#to go for the throat lmao.

[essektheylyss]

Losing it over the fact that Caduceus was ready to Bane and Zone of Truth Braius if he didn't seem like he was going to be forthright. He seems from an external perspective like he's being kinder than, say, Fjord and Beau, but he is just as prepared to be mean in pursuit of growth. Do not ever forget that Caduceus, for all he makes an effort to come across as kind and helpful, is every bit a member of the Mighty Nein. And the Mighty Nein are so ruthless and such bastards and I love them for it.

[acetier]

"Be a good mongrel and stay. Down."

[s0fter-sin]

vampire au where they can only drink the blood type they were before they were turned. other blood has an almost poisonous effect, burning them from within like acid and drinking too much of it can kill them

in the old days, before the knowledge of blood types, it made humans they could feed on absolutely precious. they're kept safe, pampered and doted on; a vampire’s most prized possession

attacking another vampire's human is seen as the highest insult; not only is it a slight against them, it also carries the implication of "i want you to starve"

it's also used as the cruelest of punishments; starving a vampire for months, until they're feral with hunger just for their torturer to throw in a random human, watching them desperately suck down poison, their instincts begging them to keep drinking even as it kills them

ghost is one of the few who survived it; thrown in a pit so deep, he saw stars in the middle of the day, left with nothing but the dried bodies of the humans roba drained without care, others with their throats slit, blood he can't drink spilled out around them

a taunt of the one thing he needs but will never get

but ghost hasn't survived this long just to give up here

he refuses to die in this stinking, rotted pit

ghost is a force of nature as he descends over roba's manor; killing any who wander into his path until the halls run red. until he gets his hands on roba and tells him a secret:

vampires can feed on the blood of any vampire, regardless of blood type

it becomes a legend in vampire high society; if you starve another, you'd best make sure they actually die

otherwise you might end up piled in a dining room, the vampire you left for dead lounging on a throne of corpses with his fangs lodged in your throat

ghost decimates roba's empire, burning it to the ground until no one dares to speak his name in fear of incurring his wrath. it's incredibly taboo for a vampire to feed off another but ghost's too powerful for anyone to challenge him and the other vampires are too scared to try. scared of what he's willing to do, the lengths he'll go to; not that they'll ever admit it

soap is the first human he ever brings to court; delicately bathed in the finest silks and jewels, his throat always bare so he can show off ghost's ownership, his bite framed in lace

he's not like the delicate waifs the other vampires show off; he doesn't cling to his master, demure and submissive. he shows off his teeth as often as any vampire, fully willing to rip out the throats of any who insult him or ghost

a feral master needs a just as feral pet

[soulsty]

I made a few Cinnabort redraws of Lime’s song “Who Knows” cus the music video reminds me a lot of them <3 yay <3

[aroaceleovaldez]

doodle thinkin about chthonic demigods going off the shits <3 they should get to be spookier. happy halloween. inspired by me making a jasicobaster playlist lmao

[petpetpinixy]

hi

[baicaozhe]

BODY // GRAVE

[youareunbearable]

Its late and im tired so please excuse if this doesn't make sense but lately, I've been thinking about Angry Aredhel must have been

Like realistically, when has this woman made a single decision about her future for herself, and in the few times when she did, when did it not end in tragedy

She must have been so angry, so frustrated and wrathful at her lot in life. She was meant for other things, greater thing! She was a disciple of Orome, the Maiden in White, one of the best hunters in his group along with her cousin.

Yet here she is, caged and trapped like a pretty little canary in a wire house. Stolen from her purpose because of her eldest brother's blind loyalty, her father's stubborn pride, her second oldest brother's blinding grief, and her baby brother's terminal bravery. She's across an ocean, escaped one cage for another by her tormentor and abuser posing as a husband.

The bastard won't even name their child.

She must have be so angry, stuck in that endless darkness, the forest must be such a familiar landscape but so different, twisted and wrong like looking into a warped mirror.

Shes grieving outside her "home" one night, having managed to convince the trees to part their branches just enough that she can glimpse a star or two so she can bask in the starlight. Its been a year since the birth of her son, and nothing has changed. Eol won't look at the boy, and she can feel herself drifting. Without the ability to see the passage of time, without the Light of the Trees or with the Sun and Moon chasing each other across the sky, things are blending together and she feels adrift.

At least when they crossed they ice, they were able to watch the stars move across the endless dark.

The starlight warms her skin, as weak and distant as it is, so she basks. With her eyes closed and face tilted up she feels like a lizard in the mid day sun. Behind her, she hears a noise, a twig being deliberately stepped upon. Aredhel whips around, raising her glowing lichen lamp, wondering if its her husband or one of his servants come to take her back. She feels a little feral at the idea of being dragged away from the pitiful starlight.

A wolf, with a pelt as crisp and clean as the snow dusting Himring's mountain top, slinks into the soft glow. Its fur takes on an almost sickly colour in the green luminescence. The wolf settles at the edge of the light, resting on its haunches as it observes her.

Aredhel thinks she's beautiful, for it is a female wolf. Even in the weak lamplight the beast's silver eyes seem to glow on their own, piercing her very fea and enticing her to come forward, to come closer. There is a power within the she wolf, one Aredhel craves.

The white beast introduces herself as a member of Orome's hunt, and Aredhel believes it, for the she wolf looks like the perfect hunter. The wolf asks her what she, as a fellow hunter, is doing out so far away from her kin and cub.

Momentarily surprised by the ability to speak, for not even Huan can speak so freely, Aredhel responses. She shares her desire for light, her frustration with her "husband," and how she wants a different life for her son. She never wanted this, and she wishes she had the ability to take control of her own fate.

The wolf is sympathetic to her plights, and offers to help her free herself and her child.

"You do have the ability to change your own fate, young one. Asking for help is something no one else could have done for you."

So Aredhel leads the wolf back to Eol's house. They walk through the entry way, both hunters are silent as the dawn as they go. Aredhel heads towards the master bedroom, but hesitates at the door. She can see Eol on his side of their bed, snoring lightly as he does. She hesitates, seeing a vision of what will happen once he realizes she's gone. Fire, doom and death follows her, poison and a flash of fang would flicker in him before he strikes her down for disobedience, for stealing away the son he won't even name.

The wolf nudges her aside, ghosting past her into the room. Aredhel's throat closes up and she slinks away, heading towards Lomion's nursery. She leaves to go strap her sleeping infant son to her chest, then grabs some supplies from the kitchen in a bag. Not even hearing a mouse skittering in the walls, let alone her wolf companion, she steels her nerves to check the master bedroom one more time.

As she passes her bedroom, she can see through a crack in the door and her breath freezes. Standing over the now corpse of her husband, maw dripping red from the freshly torn out throat, the white wolf looms. Aredhel stares transfixed, she can almost taste the blood between her own teeth, feel the rush of the kill, ache of her gums as tendons and tissue would rub against them. The wolf turns to look at her, silver eyes wild, white fur stained with her kill. Aredhel feels the air return to her lungs, she feels lighter and free, a little giggle slips past her lips and the wolf peels back its lips and bares its dripping fangs in a smile.

Aredhel leaves the house, fleeing on foot and all the while she can hear the wolf following her, keeping pace and shadowing her in the darkness, and at some points, ahead of her, leading her out of the woods. Running like this, oh she hasn't done this in years!. The wind snapping at her hair, branches and leaves kissing her cheeks and arms, the rush of a completed hunt with another one ahead of her feels like her first real breath in a long time. It feels like days later, and seconds, heartbeats, when she can see the treeline, dawn's hazy reddish glow peaking through the trees.

Aredhel gives a joyful cry and runs faster. That laughter bubbling up inside of her finally bursts past her lips once she breaks the treeline. The sun on her skin is warm and bright and all she wants to do is laugh and cry and scream until her throat is raw and her tears run dry. But she has to keep moving, she has Lomion still with her, and she is too close to the woods to feel truly safe yet. She walks north, and east, not really knowing where she's heading but knowing that she'll cross into her cousins' land soon. As she walks, she soon realizes that she hasn't seen or heard from her she wolf in a while. Stopping, Aredhel turns to look back, but no where can she see that brilliant white coat, or any tracks that look like wolf paws. She squint, looking back at the distant treeline and sees nothing but shadow. She mourns for her companion, wishing she could have wished her well or at least thanked her for her help. She wonders if Orome set the wolf to free her, not wanting to see one of his hunters in chains.

Its about mid morning when she comes across some of her cousins men, and they're horrified. They ask if she's ok, of she's hurt, they take her to a nearby stream even though she insists she's fine, that she wants to see her cousins.

When she sees her reflection she's scared for a moment. All she can see it blood, dried and crusted down her throat, staining her lips and chin. There is red all along the collar of her white dress, her sleeves, but her hands are clean, and so is her son still asleep strapped across her chest. She looks into her reflection, not yet comprehending. Silver eyes that seem so familiar stare back above the red, above the proof of her freedom.

She bares her bloody teeth in smile.

[tetedurfarm]

tumby :)

[yourfriendlybi]

Here's an idea that I REALLY enjoy and like to share

Ink teaching Dream that negative emotions are still normal/natural to have and that Dream doesn't have to be this overly positive person all the damn time

Because ya'll gotta remember, Ink still takes their negative emotions/vials and that would probably end up Ink explaining that negative emotions are still needed like the positive ones

[canon-notcanon-warriorcats]

I'm more of a TawnyLeaf person. Leafstar and Tawnypelt old people bisexualing it out...

actually no, yeah, you are SO right, tawnypelt x leafstar would slap so hard

and honestly with squirrelstar's adventure with leafstar in squirrelflight's hope, maybe she can join them, the three of them being a throuple bisexualing it out in their old age

tawnypelt and leafstar lost their ginger husbands and now have their ginger wife and each other and squirrelstar finally leaves her garbage brown tabby husband for her brown tabby (and cream) wife and her garbage husband's much better sister

tawnypelt should have ALSO BEEN LEADER NOW, BY THE WAY, IF THE WRITERS HADN'T BEEN FUCKING COWARDS AND IF THEY DIDN'T HATE WOMEN

they should all be bisexual grandmas, leaders of their respectful clans, and in love with each other

[gunsatthaphan]

~ Monthly BL Breakdown: April 2024 ~ 

🌷 Happy May!!! ☀️

Disclaimer: ALL shows can be streamed here or here, as well as on Youtube and other platforms. For more info on where to watch what, check out this post! 

New breakdowns are coming at the end of every month - feel free to add stuff! -> previous breakdowns

What came out this month? (green = seen/currently watching)

🌟 Love is Like a Cat - April 1st (South Korea / Thailand) 

🌟 We Are - April 3rd (Thailand) ✅

🌟 Memory in the Letter - April 6th (Thailand) 

🌟 Living With Him - April 11th (Japan) 

🌟 Gray Shelter - April 11th (South Korea) 

🌟 Beating Again - April 13th (Thailand)

🌟 Blue Boys - April 15th (South Korea)

🌟 At 25:00 in Alasaka - April 18th (Japan)

🌟 GMMTV2024 Part 2 (lineup event) - April 23rd (Thailand) ✅

🌟 Boys Be Brave - April 25th (South Korea) 

🌟 CHANGE2561 2024 lineup event - April 25th (Thailand) ✅

🌟 My Stand-In - April 26th (Thailand) ✅

🌟 City Boy Log Vol. 3 - April 30th (South Korea)

New series & movie announcements

🎥 The Fridge - Date TBA (Thailand)

🎥 Flavor of Us (starring Benjamin B., Dome W. & others) - Date TBA (Thailand)

🎥 Children's Day - Date TBA (Taiwan)

🎥 Blue Time - Date TBA (China, possibly censored)

🎥 Bad Guy My Boss - Date TBA (Thailand)

🎥 Oriental Magician In The Ent. Circle - Date TBA (Taiwan)

🎥 Under the Oak Tree - Date TBA (Vietnam)

🎥 Invitation - Date TBA (Thailand)

🎥 The Love Matter - Date TBA (Thailand)

🎥 I Saw You in My Dream - Date TBA (Thailand)

🎥 I Wish You the Best - Date TBA (Thailand)

🎥 Impression of Youth - Date TBA (Taiwan)

🎥 Meet You at the Blossom - Date TBA (Taiwan)

Other news from the BL world

❗️ The production company Studio WabiSabi announced that their actors Boun N., Prem W., Santa P., Sammy C., Yacht P. and Stamp P. have terminated their contracts and will no longer be artists under the company on April 15th. Shortly after, GMMTV announced the 6 of them as newly signed artists, along with the disclosure that BounPrem's upcoming BL Vampire Project is now being produced under GMMTV, who now also own all broadcasting rights; WabiSabi will function as a co-producer. New S. stated on Twitter that the decisions had been long in the making, as well as the fact that WabiSabi no longer functions as a management agency for actors and is now a mere production company. He also denied the rumors that the company is shutting down. Shortly after the transfer of the Wabi Sabi actors, actor Fluke Jeeratch (formerly Pongsakorn) joined GMMTV as well.

❗️ The Filipino BL Gameboys is getting a third season. An air date has not been confirmed.

❗️ P Ekkapop and Pan Jirachot, the lead actors from Kiseki Chapter 2, have announced a new project together. Details are unknown.

❗️ Actor Barcode Tinnasit has announced his departure from his agency Be On Cloud.

❗️ After some confusion, the Korean production company Studio X+U announced that their upcoming series Fragile - which was initially advertized as a Korean SKAM remake - is in fact not connected to the Norwegian web series and is instead a standalone series, which focuses on the life of a group of teenagers. According to ZUM News, there was supposed to be a Korean SKAM remake based on the Norwegian original, which was however cancelled due to unknown reasons. Fragile was created as a substitution.

❗️ GMMTV held their 2024 part 2 event on April 23rd. The following BL projects were announced:

The Heart Killers (starring FirstKhao & JoongDunk)

Perfect10 Liners (starring ForceBook, PerthChimon, JuniorMark)

Heart That Skips a Beat (starring EstWilliam)

Revamp (starring BounPrem, formerly known as Vampire Project)

Sweet Tooth, Good Dentist (starring MarkOhm)

The Ex-Morning (starring KristSingto)

❗️ The production company CHANGE2561 held their 2024 lineup event on April 25th. The following BL projects were announced:

This Love Doesn't Have Long Beans (starring SailubPon)

Goddess Bless You From Death (starring PavelPooh)

I’m The Most Beautiful Count (starring PingSupanut)

Pit Babe Season 2

Upcoming series & movies for May

👉🏻 You Made My Day (starring Tar A. and Bom T. from I Will Knock You) - May 3rd (Thailand)

👉🏻 Inverse Identity / Upside Down - Mary 3rd (China)

👉🏻 Wandee Goodday - May 4th (Thailand)

👉🏻 A Balloon's Landing - May 10th (Taiwan)

👉🏻 City of Stars: Special Episode - May 10th (Thailand, cinema release)

👉🏻 The Time of Fever (Unintentional Love Story spinoff) - May 15th (South Korea)

👉🏻 Blossom Campus - May 16th (South Korea)

👉🏻 OMG! Vampire - May 19th (Thailand)

👉🏻 Manji Reverse - May 24th (Japan)

👉🏻 My Biker 2 - May 28th (Thailand)

[moonchild-in-blue]

Random thought I had last night. Genuinely think they're both equally outlandish - which is just ridiculous in itself if you think about it.

[queerofthedagger]

in my cold arms

[Fingon/Maedhros | T+ | 2.5k | AO3]

Tags: Canon Era, Post-Rescue from Thangorodrim, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Hair-Cutting as a Metaphor for frankly too many things, Light Angst

(Very belatedly) written for @feanorianweek day 1: Maedhros

Maedhros has been quiet since Fingon brought him back.

It should come as no surprise, of course, and in many ways, it is not. He sleeps a lot. He sits and watches as his brothers try not to choke or tear each other apart, caught between their relief and their guilt. He eats and drinks, slow and methodical.

It should come as no surprise, but Fingon catches himself thinking that it is. That it sits wrongly on the bruised, beautiful face—the blankness, the fissure cracks of desolation, the absence of fire.

Even sleeping as he is now, Fingon sitting beside his bed in silent vigil, he looks drawn. Fragile. As if he is only half there.

In all the years they have known each other, Maedhros has always burnt so bright that some days, Fingon could almost feel the heat of it, could sense the threat of what would happen to him if he dared come too close.

And Fingon had known that it would not be the same; had known it when he stood on the shores of the Helkaraxë, and when he learnt, later, that Maedhros had been taken. Knew it when he made the decision to find him, when he sang, when his arrow shivered on its string. More than anything, he had known it when he lifted his blade and saw the anguished resignation in Maedhros’ eyes.

He had known that it would not be the same, but Maedhros still looks at the world around him with that same anguished resignation, still looks, sometimes when he thinks Fingon isn’t watching, as if he can’t decide whether he has been rescued or condemned.

It looks wrong on him. No matter what Fingon had expected, it makes his skin crawl to see him like this. Makes him want to pick up his bow and his sword and march right back into Angband, enact his seething, bristling vengeance, claw the fire right out from beneath the accursed mountain until he can sink it back into Maedhros skin, let it warm him, make him whole.

Or perhaps that is overly arrogant. Perhaps Fingon just wishes that he could do something, something other than enduring the thick, lingering tension between them whenever Maedhros wakes. Something other than staring at the severed limb, wrought by Fingon’s own hand, whenever Maedhros sleeps.

He knows that it had been the only way. And yet.

“Stop.”

The voice makes him jolt, gaze snapping up to Maedhros face. He hadn’t noticed him waking, and there is said awkwardness, the unreadable glint in Maedhros eyes, the way that the air in the tent turns heavy with years of unspoken words.

Fingon wishes it were only Morgoth’s crimes lying between them.

“Stop what?” he asks, keeping his tone light. He does not think of how long it has been—weeks since they arrived in the camp. Years, decades since the light of Telperion washed Maedhros in glittering silver, his eyes like gems in the twilight. Since things were easy, shimmering promises hovering between them, a careful dance around a future just waiting for them to grasp it.

A lifetime, it feels, since then. Now Maedhros looks washed out and Fingon’s hands are shaking, and neither any longer knows how to talk to the other.

“Self-flagellating yourself over whatever supposed failure you are ruminating on this time,” Maedhros says, a ghost of a smile touching his mouth. It vanishes as soon as it appeared. “What troubles you, Findekáno? We live yet. We breathe. Is that not all that counts?”

There is no accusation in Maedhros' mild tone, no bitterness. It is in the deliberate absence of it that Fingon sees it regardless, the space carefully measured and side-stepped.

He wants to weep, to shout. He curls his hands into fists until his nails bite into skin.

“Is it? Do you think so?”

He should not ask, should not pose the question like this. It has been decades, but he knows Maedhros, knows the flare of his temper and the meaning of how his eyes flash in response.

It is only a flicker, now, but it is more fire than Fingon has seen in weeks, and so he cannot help but revere it, to feel an answering spark inside his chest. To want to feed the flames no matter the cost.

He restrains himself. He is not here to poke and prod at Maedhros, to merely satisfy whatever his treacherous heart still, always still, wishes for.

Maedhros lifts a brow, and despite the scars twisting across his face, despite the tangled, matted mess of his hair and the ink-deep shadows beneath his eyes, he still succeeds in making it look imperious.

“I do not wish for death, Fingon; you may all be keeping a close watch on me, but I think I am yet capable of at least closing my eyes and meeting my end if I so pleased.”

It is not that easy, Fingon wants to say, but what use is it to argue. Maedhros is sharp-edged, a glinting blade yearning for blood, and Fingon has rarely ever seen him like this, but he knows him.

So he asks, “Do you want me to leave?” and pretends that his heart is not the pulpy, open mess of a wound within his chest.

Maedhros exhales sharply and slumps back into his pillows. His arm twitches as if he wants to reach for Fingon, and then remembers that he no longer has a hand to do so.

“No,” he finally says, after a pause that feels like years on grinding ice. “No, I would rather…”

He does not finish, and Fingon does not reach for him at the words he hears despite the silence.

Stay. I would rather you stay. I want to stay.

He settles back in his chair and lets his heart settle alongside it. Says, “Whatever you need, Russo,” and pretends that it is not an oath in its own right.

---

Fingon keeps staying, day after day in the dim tent. His father stays his tongue but his eyes speak volumes, and not all of their kin are as sparse with the proclamation of their judgement.

Fingon ignores it. With that, at least, he has long years of practice. And while progress seems slow, while Maedhros’ brothers watch him without bothering for subtlety, while some nights, Fingon still lies awake and feels blood on his hands, hears Maedhros’ screams, hears him beg, well—he at least no longer wonders whether he made the right choice.

Maedhros is alive, and he is clawing his way back to something akin to living too, arduous inch by arduous inch. When it comes right down to it, that is all Fingon wants.

Today, the late September day is brisk, even in the royal tent. He has a complicated relationship with the cold these days, but he doubts that it would be taken in anything but a pointed manner if he asked for furs.

So he sits, and lets his eyes linger on the bandages around Maedhros' arm, the unkempt hair, the battered mess of him.

He has not let anyone tend to said hair yet, none of his brothers and certainly not the healers, no matter how sharp Celegorm’s remarks or Maglor’s quiet offers. How obvious his discomfort.

“You are cold,” Maedhros says, once again catching Fingon off guard. At whatever Fingon’s face is doing, he huffs, waiting until Fingon meets his eyes. “You know me, Finyo; you forget that I know you, too.”

Fingon swallows his heart as it tries to leap up his throat. Smiles. Curls his hands into fists once more, and then uncurls them again, finger after finger, when Maedhros nods towards one of his blankets.

As Fingon takes it, warmth already suffusing his chest that has nothing to do with the actual fur, Maedhros pushes himself up. He is still unsteady, his recovery happening in staggering steps that are not helped by how some days, he pushes himself too much, and others refuses to rise at all.

Today, between the blankets and the tiredness and Fingon in the midst of it, he tangles himself up, leans on his own hair, and curses in a manner so foul that Nerdanel would have washed out his mouth for it.

Fingon reaches for him instinctively, and Maedhros doesn’t flinch away when he helps him to sit. It’s progress, and Fingon gladly takes it as such; he has long since stopped mourning for things he will not get back.

There is a pause once they have sorted themselves out, Fingon back in his chair and Maedhros perched on the edge of the bed. The braziers are rustling in the middle of the tent, and outside, the muted din of voices and people moving spools on without them.

Maedhros looks at him, a determined set to his jaw that Fingon, even after everything, is intimately familiar with.

And yet, when Maedhros says, “I want to cut it off,” Fingon stares at him for a heartbeat, two, too long before the words properly register.

“You what?”

Maedhros tilts his chin up. His eyes flash. Fingon wants to weep.

“The hair; I need it off, Fingon. It’s beyond salvation, and it’s—I need it off.”

Fingon swallows, and forces himself to nod. Deep down, he understands, he thinks; or at least he can try to.

And who is he to judge? Unlike other things, the hair will grow back if Maedhros wants it to.

He makes to rise. “Of course; do you want to do it now? I’m sure I can find you a knife or—“

Maedhros fingers close around his wrist, his touch warm. It is loose enough that Fingon could pull away if he wanted to, but he doesn’t; there is little that he wants to do less than to pull away from Maedhros. Never has.

“I want you to do it.”

It lands like a punch, like the ice of Helcaraxë down his back.

“Nelyo,” he chokes, the name tripping off his tongue even though he has not used it in many, many years.

“Well, I can hardly do it myself, can I?” Maedhros says, but he is smiling, his grey eyes almost dancing with mirth.

Fingon loves him so much that it burns.

“Of course,” he says. “Do you—now?”

Maedhros nods, and gestures for Fingon to move off the chair so that he can take his place. “Do you have a knife? There is one beneath my pillow, otherwise.”

Of course there is. Fingon takes his own from its sheath and moves behind him, and then he stares down at the fiery, beloved head.

He takes a strand of hair between his fingertips, careful; it feels rough, the knots and tangles and grime within it unmistakable; he wonders at it, the strong disdain that Maedhros has for it.

“How short do you want it?” he asks, and his voice comes out hushed. They haven’t been this close since before Valinor went dark, and Fingon—

Well, Fingon had thought that he had got a little bit better about the snarled riot of love inside his chest. He had thought that months upon ice and assumed betrayal would have at least allowed him to cut off some corners of his heart and harden it.

He is a fool, of course. He had known it when he learnt that Maedhros stood aside in Losgar, and there had been no doubt when he had walked into Angband with bow and harp alone.

It is only here though, Maedhros’ head bowed with trust before him as he asks this of Fingon—of Fingon to wield a blade upon him once more, of Fingon to take this burden, of Fingon to do this deed—that it hits him, harsh and unrelenting, how there is never going to be anything but this.

“As short as needed,” Maedhros says, and he shifts, almost, almost, almost leaning into Fingon’s touch.

He doesn’t. He wouldn’t. And either way, it is not about that, and so Fingon takes the knife and ignores the way it flashes in the firelight, the memories that want to lay themselves across the scene.

Strands of hair fall red like blood upon black stone, and Fingon’s hands don’t shake the same way that Maedhros isn’t trembling. Which is to say that neither of them does, but it is a careful, arduous exercise of restraint and bitten tongues.

Fingon tries not to touch more than he needs to, but his fingers keep finding skin. Keep finding the even way of Maedhros’ skull beneath the shortening hair, and he tries to be gentle about it; after everything, he wants to be gentle. Wants, more than anything, for his hands to bring relief, not pain.

He cannot tell if this deed will do so, but Maedhros had asked, and so Fingon will answer.

Strand after strand, the infamous hair falls. It is ceremonial, almost, as if alongside it the tension gets cut away, too, a weight lifting that has been making a home between them.

The end result, regardless, is uneven and chopped, and Fingon cannot help but run his fingertips through the remains of it, trying to memorise the feel of Maedhros, calm and complacent beneath his hands.

He stops once Maedhros tips his head back, blinking up at him.

“It suits you,” Fingon says, before he can stop himself.

Maedhros smiles, relaxes a bit further. It makes him lean back against Fingon, his shorn head right to the centre of Fingon’s chest.

“Thank you, Finyo, truly,” he says, and Fingon should move away, give him space. The blade is still heavy in his hand, and Maedhros’ bandages seem stark in the dim light.

Maedhros catches his wrist before he can tear himself away, keeping him in place, easy. There is a crease between his brows, uncertainty lingering in the lines around his mouth.

“Stay?” he asks, voice low; his fingertips press against Fingon’s pulse.

His head swims. Maedhros tugs at his hand until it rests over his chest, the beating, fiery heart of him. He asks again, “Stay with me?” and Fingon finally, finally, finally relearns how to breathe.

He leans forward, presses his lips to the shorn, vulnerable head of his. Hides his smile there and drops his knife, counting the beats of their hearts—one, two, steady.

“Always,” he says, and for once it is an oath that he thinks neither of them will come to regret.

[s0fter-sin]

metalhead ghost who’s been in moshpits since he was a kid and is now a veteran of the scene and the self appointed look out. he keeps an eye out for anyone falling or passing out, kicks the shit out of anyone crowd killing or putting their hands where they shouldn’t

and he’s been keeping an eye on the punk in the kilt since he saw him throw himself headfirst into the wall of death

he looks like the type to start shit - loud and aggressive as anyone else here but a punk doesn't end up at a metal show for no reason - but there's also something niggling at him that he's gonna end up getting himself hurt. and ghost can’t tell if he’s going to do it on purpose

if he does, ghost needs to know. he uses these places as an escape - the music, the violence, the community - always has and he knows all to well how easily an escape can curdle and become destructive. he’s seen too many people lost to the darker parts of the scene, almost lost himself to it; he doesn’t want it to happen to anyone else if he can help it

so when he sees the punk sweating his mohawk off, his movements becoming looser and uncoordinated, he has no issues with yanking him out of the pit and pulling him away from the crowd; pushing him up against the venue wall and ordering him to open his mouth

the glaze that falls over his eyes concerns him even as he obediently lets his mouth fall open. he was right; the punk’s severely dehydrated, tongue and gums far to pale and along with the look in his eyes, he half-thinks he’s about to drop

he reflexively tightens his hold on his jaw to keep him up and the punk shivers, a flush creeping up his neck. an almost confused arousal joins the haze in his eyes and ghost smirks beneath his mask

looks like metal shows aren’t the only thing the punk is new to

[orgasming-caterpillar]

The thing no one tells you about sexual assault is how easy it is for someone who's been SAed to be SAed again and how high the chances are of it being from the same person