own spectral glow— a breathtaking sight. Scar’s eyes dilate as they lock onto the delicate hues that are normally so hidden away. They shine, freshly-cleaned, and although perhaps the method wasn’t preferable, Scar still feels his soul catch fire with the knowledge that he was the one to wash them. He’s the reason they sparkle right now and simultaneously the reason they’re on full display. 

His eyes are wide and eager, scanning the feathers and grinning wide at the sight— his expression a mixture of ravenous and adoring. 

Almost brainlessly, Scar mutters a string of nonsensical phrases under his breath: ”mine, pretty, my pretty bird, so good, so good—“ before leaning down and properly kissing Grian, the words still slurred against their lips. 

At the string of praises and possessive words, Grian coos, equally as incoherent. His wing stretches a bit higher, delighted, feathers shining against the multicoloured glow. The muscles ache, unused to the motion, but it feels good, something in him tingling and telling him that this is right. The vulnerable underside of the wing is there, perfectly within reach, not trying to hide or tuck away, a state they haven't been able to achieve once in this world before this moment.

Grian's gaze snags at Scar's grin, at that expression that tells him Scar's treading the thought of devouring him whole. It tugs at his guts, tightens his stomach, sends his breath out of rhythm, but none of it feels bad. He revels in it, shivers and sinks into it, the feeling ultimately warm, slinking around him like a spiderweb, making him hold still, dazed and unaware of the imminent danger.

"Yours, yours, good, yes, all yours," he echoes back at Scar, words half-coos, melting into the kiss. He hums against Scar's lips, a pleased, needy little noise. His hands travel higher up Scar's back and press, tugging at him, telling him he wants him right here, over himself. 

When the kiss breaks, he follows, nipping at Scar's lips, trying to elicit something more yet again, playing into Scar's instincts in a way that seems deliberate, but is just a hazed jumble of incomprehensible cravings, something deep and richly yearning that doesn't take no for an answer. 

Grian refuses to let Scar retreat in the slightest, and it’s that utter willingness and provocation that’s keeping Scar just barely tethered to reality— because surely his prey shouldn’t be this pliant. Shouldn’t be urging him on.

Because Grian isn’t his prey, nor or his meal—

But isn’t he? 

Once again, Scar’s head spins, dizzied as the line between mate and prey becomes muddled in his vex brain. And somehow through it all comes laughter of all things because— because this started with a bath and now Grian is underneath him trilling and begging to be manhandled. It’s borderline absurd and the sheer irrationality of both their behavior right now results in a sudden, throaty chuckle emerging from Scar as he teases Grian’s lips with his teeth. 

It’s almost silly, but more than anything, it’s electrifying, thrilling, exciting. There’s blood smeared over Scar’s fingers, and yet he’s having fun. 

Scar's laughter sends a wave of warmth through Grian, so very different from the scorching heat of everything else. It's a sound he basks in, slotting it somewhere next to his wildly beating heart, treasured amidst the inferno that ravages the rest of his body. He hums quietly against it, reveling in the way the sounds merge, even as it tips into a whine at the tease of Scar's teeth on Grian's lips.

With struggling clarity, Scar continues to giggle, although it morphs into an alluring purr. “Always said no one can have ‘em—” Scar’s hands frame Grian’s face, tucking his earwings over his cheeks. “—well what if I want them?” A careful drag of claws through those tiny feathers and heavy breath over Grian’s lips. “What if I want you?”

Grian’s breath hitches, noises falling silent for a moment as Scar's claws lightly rake across his feathers, tucking the soft fluff of the earwings against Grian's cheeks. Grian's gaze holds onto his, dark and intense, and his throat bobs as he swallows emptily. 

He feels dizzy, like he's going insane. His brain bounces the sharp thought of danger against his feathers, but he's holding still for Scar, expression hot and adoring and desiring. It feels explosive, like sparks of a live wire, and he wants it, all of it, a tinge of fear crashing into safety of this being Scar, the trust at the dazed awareness that he's in good hands, and he wants those hands to be clawed and at his skin—at his feathers. 

A part of Grian’s brain that's made of pure instinct trills in happy victory, telling him this is what he wanted, that he succeeded—he showed off his feathers and his mate now wants him. It's intoxicating, a jumbled mess of agreements thrashing underneath Grian's tongue while he fights to figure out how to express any of them. 

In the end, he coos, a small whine pressed against Scar's hovering lips. His earwings twitch, sending a spike of sensation though him as that creates a gentle drag against Scar's claws, eliciting a tiny mewl from his throat. 

And through it all, he's still here, still not running.

When he finds his voice, it's equally soft and pleading; it sounds like gentle affection and like deep craving, all at once. It's showing boundless love to the beast while tempting it to devour him. "You can have," he murmurs, low and hoarse. "You can have me." All of me.

Scar feels as if he could howl with excitement and triumph, but instead what comes out is a hushed purr, a rumbly thing pressed right up against the corner of Grian’s lips. 

“Won’t hurt,” he whispers, in spite of all the damage he’s already wrought. But even in a haze of delirious bloodlust, Scar still draws the line there. He doesn’t want to harm Grian’s wings. He has no intention of breaking those gorgeous feathers or of taking them for himself. He doesn’t need to. He has Grian, all of Grian, and all Scar wants to do is to admire his lovely possessions.

To give them the love they deserve. 

To give Grian the love he absolutely deserves.

Scar tucks a promise against the corner of Grian's lips, and Grian quietly coos back. A hushed, I know, tender and loving and trusting. 

There’s still slight hesitation in Scar’s movements, months of ingrained resistance still fighting his every motion, but Scar’s hand finally leaves Grian’s cheek and those soft, tiny feathers to embrace the real prize. Dozens of greedy hands have tried and yet Scar— fangs and claws bared— is being offered them willingly. His lips curl in satisfaction.

Grian hums quietly at Scar's hesitation, hands tracing light patterns into the skin of Scar's back. Mapping out all the scarred tissue there, the edges of which he's seen many many times, memorised, and now they unfurl under his fingertips. His to touch. His, his, his. 

He's going to be gentle with Scar's wounds, like he is with Grian's wings.

— and then his thoughts dissipate, his breath hitching shakily, as Scar's hand makes contact with his wing. A confusing onslaught of feelings rushes through him, and he both wants to look and doesn't want to see it. Some deep-rooted part of him tells him that he should be scared, that this should be dangerous, but the rest of him pushes against it, whispering soft and pliant I know, I know, I know. 

He wants Scar's hand right where it is, and more. He wants—

Claws sink in between the feathers harmlessly as Scar trails his fingers down their length, positively entranced by this allowance. There’s a soft hum of appreciation, of reassurance, and Scar’s other hand stays, just as content with raking his claws through Grian’s hair.

Grian shudders, his emotions a tangle that tips into pleasure as Scar's clawed fingers drag across the tender underside of his wings, caressing the feathers that have been untouched for months. He tips his head into Scar's other hand that's tangled in his hair, nuzzling as a spillage of coos makes it out, a nonsensical string that is very, very far from distressed. 

He takes one deep breath, that's meant to be steadying but instead quivers all the way through, and he pushes his wing into Scar's touch.

Eager to get access to every bit of what’s just been offered to him, Scar drags Grian up, settling him once again in his lap. His other hand snakes around Grian’s waist, searching for a spot he was never allowed to touch, travelling to the base of Grian’s wings, claws running over the smaller feathers. He sinks his fingers into their length, revelling the softness in contrast to all his sharp edges.

And Grian is doomed. So completely, utterly doomed.

He shudders in the best of ways, the coo that makes it past his lips vibrating with it as his back arches and wings blissfully push into the touch. The hands in his feathers are driving him crazy. He's pressing himself against Scar, a babble of purring, whiny, defenceless bird noises spilling out of him unbidden, any semblance of self control left.

Neither of them wants to stop here.

And so they don’t. 

[there’s somehow 10k more rp words to this debauchery. just use your imagination we now fade to black <33]

[abiiors]

red lines - pt. 2 ║// matty healy x reader

a/n: this was supposed to be a late christmas/new year's gift for you lot but oh well, consider this an early valentine's day gift now lol. this is sad but also smutty which seems to be my favourite thing to write so enjoy ♡ cw: angst, crying (so much of it my god) (seriously, matty cries after sex like a loser) and arguments, a briefly sick baby (she has a cold) fucked up relationships in general, typos, probably cringe idk. wc: 6.5k here's part 1

matty’s red rimmed eyes stare back at you. 

if it weren’t for your baby’s soft babbling grounding you, you would have slammed the door in his face the second you opened it. before he even had the chance to get a word in. not like he’s said anything yet—he’s busy looking from mia to you and back to mia who’s strapped to your chest, face away from him. 

his daughter. he doesn’t even know what his daughter looks like. 

your heart hammers in your chest as you look at him, take him in properly. he looks like he’s been frozen in time—the same man you left almost a year ago, maybe with a few more greys on his head now. but everything about him harshly pulls you back in time. 

looking at him after all this time is like having the last piece of a puzzle click in place. 

“hi,” he says, and looks at the back of mia’s head for a moment. his hands twitch at his sides and matty shoves them in his pockets quickly. 

you clear your throat. “hi.”

the silence that lingers is so awkward that even the baby senses it. she fusses and lets out a soft whine and you know you only have a few moments before the whine turns into a full cry. 

“come in,” you offer and he nods. 

the door shuts behind him with a deafening creek and the silence returns with a vengeance. 

you watch matty as he looks around him. you wonder how it all looks through his eyes—a house that’s neither too clean, nor too messy, mia’s toys on the sofa, her bottle on the kitchen table, half finished. the half cooked pancake in the pan. and then he looks at the baby. 

you watch him carefully, look at the way his eyes shine so brightly and the subtle tremble of his lips. matty takes his hand out of his pocket and reaches out. about to touch her blanket. but you step back on instinct and his hand lingers in the air before falling at his side, limp and useless. 

“what do you want, matty?” you ask, your voice more steady than you expected.

he swallows harshly. “i wanted–i thought i’d…”

“you thought…?”

he squares his shoulder and straightens his spine, gathering courage just like you’ve seen him do so many times in the past. 

“i wanted to see her. mia. it’s a beautiful name…”

“who told you her name?”

you don’t know where the snapping, harsh tone comes from but matty flinches regardless. you don’t give him a chance to answer though. you know who told him her name. 

“it was adam, wasn’t it?”

“please don’t be mad at him,” matty tries hastily and takes a step forward before coming to an abrupt stop. “i begged until… yeah, i begged him to tell me.”

“look i…” he continues, “i messed up, okay? i messed up big time. i've spent every day regretting it. i miss both of you, and i can't—”

“you miss her?” your voice rings out around the room. 

mia in your arms is the only thing stopping you from yelling as your entire body shakes with so much rage. you try to keep the tears at bay, you really do but they fall one after the other. land softly on her head. 

“you miss her, do you, matty? do you even know what she looks like?”

he shakes his head and looks down in shame. 

“no? you didn’t beg your best friend for a photo?” your voice has taken a mocking quality—ugly and cruel. words meant to hurt him, to damage him. words that might give him a taste of a fraction of what you went through. 

“please, i—”

“get out.”

“no, listen to me! please, just—”

“leave!”

matty stumbles back and mia breaks into a cry. whatever possessed you to yell like that leaves instantly, zapping away every ounce of strength in your body. your knees shake with the effort of standing upright. your arms tighten around the baby. 

matty wipes his eyes quickly and makes his way out the door. 

it’s the thud that breaks the last of your restraint. quietly, you sit on the floor, soothing her for what feels like hours. trying to calm yourself by breathing in her scent. she’s safe. you’re both safe. 

you don’t need a third. 

you only need her. 

matty doesn’t give up. 

although he doesn’t show up again in person, a box shows up at the door—one addressed to both you and mia. it feels heavy in your hands and something rattles inside. 

as curious as you are, you set it on the dining table and go about your day. 

you don’t need any of this, whatever he’s sent is probably useless. it’s silly and meant to break down your defenses. you’re sure of it. 

still, every time you pass by it, the box seems to wink at you. so you chuck it in a random drawer—one where you keep the extra nappies, the backup-backup-backup ones—and breathe a sigh of relief.

relief that’s almost comically short-lived.

the days pass, and life falls back into its routine—diapers, bottles, and the sweet sound of mia's coos and giggles. the box from matty remains tucked away in the drawer, almost forgotten. you convince yourself that whatever he sent doesn't matter; you've built a new life for you and mia, and that's all that matters.

it's a rainy afternoon when mia decides to unleash chaos upon her last clean onesie. a cosmic fucking joke really that she should need her backup-backup-backups when you’ve almost managed to forget about the box. but there it is, sitting atop the neatly stacked diapers—a plain cardboard box, tied with a simple piece of twine.

you take it out and set it on the kitchen table. then you brew yourself an extra strong cup of coffee and sit in front of it, almost like it’s a staring match…

who’s going to break first?

but obviously it’s a cardboard box, it stays fucking still no matter how hard you wish for it to burst into flames. so you take a sip of coffee and begin undoing the twine. your hands tremble as you lift the lid. your heartbeat quickens. 

first you see a layer of tissue papers covering something and then under it, a plain envelope with your name written on it in matty’s handwriting. 

inside it is a piece of paper, slightly torn at the edges. folded and refolded a million times. 

hi, my love please come home i’m so sorry i don't expect you to forgive me. i messed up. horribly. there’s no other way to put it. and there's no excuse for the pain i've caused. i understand if you never want to see me again, but please, i’m begging you to let me see her just once. just to let her get to know her father. so that i can get to know my daughter.  i know what i did is unforgivable but it’s like half a piece of my heart has been missing since you walked out i let you walk out.  i don’t expect you to let me back into your lives but please let me hold her just once.  i would also like to set up a small trust fund in her name if you give me permission. i won’t have any control over it, but i want her to have something from me for anything she might want in the future.  i’m leaving that decision up to you.  there are post cards in here that i wrote for you and for her when things got really really bad. it’s not an excuse for how i behaved but some day i hope we could be together friends again.  till then just know that not a moment goes by when i don’t wish i could go back in time and stop myself from till then i hope you know how incredibly sorry i am. i hope you know that i will always have nothing but love and respect for you. and for mia.  love,  matty

the weight of the emotions threatens to suffocate you. the scratched-out bits from the letter are just slightly visible. not really enough for you to make it out properly but whatever it says has to be too personal, right? 

you sink further into the chair, and tears blur your vision. the postcards are right there under the letter—a hundred or so—his heart bared to you. all of the best and worst parts. all the ugly ones too. 

and then there’s the trust fund that he wants to set up. 

you know it’s the smart thing to do. you can’t have emotions clouding your judgement when it comes to securing her future. and he said he won’t have any control over it so that’s good, right…?

and yet a part of you hesitates to pick up the cards and read his words. 

everything feels too raw, too vulnerable and honest. 

everything feels too much.

you think and you think and you think for the next few days. 

all you do is think about him and the postcards and the trustfund. you even have a little spat with your mum when she says it’s a good idea. you accuse her of playing the devil’s advocate but ultimately she’s right. 

this is not about you. this is about your daughter. 

so you let her bathe mia and get her ready for bed, and then you pick up your phone and open the old text thread. 

have an amazing night, babe. break a leg.

the text sits there innocently. the words are still the same—casual and loving and normal and almost like they were written in a foreign language. you quickly wipe up your tears and delete the old thread before there’s time to second-guess it. 

gone. winked out of existence just like that. 

and then you open a fresh new thread. 

hi matty, hope you’re well.  got your letters hello matty hey. i got the box. can we talk?

it amazes you how much back and forth you have to do for a simple message. how many times you talk yourself out of sending it. but once it’s gone. it’s gone. 

half a minute later, three dots dance in response. 

hey, would love to. next sunday?

sunday works. that’s exactly a week from now. enough time for you to prepare mentally. it’s also a day after your mum gets back from her mini holiday so you can just leave mia with her without having to worry about bringing her with you. 

sunday works. see you then. 

and that’s the end of that. you switch your phone off and vow to not think about him till then. if only it were that easy…

three days later you wake up to a shrill cry coming from the nursery. 

hastily you check the time, 2:37 am, and run to check up on mia, heart thudding in your chest. she’s usually such a calm baby. she sleeps so well through the night and yet the closer you get the louder her cries get. 

the more you feel fear grip your chest. 

“oh my love, what’s wrong? what’s wrong, baby?”

she continues to wail even after you check her diapers and feel her cot for any wetness. it’s only when you gently touch her cheek do you realise how warm she feels. heat radiates from her little body and panic sets in as you rush to the kitchen to grab the thermometer. the digital display confirms your fear—a fever.

not very high but still, she’s sick for the first time in her life. 

“you’ve got a fever sweet girl,” you coo and clear your dry throat. 

fuck! calling your mum’s not an option. calling the gp’s also not an option. 

her loud cries make your heart squeeze in pain. rocking doesn’t help. strapping her to your naked chest helps only for about ten minutes until she’s screaming once again. 

you try a bath, hoping the vapour would clear her cold a little but all it does it give you a headache. 

your head feels like it’s about to burst open, blood splattering on the walls and everywhere else as mia continues to cry until her whole body is pink and red from the effort. how does a tiny baby have this much strength in her lungs? you feel her forehead for the tenth time—warm, and you wipe away her runny nose. but no amount of cooing and rocking her helps. 

“calm down, darling,” you try to shush her, a note of begging in your voice. your temples throb and mia wails right next to your ears.

you think maybe singing to her would calm her down but any more exertion and the black dots in your vision continue to swim around. 

fuck. 

you need help. and your mum is not an option. absolutely no one you can call at 3:30 in the morning. 

absolutely no one who will even answer. 

but that’s not true is it…

with shaky hands you pick up your phone and dial his number. you’d promised yourself never to go crawling to him for help. but the universe has a funny way of forcing your hand. 

desperation for your daughter's well-being overrides any pride or resentment. the phone rings, each tone louder than the last. just as you’re sure it’s about to go unanswered, his groggy, sleepy voice comes through from the other side. 

“hello?”

you barely give him the chance to speak before launching into your panic-filled pleas. “matty, it’s mia. she’s sick–she won’t–she’s so warm and my mum’s not here and i don’t–nothing's working—”

“hey, hey, love calm down,” he shushes from the other side and then there's rustling in the background. “i’m coming over.”

matty doesn’t even take fifteen minutes to get to your house, eyes widening the second he takes a look at you and your daughter. she’s been attached to you like an extra limb ever since you woke up to her crying. not that you’ve had the heart to set her down for any longer than necessary but you’re aware how deranged you must look with your hair all over the place and red eyes, exhaustion embedded so deep down in your bones that no amount of sleep will get rid of it. 

“she won’t stop crying,” you launch into it the second he steps inside. every two words you hiccup, trying and failing to keep the sobs at bay. “she has a cold, matty. i’ve tried everything. we had a warm bath, i gave her some calpol. i’ve tried rocking her and singing to her and i’m so fucking tired but she’s just–she won’t stop—”

“hey…” it only takes one gentle touch from him to make you forget every single feeling of apprehension. matty’s frown deepens.

“are you sure?” his voice has suddenly gone quiet, so quiet that you barely hear it over the baby’s cries. 

you look at him in confusion. “didn’t you listen to me? yes i’m fucking sure, she’s ill, matty. look at her!” your voice rises another octave, more and more panicked as another moment passes by and she refuses to settle down.

“no i…” he steps closer and extends his hand. almost afraid to touch her or you. maybe afraid that you might step away like last time. but you stay in place and matty touches the back of her head. it's featherlight at first as if she might break if he puts too much force into it. one touch and she’d crumble away like she was never here at all. 

as if this was all his dream. 

“no, i meant…” he swallows harshly and clears his throat. “are you sure you want me to take her?”

the hold you have on her loosens ever so slightly. 

you called matty here. it’s not like he showed up, unannounced and drunk, no! he showed up at an ungodly hour to help you. if anything… that earns him a tiny, miniscule brownie point. 

“do you know how to—”

“hold a baby?” he quips and you notice the way his face brightens almost imperceptibly, barely even noticeable. “i do, i’ve uh… yeah. i do.”

he doesn’t elaborate further, he only stands there patiently until you find your hold on her loosening. you will your heart to calm down, will your body to not be so rigid. then you take a deep breath and extend her to him.

she looks almost different in his arms. smaller somehow, so much more like him than you realised. and matty’s face holds an expression you’ve never seen before. 

something about it makes your heart stutter. 

he’s enamoured by her, so much so that he barely even reacts when she sneezes in his face and keeps crying even though it’s a bit softer now. maybe she’s just as distracted trying to process him, maybe she feels something too—a bond that’s somehow always been there, hidden and battered and hanging on by a thread. 

in a heartbeat, his face changes and he holds her to his chest. 

in a tentative voice, matty shushes her, bounces her a bit just like you had been. you wring your hands nervously waiting for something to happen. maybe he’d realise he still doesn’t want her, that he was wrong to think he did. maybe he’d give her back and leave you again quietly. 

your chest hurts at the thought, but you will it away and watch matty cuddle her closer. 

he holds her as tightly as possible without hurting her. matty closes his eyes and presses his face into her head, he swallows harshly and for a moment his whole body shudders. when he opens them again, they’re tinged pink, and he quickly looks away. 

“can you—” he clears his throat and tries again. “can you show me where the nursery is?”

you nod and gesture for him to follow. mia’s cries slow a little when matty starts walking. he continues shushing her and attempting baby talk which is slightly amusing despite everything. he gives up in a few seconds though and goes back to talking to her normally. 

“just a cold, my love,” you hear him faintly, “they’re really annoying though, aren’t they?”

in spite of yourself, you smile and stop in front of the nursery. 

“she usually likes the chair.”

matty looks to the corner of the room where you’re pointing and nods. then he clears his throat. 

“should i… uh, does she have a favourite blanket?”

the fact he thought of it is impressive. and she does, but you know it’s just been washed and folded. to get it for her, you’d have to leave them alone. for the first time ever. 

the rational part of your brain knows it won’t be a big deal. it’s two minutes at most and it’s not like matty’s gonna run away with her. your heart pounds regardless, and your feet feel leaden. 

“sure, it’s–yeah, let me just…” and then you leave before you have the chance to overthink it. 

by the time you’re get back to the nursery, soft blanket in hand, matty’s already settled in the rocking chair, mia in his arms with her cheek squished against his chest. 

he’s unbuttoned a few buttons of his shirt so he’s not entirely shirtless but just enough to feel her against his skin—to get a second chance at the skin-to-skin he missed. 

“that’s it, darling,” he speaks softly and strokes her cheek. “settle down for me. daddy’s gonna take care of you, okay?”

with every word he speaks, her eyes get droopier, her sniffles turn to quiet breaths until matty takes a deep breath and starts singing a quiet song. 

it’s unfamiliar at first, and he starts off unsure and off-kilter. his voice cracks, but mia babbles something and presses further into his chest. it’s then that he really smiles—wide and breath-taking and so incredibly happy that the air whooshes out of your lungs just at the sight of it. 

daddy’s gonna take care of you, okay?

and that’s exactly what he does. he pats on her back softly, presses small kisses to her head until your eyes sting and a sob almost escapes. 

quickly, you back away, still clutching the blanket. still holding back tears until you’re far, far away from him and somehow in the empty kitchen. the sky is only just turning pink, even then, the darkness lingers. and that’s when the dam breaks. 

great, heaving sobs spill out of you—ugly and wretched and loud enough that it’s a miracle matty doesn’t come running. your legs give out from under you and you slide against the counter, leaning against it and praying for any amount of strength. your chest aches and your body trembles. a distatant memory flashes across your mind—of the last time you cried like this. when you accidentally called adam instead of your mum. 

when adam did show up even if you tried to get him to leave.

the cool surface of the countertop offers a small comfort. with trembling hands, you clutch the soft blanket, and bury your face in it. it still holds the scent of baby oils and powders, of her fluffy little head that you adore so much. the same head that’s full of his curls. 

you gasp for a breath and stifle another sob. the blanket helps too—it’s grounding and comforting. it’s familiar. you force yourself to take another deep breath, and this time it comes a bit easier. the weight on your chest eases just a bit. the grief that felt so overwhelming all these months loosens its grip around your heart and in the stillness of dawn, matty’s voice floats into the kitchen. 

you stay there on the floor, counting one breath after the other, listening to his lullaby until the whole kitchen is bathed in the orange light of dawn.

then you wipe away the snot and the tears and make yourself stand up.

you hold your head in your hands, hoping the dull ache would go away soon, along with all the memories of the last 24 hours. at this point, you’d settle for the complete erasure of the last thirty minutes. 

you just want to go back to before—back to your happy cheerful baby, back to being busy enough that you have no time to think about him. 

you desperately crave the before where the crack in his voice doesn’t haunt every thought. where the song doesn’t echo in the crevices of your brain and mia’s cries don’t grow quieter with every word he sings. in fact, you crave an alternate world where she doesn’t cry at all. she sleeps through the night like always and you video call your mum when she wakes up. 

that’s what was supposed to happen. not…this. 

not matty being in your house with your—his—daughter, watching her with that devastated look on his face. 

a soft thud of the door jerks you out of your thoughts but the house remains devoid of baby cries. the only thing you can hear really is matty’s footsteps growing louder until you can see him at the door to the kitchen from the corner of your eye. 

he hesitates and lingers like he’s trapped in a limbo. 

“you can come in, you know?” you straighten and roll your neck to get rid of some of the pain. there’s a momentary relief before the ache comes flooding back. 

“she’s asleep…”

“yeah, i thought she would be.”

“she feels a bit cooler to the touch,” he reports and relief floods your chest. 

for a moment the kitchen stays silent. the birds outside chirp once in a while and you hear the occasional sounds of a car but everything else feels like it’s come to a standstill. quiet. the universe holding its breath in anticipation. 

“i should go—”

“coffee—”

you both speak at the same time and shut your mouth again. another pang of pain lances through your body and this time you barely hold back the wince. 

he wants to leave, of course, he does. just because he came through in a time of need doesn’t mean he’s ready to be a father. it doesn’t mean you’re ready to let him be her father. 

“coffee sounds nice,” he speaks so softly that you barely hear it at first. there’s trepidation in his voice; a slight tremor that he might be pushed away again but a rock lodges itself in your throat and all you can manage is a slight nod. 

you can feel his stare burning into the back of your head when you turn. the coffee pot is still full of yesterday’s grounds—something you haven’t had the chance to tidy up yet. now that you look around, the whole kitchen is a bit of a mess. you scoff to yourself. your mum’s been gone for three whole days and your life is already falling apart trying to be a single mother. 

the gurgling of water fills the kitchen as the kettle starts boiling and you look around for a spare mug. yours is right by the coffee machine but an extra one should be high up in the cupboard. 

matty’s shoes squeak on the floor but he doesn’t come any closer. 

“need any he—”

“no. i’m fine!”

and just to drive the point home, you yank the door to the top shelf open and stretch extra high to reach the spare mug. cool air brushes the exposed sliver of skin and just for a moment you’re tempted to see  if he’s looking, just for a tiny second, until pain lances through your neck and shoulder and this time the loud wince slips out. 

before you know it, matty’s behind you, steading you with a hand against the small of your back—warm palm pressed against warm, exposed skin. somewhere deep down you would have recognised him through smell alone—the same warm spicy smelled laced with just a hint of cigarette smoke that you’ve thought about on many lonely nights. 

sometimes when you’re deep asleep, it sneaks up on you, envelopes you so thoroughly that you wake up surrounded by it, suffocating almost and still desperately trying to get lungfulls of it. 

the same smell surrounds you now and matty’s body presses close to yours. 

“careful there,” he breathes and the warmth of it spreads goosebumps all over your body.

“you alright?”

you know he’s referring to your wince from two seconds ago but your brain takes an eternity to form a coherent sentence. 

“fine,” you manage. “i was rocking mia all night, think i pulled something.”

instantly, warm, rough fingers touch your shoulder and the space between you comes alive with electricity. 

“trust me,” he murmurs and somehow you find yourself nodding and closing your eyes, sighing when his fingers press into your skin. the wood the counter digs into your pelvis, almost like a tether to this world, something to stop you from floating away and giving in to his touch. heat simmers in your blood just as the water in the kettle comes to a full boil. 

“this feel good, love?”

distant thoughts remind you to say no, to move away and shut hm off again. he has no business touching you again, but your body seems disconnected from your brain. instead of walking away, you lean back, into his chest and away from the wood of the counter. 

the tether snaps but matty’s there to hold you down. his hand snakes around your waist and you spin. spin till you’re facing him and pressed flush against his chest. until his scent is all around, finally enough to settle into your lungs and not dissipate into the cloying scent of nightmares. 

“we s-shouldn’t…” you try to sound firm but the word makes you choke. matty’s eyes dip to your mouth. 

“we shouldn’t,” he agrees and presses his lip against yours. 

the kiss takes you back to the last time—to the before, in that cosy hotel room by the sea. you think of the two people tangled up in the bedsheets, naked and sweaty and happy. one of them looks remarkably like you—the same hair and eyes, the same smile, slightly fuller cheeks though. she laughs and whispers something in matty’s ear. then he nips at her lips just like he nips at yours now. 

it’s a kiss teeming with longing and desire and everything in between. 

your teeth knock against each other and matty takes advantage of your gasp to slide his tongue in, to let it run over your lip and against your tongue until you’re panting and leaning against him for support. 

“m-matty,”

“tell me you don’t wan’t me,” he says all of a sudden but his eyes are so full of so much hope that your heart might shatter into a million pieces to see it die away slowly. 

“i want you…”

and that’s the only permission he needs before his mouth is on yours again, hungry and hot, your lips between his teeth until they’re red and swollen, and only then does he move to your jaw. 

his stubble leaves a faint burn on your skin and the fire in your blood burns hotter. 

“please,” he chokes out and swallows roughly, “need to taste you, please.”

you don’t trust your voice enough to speak, instead you give him a light push on his shoulders. instantly, matty kneels between your legs and pulls your shorts down until they fall to your ankles, along with the underwear. 

silently, you curse for not bothering to shave or wear decent underwear. not like you knew this would be happening. but he’s like a man starved and every ounce of hesitation leaves when your fingers tangle in his hair. 

the tresses slip between your fingers, soft and curly and exactly how they used to feel a year ago, the greys stand out against your hand and a whine escapes you the moment his tongue connects to your clit. your breath hitches at the sight of him—eyes half-lidded, dark enough that they are almost black, lips swollen to the point they are wet and red. for a moment, you consider pulling him up just to kiss him again, to taste him again. but then matty’s tongue plunges inside you and your mind goes blank. 

his rough hand is against your thigh, fingers digging into soft flesh, another against your ass, holding you up and squeezing the flesh at the same time. your legs tremble and almost give up but he pushes you back and traps against the counter. 

you shouldn’t. you shouldn’t. you shoudn’t. you try telling that to yourself over and over again and yet your belly erupts in butterflies that just won’t go away. your hands move of their own accord, guiding his head, pushing his mouth right against your clit, and matty takes it all. 

“fuck–” he chokes out and goes back to licking another broad strip, “missed you, missed your taste, fucking missed you so much!”

tears sting your eyes and your body trembles for a different reason this time but you push it back and rut your hips against his face. 

despite the thoughts in your head, this feels good. this feels familiar and fantastic and as much as you don’t want to admit it, this feels right. 

matty moans against your clit and swipes a finger through your folds. euphoria makes your vision go white and you let yourself cry out his name. perhaps for the first time. the sound echoes around the kitchen, confined within the four walls of this room somehow even before you stifle the second scream. there’s a sleeping baby in the house after all, the last thing you need is for her to wake up and put an end to whatever this is until the awkwardness would push matty out of the house and possibly out of your life again—

your eyes scrunch shut as another lick makes your head spin. 

“fa-faster,” you moan out and shamelessly throw a leg over his shoulder, holding onto his head so tight now that he surely feels the tug. if anything, his efforts double, and his tongue plunges deeper into you than before.

the world goes hazy and soft around the edges as your eyes roll back into your head. 

fuck! he’s good… he’s always been good. he’s always known your body better than you have. besides, no one’s made you feel half as good in a year, no one besides your vibrator on occasional lonely nights. 

“fuck, darling you’re perfect…” he breathes and the word echoes around in your head. 

you were perfect. together. even after everything, nothing and no one can erase the that. 

you swallow another cry and hold onto him tighter. your head buzzes and pleasure floods through your entire body until you’re chanting his name over and over again. somewhere through it all, you’re aware of grinding against his face like a wild animal in heat but his mouth keeps up with it. if anything, his thumb joins in, pressing on your clit, pinching it just so till you jerk and let go all over his tongue. 

ecstasy replaces the blood in your veins, runs at lightning speeds and you feel as if you’re floating up, up and away if not for matty standing up, holding onto you, kissing you till you can taste yourself on his tongue—taste so much more that heat pools in your stomach again and you push your hands inside his t-shirt. 

his whole body tenses, muscles taut against your hand until he’s practically vibrating and rigid. 

“you really w-want this? me?”

the hope in his voice is barely controlled but you refuse to open your eyes. one look at him and you know your resolve will crumble and the tears will come. instead you push your face into the crook of his neck and nod. 

“i’ve never been more sure of something…”

for a moment, his breathing stops completely and matty goes still—you can almost feel his heart stop too, almost feel the stuttering beat pounding right under the palm of your hand. then the spell breaks and the clinking of his belt buckle fills the room. 

his lips press against the hollow of your throat, leaving wild, reckless marks behind before he moves over to where your pulse thrums wildly. his mouth finds the spot, sucks on it gently, and you find yourself losing in him once again. 

you feel the hardness of his cock through the boxers and before you have the chance to touch him properly, matty pulls away slightly, making you look at him in confusion. it’s only when his hand reaches for his wallet do you realise that he’s pulling out a condom.

good. there should be some barrier between you. some semblance of a boundary even though it laughably flimsy and pathetic. and well, that lack of barrier is really what landed you here in the first place. 

“i need—”

“yes,” he interrupts and goes in for another sloppy kiss. 

your hands wander until you’re pulling his hard cock out, feeling him moan into the kiss and he reluctantly pulls away to put the condom on. the moment stretches on and suddenly this whole thing feels juvenile, like he’s your high school crush. like this is your first time. excitement bubbles up in your chest—dull but unmistakably there. maybe just this once, you let it surge. 

as if in a daze, matty slides the stray hair off your shoulder, brushing away the strands until your shoulder is bared to him and kisses the exposed skin. goosebumps erupt in its wake.

the whole affair is silent—just moans and sighs and the sound of his shuddering breath before he’s slipping into you, deeper and deeper until all you feel is him and his heartbeat.

“fucking perfect, so fucking perfect…” he chants and thrusts again. and again. and again till your breathing becomes ragged and your head loses every thought once again, and then he’s the only person to matter in the world. 

you’d die if he were to let go of you now. 

his grip on you tightens and his pace becomes faster, hips slamming into yours until you’re both moaning and panting, until your face in in the crook of his neck, mouth against his neck. the kisses excite him more, make him shiver in delight, and somehow you feel him grow harder inside you—streching you out till you’re nearly in tears and crying out from pleasure that is almost overwhelming. 

“matty, you’re—i’m—”

“can’t wait to feel you drenching my cock,” his voice turns into an unexpected growl and pleasure coils in your belly. his hand inches between your legs, fingers circling your clit until his thumb is pressing down on it once again and you mewl. his chest barely even stifles it. 

“please…” you beg and get swept away by another feverish kiss. your head spins and matty’s saying something, he’s fucking into you so hard that you can barely hear a word over the obscene, wet sounds. or maybe it’s the blood rushing through your whole body that drowns it out. 

none of it matters though, not when you feel white hot pleasure swirl through you and then you clench around him, hard enough that he cries out too. hard enough that you feel him cum despite the condom. and that’s what tips you over the edge. 

matty keeps going through it, slamming into you until he eventually slows down, until he eventually stills but doesn’t pull out. you keep your eyes closed, chest heaving, breath mixing with his, bodies pressed together so tightly that you can practically feel the rush of his blood under his skin. 

some pathetic part of your brain makes tears prick at your eyes and you finally open your eyes, taking just a second to look at his face. there are lines etches into his forehead now—deep grooves that used to be much softer. a reminder of all the time that’s passed. his sweaty curls stick to his forehead, much more grey than before. much messier. still, he's as beautiful as ever, as beautiful as a forbidden fruit. 

then he opens his eyes too and the breath truly gets knocked out of you. 

after all this time, his eyes are the same warm hazel. the same eyes you look into every day. mia’s eyes. matty’s eyes. 

for a moment, the room feels colder. the orange hue feels odd and unnatural but it’s just a trick of the light, just a trick of an overthinking mind.  

“we—”

“don’t,” you interrupt quickly. “please, just… let me stay like this. let me have this memory.”

matty hmms, then moves his hand to the back of your head, fingers in your hair until you feel something wet on your cheeks, on your shoulders. until you feel his body shaking. you don’t look up. you don’t try to console him either. you just stay like that, breathe him in until your lungs feel full enough to burst. 

you know how this ends. deep down, you’ve always known it. 

still, letting go of him feels like plunging a knife in your chest. 

there will be a part 3, this was getting too long.

lemme know what you think <33

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[ariapmdeol]

blake

[crowberri]

[OC] Jabberwocky

[actualbird]

cw unhealthy abusive dubcon toxic yaoi ship talk ahead, yes, it’s jeroluke

thinking about jeroluke…. this is my most niche tot ship that i know only two other people are into (SOBBBSDSS) and it i ship it Primarily because i want to Harm Luke. but also like, their dynamic is just so fucking juicy

like, jerome (serenely, subtly) antagonizes the Entire NXX Investigation Team, but if we assume (well it’s SUPER OBVIOUS) that main story oedipus is jerome, like. jerome makes it personal for luke. jerome dangles possible cures over luke’s head for the illness that luke so desperately wants to cure. for all the other nxx members, jerome is a suspicious recurring foe. but for luke, jerome is both his lifeline and his enemy, and luke has no choice but to do what hes told if he wants the continued hope of a cure. jerome treats him like an experiment and luke has no choice but to bare his neck. jerome deadass injected luke with a substance that completely knocked him out and cheerily asked “arent you afraid i’ll do something to you?”

it’s so yummy to me. luke hates jerome with all his heart meanwhile jerome treats luke with the same “care” and condescension he’d treat a lab rat with.

thinking about messed up scenarios where they fuck. jerome dosing luke with an aphrodisiac drug and luke hates it hates it but falls into bed with jerome anyway because he needs the relief. thinking about jerome making luke feel good, and laughing at luke, sweetly telling him “dont you see, when you let me handle things, i can make all the pain go away”. thinking about luke falling into the habit of letting jerome fuck him every time they meet. it’s terrible. he hates it. but when hes got jerome’s drugs in his bloodstream and jerome’s hands on his body, jerome is right. all the pain goes away

luke is already taking the very illegal substance he was tasked to investigate. what more is fucking the enemy?

augh…jeroluke

if ever i write a fic for them in the future it will be nasty as all hells and also i will post it on anon. lol.

[wrathofrats]

Kinktober day 7: hate sex

Prompts by @kroas-adtam

what you do on your own time’s just fine, my imagination’s much worse

Alpha/omega

Read now or on ao3

Explicit, 4k.

The thing is, alpha isn’t stupid (despite whatever the fuck earth has claimed). Its easy to notice omega staring when he whips his head away like he’s been smacked whenever alpha turns to meet his gaze. The shaky voice seems obvious when omega doesn’t sound like that around water. He just can’t miss it, can’t ignore how his pupils blow wide and he chews on his lip when he watches alpha play.

It’s disgusting quite frankly

WARNINGS AND TAGS: homophobia, homophobic slurs, homophobic stereotypes, heavy degradation, kinda dubcon but both give pretty enthusiastic consent, tiny bit of blood kink, blink and you’ll miss it, alphas using omega to get off, omega is more than ok with this, tiny bit of forcefem?, objectification, calling a hole a pussy, pls head all my warnings if any of this is a problem skip this one LMAO

Alpha and omega were summoned together. A plume of sparks and smoke, in the midst standing two ghouls that primo had never seen in such sizes. They stepped off the altar with little problem, none of the hissing and fighting that had occurred with Nihils ghouls. They were perfect. Dangerous and obedient for the church's new project.

Alpha had taken his orders more seriously than omega. He was a guard, made from fire and lava in the pits and placed at primos side when he didn’t have a guitar in his hands. Even when he did, he was still silent and stoic. Working on learning the chords as if they were gospel in order to please his papa.

Omega was different. Surely took his job seriously but spent his time in the library doing research, or taking care of the siblings minor injuries. He was friendly and approachable, quickly taking a liking to the other three ghouls that were summoned not long after alpha and him.

He took a special interest in alpha. For being summoned together they rarely interacted outside of band purposes, and even then alpha stayed silent, only really speaking when primo prompted him to. When omega tried, he was usually ignored besides maybe a nod of his head or a grunt.

Even the small interactions made omega blush. He never understood why, simply feeling nervous and out of breath when alpha would so much as look at him. Once alpha asked him how much of the song he had memorized and omega could barely respond to him without his voice shaking. It’s all thoughts to push down for another day. Or maybe until they disappear forever. Swallows his sick little urges, the white hot coil of desire whenever he catches a glimpse of those bright orange eyes or sharp teeth.

It's bad for omega they're in such close quarters all the time, he watches Alpha too much for his own good. He's a handsome devil. Maybe it's for his own good that Alpha barely takes off that stupid mask, maybe it's wrong that he wants to coax the fire ghoul into taking it off for him more often. Show him how rugged and handsome he is beneath like letting him in on a secret.

He scolds himself in private for the way his throat went dry when Alpha brushed too close, hates that he wished Alpha just pushed his way into his space and stayed there. Omega tried to do his work despite feeling on edge every time he was near alpha, tried not to stare at how alphas muscles flex while he plays. All in a day's work.

The thing is, alpha isn’t stupid (despite whatever the fuck earth has claimed). Its easy to notice omega staring when he whips his head away like he’s been smacked whenever alpha turns to meet his gaze. The shaky voice seems obvious when omega doesn’t sound like that around water. He just can’t miss it, can’t ignore how his pupils blow wide and he chews on his lip when he watches alpha play.

It’s disgusting, quite frankly.

Omega walks into the practice room late one evening while alpha is playing. He seems to know his schedule, somehow omega is able to be near him even when alpha tries to go to the practice room at times he thinks he will be alone. It gets on his nerves, if omega wanted to be around him so badly he could stop fucking stalking him and speak like a normal ghoul.

Alpha sets his guitar to the side when he hears the doorknob turn. Taking a deep breath before getting up to b line towards omega who looks surprised alphas even acknowledged his presence.

Omegas slammed against the wall before he can process alpha has his hands on him. Wide eyed and trying to cower as alpha growls.

“What the fuck is your problem man?”

“I’m sorry?” Omega squeaks. He’s easily taller than alpha by a decent bit, but between his hands he feels impossibly tiny.

“You’re always staring at me, won’t even fucking talk to me like some freak. You act like you’re a 12 year old girl with a crush!” Alpha looks somewhat desperate for an answer, eyes darting over omegas face who looks a little too guilty for such an accusation.

And he’s not denying it.

“Oh god! You do!” Alpha scoffed, pulling back like he’s been scalded, “you should be disgusted, that shits not normal, what would papa think if he knew you liked another ghoul?”

There’s a horrific feeling in Omega's gut as alpha berates him. Something swoops in his belly as alpha backs up as if he’s too filthy to even breathe the same air as him. Omegas turned on by this. It does nothing to deter him, it really only makes him hard and flustered.

Alpha glances down much to his own amusement. Even if he thinks omegas disgusting he can find some entertainment in the fact that he’s turned on by this.

"Didn't wanna believe you were some fucking degenerate but look at you...you're hard over this aren't you? hells...somethings wrong with you,"

Alpha moves to almost cup the front of omegas pants. His touch is too harsh to be pleasurable, like anything softer would be enabling the degeneracy, but omega is still filling out anyways in alpha palm.

"Not supposed to get hard over other men, freak."

Omega can’t even muster up a good response for him. He could try to deny it but there’s no denying anything when alphas palm is pressed to his cock.

“Should throw you back into the pits, papa would be so disappointed” alpha sneers. Omega is red all the way to the tips of his ears and to his humiliation he arches into the press of alphas hand for more stimulation, even when he’s being berated like this.

“You’re sick. You’ve been wanting this haven’t you?” Alpha scoffs in disbelief.

Omega bites his lip hard enough to draw blood, he can’t stop himself from nodding in agreement. Alpha laughs and takes half of a step back, retracting his touch. Omega lets out a quiet groan and almost asks him to touch him again, that fuck, he needs alpha to touch him.

“I’m not fucked up like you megs. I don’t need another man to touch me”

There’s a snarl to alphas voice as he continues to talk, his lips drawn up in disgust as omega stands there pathetically hard and trying to cover himself up. He almost feels bad, omega looks properly guilty. Even if he deserves to feel that way.

Alpha makes a decision that can really only be blamed on the heat of the room and the fact that he’s burned through most of the siblings that want him. If omegas going to be a desperate freak, alpha may as well get off if he’s willing.

There’s barely any force in alphas touch as he pushes omega to his knees, he goes down mostly willingly and alpha tries not to look disgusted when omega seems excited that he’s pulling his cock out.

“Mouths a mouth, no different from a girl I guess” alpha mumbles under his breath. Omega reaches to help him guide into his mouth before alpha is smacking his hands away with a hiss “you’re just some hole for me to put my dick in, keep your filthy hands to yourself”

Omegas mouth falls wide open when alpha takes himself out fully and gives himself a few good strokes to harden up. He’s bigger than omega expected, he would’ve wanted him at any size but god he hopes alpha doesn’t hear him whimper when he sees how big he is.

“You’re such a bitch” Alpha scowls, rolls his eyes as omega looks euphoric when he pushes between his lips.

Before omega knows it alpha has his head back against the wall. He’s completely pinned with his hips, nowhere to retreat to as he fucks his mouth and uses him to get off.

It’s a quick sequence of events, alpha pulling out to cum on the floor next to him before cumming down his throat would be some dirty admission to wanting it. Omega looks sad when he watches alpha shoot right onto the tile, even if the sight of alpha blissed out above him is something he will replay for weeks.

Alpha doesn’t say much, just tucks himself back into his pants, helps omega up and gives him a “you ok?” Before leaving without another word when omega gives him a nod.

It’s the start of a bad habit.

As much as alpha doesn’t want to admit it to himself, he halfway enjoyed himself even if his brain was screaming at him not to. He would never admit it, never tell omega that. He’s just some willing participant in alpha needing to get off, no different from a sex doll. Or a whatever easy sibling he can find in the alley ways. Right?

He doesn’t want to say it happens often. Or at least too often for alpha to keep claiming is a coincidence. Always just bullies omega into some tight space away from any prying eyes or ears and forces his mouth open for him to stick his dick into. Hell maybe he even goads him into touching himself if he really is feeling mean.

“You fucking gross enough to get off with just a cock in your mouth? Pathetic.”

Alpha tries not to think about the fact that he can.

He tries not to think about when he cums on his face because he didn’t pull out fast enough and omega sticks his tongue out to catch it, tries not to let the image of omega covered in his cum stick in his brain too much.

And for omega? He provokes it. He wants alpha to bully him, wants his cock in his mouth and god he’s too easy to rile up to pass on the opportunity everytime it rears its ugly head. He shouldn’t revel in being so immoral and dirty, but honestly it’s hard not to.

He rubs against him a bit in the chapel, shoulder to shoulder and much closer than he ever has been because alpha can’t do anything about it. Brushes against he hand as they leave with a look behind him that is devilish even through the uniform mask. Longing touches throughout the day that have alpha growling until he gets annoyed enough to confront him in the empty practice room.

“Fucking pervert” alpha sneers, “you’re lucky I don’t just out you to everyone else, tell them what you’ve really been asking from me after practice”

A pang of humiliation runs through omega as it usually does in these scenarios, feeling almost blasphemous about his feelings but can’t help that alpha does all but discourage it.

“Still need my cock down your throat? So pathetic you’re willing to let me use you just so someone will touch you?”

Omega doesn’t answer. He has no excuse for himself. Even if he did he doesn’t care much considering how hard it makes him when alpha speaks to him like this, and alpha knows it.

Just drops to his knees, he knows the routine. But alpha has a different idea.

“Not this time, stand up facing the wall”

Omega gives him a confused look. This can’t be what he thinks it is, can it? He does what he’s told anyways, stands up and places his arms on the wall, looking back at alpha expectantly.

“Wanted a real pussy tonight I think. Might as well see if yours is even good enough for me to get off”

Omegas brain short circuits as alpha quickly pulls his pants down, leaving him exposed while alpha simply pulls his dick just out of his waistband. An extra hint of embarrassment, and an extra reminder of what omegas really there for.

Alpha is rough, barely gives omega time to react to him putting his hands on his waist before he’s finally pushing in. Omega tries to brace himself but he can’t help the needy moan he lets out when alpha bottoms out inside of him.

“Stay fucking silent, I don’t need the reminder that you might actually cum from this”

He can’t, no matter how hard he tries. Sure he’s been fucked before but it doesn’t happen often. Usually it’s him alone in his room with a cheap toy feeling guilty for thinking about alpha, but actually being split on alphas cock in another story. He bites down so hard on his sleeve he’s sure he’s left holes in it while alpha continues to fuck him relentlessly.

The hand on omegas hips burns as alpha holds him flush to himself. He grips his skin like he has no regard for omegas own comfort and omega hates how much he loves it. It’s rough, he’s sure he will feel it for days and honestly an awful part of him hopes alpha burns right through the top layer of skin so his print sticks forever.

Omega doesn’t take much to get close, already dizzy with alpha shoving his pants down so he can use him. He gets a hand on his cock and gives himself a couple strokes before he’s spilling all over his fist and part of the wall.

Alpha ignores omegas whimpers as he fucks him through his orgasm. He pulls out and cums on the floor next to him, as if it makes the situation any less disgusting for him.

“Faggot” alpha growls, buttoning his pants to leave omega panting.

There’s a part of omega that knows he shouldn’t let that get to him, that he should ignore it and call alpha a dick after he pulls up his own pants but he can’t deny how that makes him feel hot, a burning blush creeping up his chest at the word.

His fingers curl around his cock once he gets back to his room, free hand around his throat as he thinks about that deep raspy voice insulting him, degrading him like he’s worthless. It’s pathetic, he know it and he can’t stop, can��t stop letting alpha do whatever he wants to him despite there being that little voice in his head saying it’s wrong. He needs to stop, but the second alpha looks his way the voice gets drowned out with the need to have his cock in him again.

Omegas hand reaches down to prod at his hole. He wiggles three fingers inside. Moaning at how he’s still loose from alphas cock. His mind keeps repeating how alpha called it a pussy, it shouldn’t have his cock leaking onto his stomach, but he can’t help himself.

There has to come a boiling point. Enough quick fucks and blow jobs in secret corners of where they practice that omega gets sick of it. Alpha can degrade him till his heart's content but at the end of the day he’s still coming back to omega, still using him instead of a sibling to get off even if he claims omega isn’t better than some pussy he could find from a cheap prostitute.

It’s a bad routine. Once a week or so alpha just gets pent up and takes it out on omega. Fucking him or shoving his dick down his throat before he inevitably snarls some half thought out insult and tries to cum anywhere but in him.

Alpha walks back to his room late one night after practice alongside omega who keeps his hands shoved into his pockets but won’t stop taking side glances at him. He wants to wipe that stupid innocent look off of his face, he should be disgusted with himself.

He pulls him into the shadow of the side of one of the taller buildings in the abbey. Somewhere they won’t be seen so he can defile him and make him feel filthy and act like it never happened.

Omegas sick of it, sick of alpha acting like he’s better than him even if he’s still the one to initiate every act. Sick of him acting like he’s too good to touch omega even when he comes back time and time again. The tug on his wrist only makes him angry. It’s cold outside, alpha could’ve done this earlier and honestly it’s about time he showed him even the slightest bit of human decency.

He waits until alpha has him in their usual position. Tucked away with his back pressed against the wall and a small prayer that one will find them this time. Even if it’s cold and dirty outside omega does complain, alpha would just say he didn’t deserve any better for being such a pervert.

“If you want this so bad then you won’t complain”

Omega doesn’t fall to his knees like he usually does. He barely even lets himself be pressed against the harsh brick of the wall behind him.

“Thought you wanted a cock in you fag, you know how this goes” alpha rolls his eyes, attempting to bracket omgea in just to get the extra step up on him.

“Seem to really want me on my knees” omega taunts. He tries not to smile and egg him on but the way alpha nearly chokes has him feeling almost giddy with the small amount of power.

“I could find a better mouth to fuck from any one of the siblings, don’t think I don’t just use you because you’re easy”

“Easy? You’re the one who needs to use me because you can’t get anyone else. Was starting to think you actually like it”

Alpha fumes, shoves omega against the wall so hard he’s honestly surprised he doesn’t actually injure him. He pins him there by his neck, almost hoping to scratch his skin against the rough brick. Wants to leave some kind of mark to remind him of practically being alphas toy. His hand pins omega to the brick by his throat, giving him a low snarl and a flash of his teeth.

“You’re barely good enough to touch, let alone fuck. Should be groveling at my feet to let me fuck you, I’m basically doing you a favor by letting you indulge in your sick fantasies”

The confident facade is hard to keep up as the blood rushes from omegas head down south as he tries not to scramble to be able to breathe. He fucking likes alphas hand around his throat like this, knows he’s hard and can only pray alpha can’t feel it rub against his thigh.

“Don’t know why I’d let such a disgusting fag anywhere meat me, knew you’d get attached like some stray dog” alpha lets go of his throat, hand shooting away from omegas skin like he’s too filthy to touch.

“Fitting you’d think of me as some bitch since you fuck me like one. Might as well just call me yours since you act like I’m just your whore to use.”

Alpha swings. Can’t help himself. His fist connects with omega square in the mouth sending omega back into the wall behind him.

Omega gives him a cruel smile with blood in his teeth wiping away the small dribble that ran down his chin.

“Because you like it. Admit it alpha, you’re no better than me”

Alpha feels cornered as omega walks towards him, he’s not like him, not a weird freak, nothing like the filthy thing that omega is.

“I know you get hard just thinking about me, know you love using my mouth otherwise you wouldn’t come back. Admit how much you love using my pussy” omega corrals him into the corners looking him up and down like he’s stalking him. Alphas red in the face, breathing heavy from anger. He spits as a last ditch attempt to get omega away from him. His words bore deep into his brain, echos through his head about how much he enjoys fucking omega even if he insists he doesn’t.

“Come on, tell me how much you want it. Sure you’re getting hard already aren’t you?”

Alpha doesn’t move, doesn’t tell omega to fuck off, doesn’t say no. Just stares at him with a grimace like he’s willing to take whatever omegas going to give him.

“You could leave at anytime, tells us something doesn’t it?” Omega taunts. Alpha crosses his arms in front of him, eyes lowering at omegas form trying to see what his angle is. The blood shines on omegas teeth in the moonlight, adding a malicious glint to his stature.

“Thought I could give you a taste of your own medicine, if you’re apparent so much better than me you won’t even like it, won’t do anything to you to have my cock in your ass”

“Absolutely not”

“Why? Think you’ll like it just as much as I will?”

Alpha grimaces at omega admitting out loud that he enjoys this, wants him. Sometimes twists in his stomach that he truly can’t make out as dread or arousal. The idea of getting off has him still glued in his place, even if omega was a degenerate, alpha still got something out this whole ordeal that he was willing to put up with in order to get his dick wet.

“Fucking- just do it already” alpha finally relents. He looks away from omega and presses himself to the wall, staring at the gravel beneath him. He takes a deep breath, waiting for omegas hands to be on him.

“Oh absolutely not, you gotta tell me you want it” omega growls low in his ear. Alpha can smell the blood on his breath, can picture the way his mouth looks covered in crimson right by his neck.

“I want it” alpha grits. “Just do it already before I change my mind”

Omega smiles and places a hand in his hip, giving him another second to decide to run or not. Alpha stays in place, and if omega didn’t know him like he did he could’ve swore he was leaning into the touch.

He partially wants to go fast, wants to treat alpha like he treated him, but a horrible part of omega wants to savor it, go slow and make him actually enjoy it.

The wall is rough and tears at alphas callused hands as he tries to almost grip it for leverage. Omega tugs at his waistband, shoving his pants down in the back of the alleyway, only adding to the shame and embarrassment he knows he’s feeling. He reaches around to the front to of him to finally grab at his cock that is rapidly fattening in his hand.

“Already enjoying this? Thought it would take more than that” omega chuckles.

A hand slowly runs over his thigh, feeling him up like he has all the time in the world. One hand stroking him lazily just to really get alpha hard, the other groping at his ass. Alpha lets out a breathy curse when omega runs his thumb over the head of his cock, milking a drop of precum from the tip.

“Can you do something already?” Alpha mutters. One arm is thrown over his eyes as he leans on it against the wall, hips pushing back into omega as he continues to stroke his thigh.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you, promise I’ll make you feel good”

Alpha tries not to let omegas soft tone go to his head. The soft and slow nature of his touching and breathy small praises has his head spinning. It’s as slow as possible, much to the detriment of alpha who hoped he would go too fast for him to enjoy himself.

Omega spreads him open, thumbing at his hole before spitting into his hand as a mock form of lube. Alpha looks behind him and almost collapses further into the wall when he sees the saliva and blood from his mouth mixing on his fingers.