ruiniel

[ruiniel]

Title: Scarlet Heavens

Fandom: Castlevania series (2017-2021)

Rating: Explicit 🔞

Relationship: Alucard/Trevor Belmont

Characters: Alucard, Trevor Belmont

Tags & Warnings: Emotional Sex, Oral Sex, Confessions, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bathroom Sex, Romantic Angst, No Really The Angst is Through the Roof, So is the Smut, Explicit Language, Arguing, POV Trevor Belmont, Trevorcard

Also on AO3

Summary:

An outing gone wrong, angst, feels (so many feels) and pwp (so much pwp). Another #trevorcard fic. AU. Heed the tags.

 They can’t shut up about these two your honor

~~

Trevor curses again as they trudge through the entrance hall of the castle, the hunter a few steps behind, staring at the rigid set of Alucard’s shoulders. They’d not spoken a word to each other the entire way back, Trevor busy stewing in his own regret, but not enough to not notice the haggard look on Alucard’s face and the repeated gnashing of his teeth.

This was—... not good. 

They expected stray monsters and creatures and every other fucking thing to make an appearance and remind them why the world is shit, considered the need to be vigilant of their surroundings. Dracula no longer rules the Night, but they never expected an entire pack of Wolfmen to have made their freaking nest in the woods East of the Belmont estate. 

And, to make it all better, Alucard did not have his sword on him, and Trevor only had his throwing knives for defense — which he used with utmost efficiency, thank you very much. Even so, it had been Alucard taking the brunt of the attacks and the slashes and the bites, easing Trevor’s fast attempts at killing blows and there were so fucking many of the damn things. 

They’re still standing, though, which is a genuine miracle if Trevor Belmont’s ever known one. Their steps are way too loud to his ears, the silence fallen between them sepulchral and cold.

The verdict: they’d been careless today and therefore supremely stupid, gawking and mooning and throwing sweet-edged barbs at each other as they sought a pond to fish, one Trevor remembered from his childhood wanderings through the area close to his family grounds. 

Sypha would kill them herself, if she knew, and they’d deserve it; good thing then, she’s still away on the yearly assembly of Speaker trains convening from across the land. Trevor can’t help but feel that if she’d been with them, all would not have gone so awry today. At least this way, she was spared of the worrying, the fear and the wrath when learning of it or when seeing Alucard’s still-healing injuries. Trevor stares daggers into his back, his own relief fueling a desperation borne of a fear foreign to him for many years until he’s fallen over for these people: the what-if. What if something had happened to Alucard? Yes, he’s immortal and yes, he’s strong enough to take on countless enemies at a time, but everyone and everything with breath and lungs and a heart has a breaking point; it’s just the variables that differ. The question is on repeat in his head along with the image of them back to back, surrounded by talons and poisoned jaws and glowing eyes. 

The night is still, a voiceless watcher over the immense slumbering structure as they walk ahead, ascending a flight of stairs, and another, and another.

Alucard’s icy silence is pounding on Trevor’s nerves with the force of a battle axe crushing skulls but he’s too tired, too worn to start a fight that would lead them nowhere and solve nothing. He’s content to hound Alucard’s steps for the time being, following him into the chamber they share and bolting the door. 

Alucard doesn’t look at him but sheds all his layers of clothing with fast, jerked movements, then pads over into the adjoined bathroom. 

Trevor looks himself over. His tunic is torn, stained with blood — none of it his own, thankfully — his boots are splattered with slime and when he turns his head to gaze into a mirror set on the far wall, he sees his face and hair are in the same state. Not to mention the stench. Yeah, he can’t crawl into bed like this. A bath sounds like a good idea about now, and after a few beats of hesitation, he follows Alucard.

It’s an odd chamber as far as Trevor’s concerned, circular, with tall windows offering a generous view of the land during daytime, but now, the night is black and pressing beyond them. There are no artificial light fixtures here, as in other parts of the castle, but the thick candles trapped in the wall sconces have been lit, and their amber-gold flare diffuses through the chamber. 

A large, round drop-in bath is built into the floor, set in the middle of the room, made of marble streaked with reds and yellows that wind across its smooth surface like shattered veins. Alucard’s already inside and water spurts from two faucets, gurgling up to his waist. He’s staring ahead, into nothingness, which always makes Trevor uneasy as it reminds him of times past when his grief had gotten the best of him and Trevor with Sypha struggled to reach him. The hunter undresses, wincing at the stiffness in his own body after their unforeseen session of monster picnic-killing. When he’s peeled off the last of his underthings, he steps inside the bath.

The water flows between hot and scalding the way Alucard tends to run it, but it’s bearable. Trevor reaches for the soap and they each wash themselves, sullen and quiet, candlelight playing off their bodies. Trevor rubs vigorously at his skin then submerges briefly to wash his hair, as busying himself with this means he doesn’t have to focus on the silence wedged between them. When done, Alucard pulls on a stopper and Trevor stares as the filth drains away, then the faucets are turned on again. They each rest with their back against the edge opposite each other, watching as hot, clean water refills the tub.

Alucard exhales a deep sigh, head falling back, eyes shut. His hair is plastered to his temples, neck, and shoulders and Trevor stares, because what the fuck else can he do, and not even this crammed quietus can erase the surge of everything rushing through him at the sight. 

The deeper wounds from hours ago have healed, not a mark left on his pale skin. Trevor stares until the water swishes around their shoulders, and Alucard sits there like an unfortunate god turned to stone by treacherous spells. He’s so still that to Trevor it looks, for all intents and purposes, as if he’s dead. 

He shivers despite the steaming water. A heaviness settles in his gut, and with it comes clarity, the kind you get after nearly losing someone you hold dear to something vile and out of your control. The powerlessness of it. He just wants… he doesn’t know what he wants, exactly, only to hear Alucard, to look into his eyes and listen to his breathing, to feel his presence or just any form of acknowledgement that cements the fact that he’s here, they’re both alive and unscathed. Fine, it seems he’ll have to be that guy. “That’s it, then?” Trevor asks, keeping his voice level, though he can’t swallow its bite. “You’ll sit there like the pompous prick that you are and not talk to me for… what? The rest of the evening? Week? Until Sypha returns? Ever?”

It’s like Alucard hasn’t heard a damn word; he doesn’t even move, no muscle so much as twitches on his face and Trevor would throttle him for it, if he weren’t so damn desperate to get him back, whatever that means. His own mood is all over the place, like a conspiracy of ravens with iron beaks joyfully rip at his ribcage and gorge on the seep of his selfish, idiotic feelings. 

As the silence continues to bear down with stark fists, Trevor considers leaving — maybe Alucard just needs some space now and that’s his right, of course, of course. The hunter runs a hand through his hair, making to rise from the bath.

“What would I have done if I’d lost you today?”

Trevor pauses mid-rise. It’s sudden enough as far as questions go, doesn’t appear to be rhetorical; it stumps him. “Er.”

Alucard opens his eyes, staring at the ceiling. “If I had to look down upon your lifeless body? If I had to carry you back and bury you and tell Sypha you were eviscerated by stray monsters the three of us could raze to the ground together in moments? When I told her it was our own fault, when she’d learn I failed you.” He blinks slowly and shifts in the water, finally looking at Trevor.

“What would I have done?” 

It’s calmly uttered, this nonsense, but not tender, not worried or fearful; it’s close to seething, his jaw clenched after each word; it’s angry, and a part of Trevor wants to kill him while the other part just… just wants, because yes, what if. What if, what if, what if. 

“Are you seriously going to take blame for a mistake we both made?” is all Trevor can muster. Unbelievable. He huffs, shakes his head. A wintry smile pulls at his lips despite himself. “What if it were the other way around? Considered that for a moment, you twat?” He does rise then, and only notices he’s drifted too close when his knees touch Alucard’s legs in the water. Staring into those unnerving eyes, Trevor suddenly wants to feel and grip and hold on to him so badly, but there’s also half a worrying chance he might strangle the bastard which would render their earlier efforts null.

“You didn’t answer me,” the twat follows with that same infuriating composure, staring at Trevor with hooded eyes. His fingers jerk against the marble edge.  

“Neither did you.” Trevor reaches and grasps Alucard’s shoulder. He knows he’s out of line, but he’s beyond caring. The composure breaks so visibly Trevor frowns in confusion, taking in the slew of pain and misery in Alucard’s stare as he rakes it over Trevor. “Are we going to do this now?” he asks, his voice softening. “The fuckery of arguing and me trying to convince you that you’re not here to be our caretaker, not the protector of the toady humans who shacked up in your castle—argh!” He gasps as Alucard’s fingers are suddenly at the back of his head and he’s pulled in, having to prop his hands on Alucard’s shoulders.

“Is that what you think you are to me?” 

“Let. Go,” Trevor hisses but there was something dangerously close to heartbreak in Alucard’s voice, his breath harsh against Trevor’s cheek and the hunter lets himself fall forward, lets the arm winding around him to bring him closer until he’s all but straddling Alucard’s lap, until they’re pressed up to each other and he’s not clear on what’s happening, but Alucard’s underlying tendency to protect and control and own resurfaces after the direst of moments — something to do with the immortal side of his heritage, no doubt, though he keeps it in check well enough. His kindness and gentleness are just as much a part of his nature, and the duality of it never daunted Trevor, nor Sypha; they took it in stride, took Alucard as he is and would not change a damn thing about him; nor should anyone ever try. “I… no. Look, I was... scared, yeah? I was terrified out of my mind I’d lose you out there, same as you, and I’m so fucking relieved we did it, that we lived through another shitstorm.” He falls silent, sighing as Alucard hedges their foreheads together.

“So am I,” comes the quiet admission, and Trevor’s thighs press around Alucard’s hips when the hold around his waist tightens.

They sit like that, in the pouring light from the candles, until the water goes lukewarm, until they’re breathing steadily together, hugged close and it has Trevor consider life and death and the never-ending cycle of it, the certainty that he and Sypha will croak one day, sooner or later, inevitably leaving Alucard alone and the mere thought of it is so crushing he wants to punch something; wants to burst through the sky and beat whoever’s up there to a pulp, to return with his hands full of stardust and lay them at Alucard’s feet. He’s moving as though guided by something beyond himself, pushing against Alucard, nosing at him and then he’s kissing him and desperately groping and pawing at him. “Let go,” he repeats softly and Alucard does, just so Trevor can move and they both fumble against the other and their wet skin until Alucard’s sitting on the edge of the bath, with Trevor kissing down his throat, his chest, hands propped on Alucard’s thighs as he kneels down between his legs in the water.

Trevor hugs his waist and buries his face there, breathing him in. His hands roam over hard thighs, and Alucard leans back resting on his arms, watching Trevor with a stare that’s equal parts lost and famished. His chest heaves up and down and his lips are parted, as when he craves Trevor and Sypha’s touch; the hunter stares at the jut of his cock, already hardening against his abdomen. Still running his hands over Alucard’s body he delves lower, nipping at the skin on either side of his erection in a light attempt at teasing, his cheek pressing against the shaft before he turns his head, and runs the tip of his tongue over the crown; Alucard huffs a strangled breath. His entire body seizes though he keeps still, and Trevor hasn’t done this often but now that first taste does something to him and all he wants is more of Alucard, wants to forget they nearly died today and how his own mortality dooms him, that he’ll live on as a memory in Alucard’s mind long after he and Sypha are ashes and fuck it, fuck it, fuck it. 

“Trevor… are you… you don’t have to—” his words all but catch in his throat when Trevor sucks the head into his mouth, tongue tracing the flare of it, circling around the hot, silky flesh with all the tenderness he’s capable of. Finally something they can both control, and he looks up to see Alucard staring at him; brows pinched together, fair hair clinging to his skin, fangs sharp in his mouth. His gaze smolders behind those stupidly long lashes and Trevor doesn’t break eye contact as he takes him deeper past his lips, his own desire become evident when he feels Alucard’s dick still swelling in his mouth. Trevor relaxes his jaw, licks along the shaft as Alucard’s fingers alight on his shoulders, kneading at them, fine hands drifting to his neck, lingering, threading through his hair as Trevor works to build a rhythm. 

His head bobs slowly at first but then he sucks faster, messier, thinking back to how this should feel, tracing his tongue along every vein before he swirls it around the crown again. He's regaled with a choked groan so he keeps at it, arms hugging Alucard’s waist and his spit coating Alucard’s cock, and he doesn’t have levity enough to do anything about the sudden painful grip on his hair; or about Alucard slowly arching his hips forward until he slides down Trevor’s throat to the hilt. Trevor doesn’t gag — a feat — and despite the freshness of his skin, he still tastes distinctly Alucard, with the faint musk and the unique sweetness Trevor loves about his scent. They stay so for a moment, and Trevor tries to continue because he wants to, he wants to see Alucard splayed here drunk with pleasure and to know he was the cause, and Trevor wants to forget about his own awful considerations from earlier in favor of mind-numbing relief. The grip eases on him finally and he sucks in earnest, lapping and licking along the shaft until Alucard’s thighs tense and close around his ribs.

“Enough,” he gasps. “Come here, come here.”

It’s times like these Trevor’s forced to remember how strong Alucard is, when he’s being lifted and braced and held against his chest, forcing him to wrap his legs around the bastard’s waist as he carries them out of the bath and into the bedroom. 

There goes Trevor Belmont, held up and carried daintily by the dhampir, his hard, dripping cock pressed snug against Alucard’s abdomen. Alucard kneels on the bed with Trevor still clung to him, body sinking over the hunter’s and kissing him with feverish little nips and snarls in between their breaths. Their dicks rub together as Alucard’s hips grind against his, and Trevor could die like this, with Alucard pressing him into the bed and fucking himself on his body. His hands reach to feel up and down Alucard's back and the muscles sleeking beneath his touch until he can't take it anymore and strongly grasps his ass, fingers digging in and his hips tilt upward to feel everything, the weight of him and hardness of him even as Alucard locks arms around his neck and ruts against him, slowly and with intent.

“Oh yes, that,” Trevor rasps with some difficulty, and beyond himself he kneads at Alucard’s flesh, a finger sliding to feel and circle his hole. His dick gives a twitch at the feel and texture as Alucard licks into his mouth and languidly curls his tongue around Trevor's, moaning deep in his throat.

“... can I?” Trevor whispers, stupidly. It’s a theme with him tonight.

“Hell, Trevor,” Alucard groans, narrow hips swaying left and right, cock slippery and sticky against Trevor’s. “What do you think?”

“Hey, I’m just asking, all right?” Trevor bites on his lip, smiles, “I know I don’t like surprise fingersex, thanks.” He reaches and gropes at the nightstand by the bed where he remembers they left the bottle with oil.

“Ohgod, now, hunter,” Alucard snarls, breathless, “before I change my mind,” he bites Trevor back with the slightest nip of fang and with that Trevor goes for it, swiftly biting the lid off and pouring some of the liquid onto his fingers then carefully opens him up, finger moving in and out as they kiss and soon Alucard’s head falls against his shoulder, eyes closed in trust and abandon. He’s growling into his skin as Trevor moves, finger curling inside until Alucard shudders atop him, until he moans outright when Trevor slowly inserts another finger, then another and with his other hand still grasping Alucard’s ass, leads their bodies in a slow sway. They do this for some time until Alucard unwinds and relaxes completely, and it feels good, feels good until it’s not enough, until with a last tug on Trevor’s lip Alucard sits up, knees braced on either side of his hips as he spits on Trevor’s cock and pours more oil on it, then guides him at his entrance. 

Their gazes locked, Alucard takes him slowly, inch by inch and Trevor’s eyes roll back when the hot tightness hugs him and he keeps slipping deeper, deeper, deeper.

His hands settle on Alucard’s waist but he lies there prone, watching his lover take him at his own pace, watching his frown and the way his cock jerks and drips, feeling the soft weight of his balls when Alucard finally sits atop him. 

It’s only then Trevor moves. Slow, slow, gentle, his hands gripping Alucard tighter. “Adrian... my-fucking-God Adrian...” 

Alucard’s mouth is slack, and he’s breathtaking like this as he falls forward on his elbows, moaning against Trevor’s lips, pressing down to meet each upward thrust, caressing Trevor’s sweaty temple with a fondness that will make his heart explode long before his dick might. 

“I can’t lose you,” he says, breath shivering. “Not like this. I would AH—” that was a deeper thrust, leaving them both shaking and breathless, “I would not survive it.”

“Save it for later,” Trevor sighs, and keeps fucking into him. 

Alucard straightens again and rides him, hard and fast and merciless now, and Trevor’s head tips back, eyes pressed shut and fingers painfully digging in Alucard’s hips, and they’re both groaning wantonly soon enough as Trevor opens his eyes to admire the sight some more, the way Alucard drags himself onto him and the way he looks with pleasure flitting across his stern features, the flush on his face and the need in his eyes, a hand propped on Trevor’s knee and another reaching to pull at his own jutting cock. 

“No,” Trevor reaches and grabs at his wrist, pulls it away, doesn’t let go. “Come on my cock,” he thrusts upward faster, and it’s so tight and hot and fine inside, “Just on my cock,” the bed creaks with his movement, but neither of them hear it, lost and frantic and Trevor’s hips are out of control as Alucard throws his head back and cries out, hot cum spilling all over Trevor’s working muscles and he tightens around Trevor so suddenly the dam of all his pent up need and fear shatters along with him, with the swift pooling bliss and it takes him a few more snaps of hip, before it all surges into endless riptides and his sight blurs as he rises and hugs Alucard close, flexing and moaning and coming inside him.

They’re chest to chest, Alucard’s legs wrapping around him, ankles locked; Trevor pants against his lips, grunts as his cock gives a few more satisfied twitches. He takes Alucard’s mouth again and they fall down tangled together kissing slowly, caressing softening muscles and sweaty, warm skin. 

Alucard rolls on his back when they’ve settled and regained their breathing and Trevor crawls up to him, his face against Alucard’s heart, idly playing with a wet strand of golden hair. They bask in a different silence, one far removed from the stifled, heavy stillness weighing on them before. 

“I wouldn’t survive it, either,” Trevor says after a time, his ear pressed to a heartbeat. 

Alucard’s hand caresses up and down his spine as he turns, lazily folding himself into Trevor. “Neither of us will have to try.”

“No,” murmurs Trevor. Not for a good while yet, one would hope. “No,” he repeats with conviction. They’ll make certain of it.

#self-reblog #castlevania netflix

[ruiniel]

Leonora Carrington - Who Art Thou, White Face? (1959)

#art #surreal

[ruiniel]

CocoRosie - Gallows

#music #cocorosie #cw death

[ruiniel]

The Buried Moon, 1916 by Edmund Dulac (French, 1882–1953)

#art

[ruiniel]

note to self: knights will always pull you out of artblock instagram / twitter

#art

[ruiniel]

just detail [full]

#my doodles #demon slayer

[ruiniel]

unwavering loyalty

#muzan kibutsuji #kokushibo #michikatsu tsugikuni #demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #kny fanart #muzan x kokushibo #my doodles #i have all sorts of brainrot don't come after me #kny #anime

[ruiniel]

Guest comments temporarily disabled

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#ouch #ao3 #txt

[ruiniel]

Kriegsmesser, Central Europe, circa 1500

from The Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna

#arms and armour #art

[ruiniel]

'sorry can't come out tonight, have plans'

[ruiniel]

ok I just thought of this but Alucard x reader where the reader has been turned into a vampire (while he's away or something or during battle)and feeling like maybe he won't love them anymoreeee?

Ouch, anon!

This will be so angsty.

A Place to Hide

Fandom: Castlevania series (2017-2021)

Pairing: Alucard x Reader

Count: 1.5k

Rating: T

Tags/CW: Oneshot, Mutual pining, Angst, Context of battle, Mention of death, Alternate universe, Dark fantasy AU, Alucard POV, Vampirism, Longing, emotional hurt/comfort

Summary: This can be considered a follow-up of sorts set after 'To be free'. The murder of Lisa never happened. Instead, sometime in the future there is strife in the vampire world with an alliance of rebelling war chiefs over territory and Dracula is forced to respond. Reader character is an apprentice learning the doctor trade under Lisa. Trying to seek Adrian out after he left for battle was not a successful endeavor...

All characters depicted are 18+

"And you worry too much…"

Your words ricochet through his mind as he dismounts in haste along with the returning troops, the too-hindering armor singing mournfully with every movement, as it had done all those cold, cluttered days and nights he'd been away.

He crosses the barracks area built before the castle and ascends the stairs of his home, a bloodied letter crumpled in his right hand.

"Adrian!"

Like a ghost, a drop of crystal-clear water in a sea of blood, his mother runs towards him, sullying herself against his filthy form as she enfolds him in a fierce embrace. Her dainty fingers curl into his tattered cloak, and Lisa holds on to him with a frenzied relief after, he knows, weeks of fretting.

"You’re safe," Lisa murmurs, "You’re home," she shivers, drawing back to run swift, trembling fingers through his windswept hair. 

"Mother," his eyes press shut, and he falls against her. She whispers to him, and all he wants is to drown in her arms and forget; the missive burns like hot coal, still crushed in his hand.

"Your father arrived ahead of you," Lisa says, holding him fast to her. "...they're still assessing status in the council chamber." 

And Lisa, for her part, had been running the improvised hospice for their human allies. She looks as weary as he feels. "I know." He can barely speak. "Mother I… I received your letter; before the last skirmish."

They won. Careful tactical planning and losses included, there will be peace again in the borderlands without. For how long? None ever know.

He does not care. "... Where?"

Lisa releases him, slowly, holding him by the shoulders. "Adrian, will you not take the time to... to …"

"Where?" His voice cracks, his bones ache. He wishes he'd never welcomed you here, wishes he'd never met you, befriended you, loved you. He wishes, wishes, wishes as fools do.

"Why do you always push me away?"

Your voice, your face: enraged and so desperate. You needed him then, needed him and he was not here, and the closer he is now, the more the truth gains a near physical weight he pushes against with sisyphean misery.

"Adrian," his mother tries again, as he slowly pries her from him, shaking his head.

"Please."

She tells him. She tells him how you insisted on riding after him, two weeks or so prior, with a meager company through war-torn lands. How Lisa had done her utmost to deter you, but the influx of wounded human soldiers demanded most of her time and energy, day in, day out. She failed, and you would wait no longer. "Forgive me, forgive me..." 

He brings Lisa close again, fervently kissing the top of her head, "Don’t. Please. Just... just tell me."

They stay embraced for another moment as the clamor of many rises up to the high, domed ceilings, and figures wade around them like wraiths. "The east tower," Lisa whispers, finally.

By the time he reaches the door, having carelessly stripped and cast off pieces of armor on the way, his vision is blurred. Memories of that day, that last day when you were angry with him but would not leave his side, had been a torturous comfort to his nights through each cut and healing wound, each enemy pierced, each slash of the sword; that day, when he awoke the evening of his departure with you in his bed and in his arms while the chamber's golden light caressed your bareness.

The hinges creak. The door opens, and darkness greets him.

"How am I to learn, Adrian, if you stand in my way?"

He calls to you. He seeks a heartbeat, but there is none; of course, there wouldn't be. The letter falls from his hand like a withered autumn leaf. He calls again, and again, stepping inside the room.

Darkness never posed a challenge to his sight, and as his eyes follow along the richly woven rug, he sees a bare foot, slowly retreating; a huddled shape, in one corner.

"Leave." A broken, barely audible voice.

Never again. Adrian nears and kneels by your side. "But I’ve only just arrived," he says through a forced, trembling smile.

A stir, a rise of hunched shoulders. "... you..."

"Yes, me," he says. "And I’ve missed you… so, so much." 

A sigh his only answer, Adrian curls and uncurls his fists. "Will you look at me?"

"Why?" The shape stirs anew. He cannot tell what you might be feeling, not anymore. The signs are gone, but of course, it is you; wherever you are, whatever you are, he will always know. 

"Because I… you went seeking for me, and I understand. A part of me... longed for you to do so, from dawn to dusk, every hour, every minute and second." He swallows. "Please," he begs even as a pair of glowing eyes meet his.

He reaches; cups your cheek and falls in dismay when you shun his touch, hiding your face away from him.

Your beautiful, determined face. His anger is boundless; he wants to know who, and make them pay. But you would tell no one of it, from what he learned, and it matters not at the moment. An interrogation is not what you need, nor does he. 

"I am sorry. It should have been your choice, if it ever were to happen. I did not listen to you that night where... where I should have."

"Not your fault," he sees half of your face, eternal now, cut by a beam of moonlight. "I was impatient, wanted to reach you, to see you. I was—am, a selfish, selfish fool," you press your knuckles into your eyes "And now, look at me..."

Adrian carefully sits beside you. "No," he objects, poorly, but he's too exhausted, too weak; entranced by you being here, so close, alive despite the shadow imbuing your essence.

"You cannot hear it anymore, can you?"

Adrian shakes his head.

"It is gone."

"But you are not." He reaches, tentatively, and takes your hand, massaging into the knuckles.

"You're so... so warm..." you whisper, close to tears. "I never noticed before, but now, now..." Your words are as cold as your skin. "... what you knew is gone."

He is exhausted, you are hurting. It is over, it should’ve been over, he’d barely convinced you to stay behind back then, to keep safe and continue your work; but here you are anyway. Adrian tenderly pries your other hand away from your chest. He remembers the texture of your skin so well, remembers it soothing his face, his chest, gripping his hips with earnest abandon. Now, it barely returns the slightest pressure. He brings it to his forehead, breathes in deeply and raggedly before pressing the hand to his dry lips. 

What can he say? That he regrets not being there? That it eats him from the inside like rot? That he’s never felt such longing nor such pain, and unless you demand it, he will never let you go again?

"I've not slept in days."

Adrian nods slowly, bringing a tentative arm around your shoulders. "It will be so for a while, from what I know." The freezing nightly air glides through an open window by your naked feet, but he realizes it has long ceased to be an issue for you.

"I hear everything around me; every beat of wings, every sigh of wind or flutter of a living heart. The darkness in all things speaks to me in a language I understand, and yet do not."

Unable to resist any longer, Adrian brings and cradles your head to his chest. "There are other changes, yet to come. It is fresh, and you will… you will hurt for a while longer. But... but I am here now, and, if you'll have me, will... I can help."

You're shaking against him, and he knows, if you had tears to shed, they'd be blood. "Adrian, I regret what I said to you that night, how I pushed you, how—"

"I do not." He tips your chin up, rubs his thumb over your lip. "You spoke your... our truth. And for that, you were much braver than I," he follows. "I missed you," he repeats, like a craven. 

You melt against his side. "You are warm, I am cold."

"You will take from my warmth."

"I've lost… I’ve lost myself, my very being, my humanity, all my doing," you murmur, spent.

"No," he shakes his head, "Humanity consists of much, much more than a beating heart, you know this."

You smile sadly against the black canvas of the room. "So many out there who would beg to differ."

"... and none of them will ever lay a finger on you in this life, or any other."

Adrian dares to bring you more into him, a hand pressing into your back. You feel the same, he feels whole again. Will you see it? Will you understand? 

"I hunger," you speak, the word coated with shame as you melt into him. "I hunger, but I refuse to… to…"

"You must drink to live, now. That is the way of things." 

Your fingers claw at his chest. You are strong, so very strong. "My creed is to save lives, not take them."

Adrian draws you into his lap as you finally meet his gaze fully, a peek of fang between your lips. "And so it will stay," he tells you, soothingly but with conviction, pressing you closer as his hand cups the back of your head, as he reaches and unfastens the collar of his tunic. "... I promise."

MASTERLIST: CASTLEVANIA SERIES x READER

More of my work is on AO3 [many stories not on tumblr]

BLOG MASTERPOST (all you need to know)

Likes/comments/reblogs always and forever appreciated

#self-reblog #castlevania netflix

[ruiniel]

Fandom: The Silmarillion

Characters: Glorfindel, Aegnor, Finrod, Argon, Turgon, Idril, Original Elf Character(s), more to be added

Relationship(s): Glorfindel/Original Female Character

Rating: M

Chapter count: 3k

Additional tags: Drama, The Helcaraxë, Middle-earth, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, The Silmarillion References, Beleriand, Canon-Typical Violence, Blood and Injury, Depictions of death, Glorfindel POV, POV alternating, Horror, Blood, Gore, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Pining, more to be added

Summary: An older story I've been rewriting, centered around a young Glorfindel and primarily written from his POV. Set on the background of the events of the First Age, it begins with the Flight of the Ñoldor from Aman to Middle-earth and focuses on the host crossing the Ice along their eventual destinations.

Also on ao3

I. The Ice - Enduring

Ice. As far as the eye can see there is endless, frozen nothingness. His lashes are frosted white, and he advances much like the others—slow and weary. Only recently, the host of Ñolofinwë had been abandoned by his half-brother Fëanáro upon the shores of Araman.

The latter took the ships of the Teleri, too few for the entire host to cross at once, and upon reaching Endor, burned them.

He presses his eyes shut, running a gloved hand over his face. Laurefindil yet sees the crimson light and great tongues of flame, the thick gray smoke rising against black skies in ill omen; the fairest crafted ships on all of Arda, become ash. The Elf turns his head as he walks, to the rest of the column struggling behind him, shoulders stiff and hunched, their faces grim but still imbued with the light of Aman; the only palpable reminder they were ever there. 

He'd questioned the wisdom of this decision to brave the wastes against the will of many among their host, but the shame of returning to face judgment for their deeds at the Swanhaven was a hard outcome to bear, and Ñolofinwë had decided against a retreat.

Now, as the Elf watches them falter and shrink and shiver in their unsuitable garments, he wonders. He glances upward, where the stars barely wink beyond a thick layer of fog settled in the evernight. Before, in Valinor, there were the Trees, their cycle aiding to measure the passing of time. Now there is nothing, and they march and march, without rest or light.

Are they damned, forever dispossessed, as the Emissary declared? The prescient words live ingrained into them all, and even as they were spoken most exiles quavered, and many would have returned then, if not for the will and trust in their leaders.

For blood ye shall render blood, and beyond Aman ye shall dwell in Death's shadow.

Death. The very concept was foreign to them until that first sacrilege, the first blood spilt. But like a monstrous truth it reared from thrashing waves, the ebbing of crimson and salt from the docks, from the gemmed sand stained red.

Alqualondë…

The horror of it never lifted, and never will, crashing over him again with the sights, the eerie silence broken by cries he never thought could come from one of his kind; the moment Death stained the lands at the very feet of the Valar.

His fine-soled boots slip on the ice; he falls to the ground. Slow to rise, Laurefindil takes deep breaths, and stems the renewed tide of emotion taking over, overwhelming him. Many of their own had already fallen on their journey, lost to battle or the Ice. 

Laurefindil lost his father. He thinks of Aistion, then of Wirya, his mother. She was among those who chose Valinor over exile, returning to Aman with Arafinwë upon first warning from the Valar. He thinks back to the silent farewell of his parents — the last he saw of them together. But at least his mother is safe now, or so he hopes, for after the withering of the Trees, they know: not even the Hallowed Realm is impregnable before the Moringotto.

And then, not long into their braving of this place, his father Aistion fell with a sudden crack beneath them, and the frozen waters and heavy shards had engulfed his body before his son or others could reach him. In the blink of an eye, Laurefindil was bereft of his family. The waters are a peril, and falling in means near-certain death. Indeed, now, they all know of Death. 

He wonders, yet again, how long it will take to cross this barren desert of mist, and how many will reach the lands they seek. The fogs give way ahead, revealing clear, crisp darkness, and the stars appear in short, weak flickers above them.

The Elves follow until at last, they walk beneath the patch of clear sky and soon they raise closely-knit camps, where resources are shared for the survival of all. Laurefindil walks among them, watching folk swiftly take refuge by a weak flame nurtured here or there, or in hastily raised tents. Everyone rests little and eats less, but then, of course, there is no nourishment in a place like this. His thoughts turn to his father again, his gaze seeking the light of the fires. The cold is a bitter and constant foe, and he must keep walking. 

They will endure. They must—

Laurefindil ceases his steps. Peculiar, but he hears... music?

Without warning, memories of Tirion infringe upon him. He discerns the refrain of a known ode, a good one at that, sung at many festivals. A light instrument, and a voice that glitters with the trilling warmth of summer birdsong. The Elf sheds the layer of sprinkling snow from his cloak, seeking the source. 

He soon reaches a vulnerable fire, where a group clusters together. Despite their hardships, the Eldar still seek comfort in song, in stories of their former bliss. Even here, even after everything. The notes of a flute reach him, and his gaze strays to the singer: a dark-haired Elf bundled in threads of blue and gray. Laurefindil listens, and the cold gives way to recollections of another life. The voice from before joins in, adding to the reverie, and in him trickles warmth.

His gaze settles on the one seated close to the flute player. Her face has a smattering of freckles, and her hair is dark, tinted auburn in the weak flame. Her words sigh with the flute, adding dimension to the story.

Rejoice that ye have found it,

They sing of Tirion. Her face is stony, unlike the passion in her voice. It comes in odd contrast with the uplifting words, which makes it no less intriguing. 

And rest... from endless war,

Laurefindil sees them: lush gardens, gold and silver lights mingling and embellishing the hills in strips of gold and green and blue. The cries of eagles rise near Taniquetil. His gaze wanders, set on curling locks of dark rust.

When her eyes shift from the flames and cut to his, Laurefindil catches himself staring. 

For the city 'tis,

that stands upon the hill...

She leans into the dark-haired one, who had ceased playing, his arm coming around her shoulders. Laurefindil briefly wonders about their connection, before her voice rises and sends him beyond time, before the murder of the High King and the theft of the Silmarilli; before the kin slaying, and the paths on the endless Ice.

His chin tips up to the skies, and thoughts of his father take him again. He sees the thick mists have returned, shrouding the patch of stars. There’s little else to do but move forward. His gaze falls upon the group again, upon her. Despite it all, they are here, freezing and struggling. Laurefindil draws his cloak closer around his shoulders and turns on his heel, fast steps leading away from the campfire. He seeks his own wares, eager to flee the voice and the memories it wrings but even to the far ends of the night, he hears it.

... where all who strive, find hope and valour still…

He opens a bleary eye, finding the camp astir. His limbs are numb and his neck aches from the unseemly position he'd fallen asleep in, propped against one cartwheel, close to where Ñolofinwë and his kin dwelt. Laurefindil stands, shedding the fine ice dust from his cloak, and rises to full height. Stretching his arms and legs, he turns and rummages through the cart to retrieve a bow and a quiver with arrows.

He begins his slow march, his feet heedful of the slippery ice. A few known figures emerge and cross his path, nodding in greeting. Tents line the vastness of the terrain, and other folk appear. Judging by their inner rhythm, the time of rising had arrived, as the lingering ties to Aman yet rule their inclinations and habits.

The Elf looks towards the jagged mountains rising ahead, spears through the mist. The host had made little progress, and their supplies, once sufficient until they reached green Endor, are dwindling and sparse. With a sigh, he walks on. Despite not falling upon any land-dwelling life in this place, by instinct, his gloved hand lingers on the hilt of his sword.

He gains speed to regain some warmth in his muscles, looking left and right for a familiar face. Fewer of them walk the wastes now, compared to the start of their journey.

"Laurefindil!" 

He is easy to distinguish among the rest of the grey-cloaked folk. Despite the enveloping shadows, his smile is light and genuine.

"Aikanáro," Laurefindil greets, answering the son of Arafinwë with a nod.

"Were you not joining us?" the new arrival asks. "The others are ready to depart."

They are of the same height and of similar build, he and Aikanáro, and know each other well owing to his father's long years in the service of Arafinwë in Tirion. During his younger years, Laurefindil met and befriended the offspring of Finwë's youngest. They'd spent much time together in Aman, and now, looking upon his friend, those carefree remembrances are strange and painful.

He forges a smile as the other Elf nears him. "Would I miserably be marching through the chill at this unseemly hour otherwise?"

Aikanáro huffs a mirthful grunt, placing an arm around the other's shoulders. "Come now, let us now together explore the loveliness of this...," he looks to the desolate view, "... of this vast icy waste, and perhaps find something to keep us going until we reach the next icy waste."

"How are you in such a good mood precisely?" Laurefindil mutters. "Did you have some of that odd weed Olórin was partial to?" he teases as they fall in step together, and his spirits feel lighter at the memory. Aikanáro had the habit of subverting or bending relatively harmless rules, even surpassing his sister Artanis in their past wanderings in abandoned Tirion. "I always wondered how you kept snatching the stuff from Irmo's gardens," Laurefindil adds.

Aikanáro gives him a long-suffering look. "For the thousandth time, it was never snatched , and tried only twice after hunting—"

Laurefindil waves his words away, his face regaining its past light. "No need to defend your vices before me," he speaks as the other rolls his eyes. "And your brothers?..."

Aikanáro frowns, regarding the ragged mountains of ice. "Angaráto and Findaráto are already at the meeting place."

They walk on in silence until they reach an assembled group, armed and speaking low among themselves.

Laurefindil spots the towering figure of Ñolofinwë, grim and surrounded by his men, some of whom Laurefindil recognizes from his own previous visits in Tirion at the house of Arafinwë. There were also his sons, whom the Elf knew mainly from formal gatherings and celebrations. Findekáno, the eldest, presently shares words with his father. His brother Turukáno stands nearby, speaking with one whom Laurefindil also concludes to know: the dark-haired flute player from the previous night, who mellowed their grief with song. He stands as though the frost has no bearing on him, his head held high, sable hair braided back in a heavy plait.

The voice of Aikanáro reaches him then, and he joins to seek the eldest son of Arafinwë. They follow in an orderly line, the few leaders walking ahead with the handful of their men chosen to explore the area. In this place, they'd finally found temporary shelter from the freezing winds lashing at them. The rows of ice cliffs, rising taller on either side, aid in that respect. And they need a reprieve. Of course, searching for nourishment became imperative, as was surveying the area to preempt possible peril. They follow the winding slopes, quiet and heedful of any shadows or movement in their way.

"I have yet to see any land-dwelling creature here," Aikanáro says. 

To their left now hails a chain of ragged formations, and to their right is a long, wide rift in the deep ice. Far ahead, impenetrable mists float on endless black waters.

"Aikanáro..." Laurefindil whispers, pointing to what catches his attention.

After staring for a few moments, his friend hastens forward to call for his brother.

Laurefindil gapes. The formless apparitions trap his attention, and his feet take him closer. He grasps his bow and nocks an arrow, sensing the others following.

"Be on your guard," one says somewhere to his right, and from the corner of his eye, Laurefindil again sees the dark-haired flute player. He moves with stealth, wraithlike, his feet soundless upon the frozen ground.

The strangest creatures ever encountered. The Eldar had seen nothing of the like on the shores of Aman. Their large bodies burst with muscle and fat, great tusks protruding from their jaws, and their movement is sluggish.

"They appear... harmless," Laurefindil lowers his bow, seeing Aikanáro returned to his side.

"That may be so, but it is also the only sign of life we have seen above water so far, not to mention all we found this entire time of searching," Aikanáro retorts. "My lord uncle has just given leave to try."

Laurefindil sees the others raise their weapons. He looks back at the slow-moving beasts. He squeezes his eyes shut, opens them, and aims his bow anew. It seems cruel, but they must do things like this now to survive. He takes a deep intake of breath.

"Do it," Aikanáro murmurs from beside him, his own bow taut. "The meat will feed many for days. The hide will serve many purposes, as may the bones and tusks."

He had killed nothing as large before, only game small in comparison, in the sloping forests near Tirion. But now death had been weaved into their lives, and he has to shoot.

A sharp hiss, to his right; turning, he sees an arrow loosened, spearing one beast. A clean kill.

The rest of the herd are hurrying to the edge of the ice, back into the waters.

"They are escaping!" he hears someone cry, and with one last moment of hesitation, his fingers tense on the string as he finds a target. Shoot, damn you.

Before he can release, the beast falls struck by another perfectly fired arrow.

The Elf turns to find the dark-haired flute player lowering his bow. For once Laurefindil feels warm with shame despite the frost, and his head lowers, his breathing fast and uneven.

A hand on his shoulder startles him. "It may take some getting used to," golden Findaráto says, come to his side.

Laurefindil merely nods, rubbing tiredly at his eyes with a sigh. "You never know, I may just be more useful next time," he shakes his head.

Aikanáro makes his appearance between them. "Come now, enough chatter; we have work to do," he says, wearily drawing two long knives from his belt.

They return with their quarry late, sending word to those able to help skin and portion the meat.

None are exempt from the work. Laurefindil is on his knees, his cloak discarded to the side. A knife is in his hand as he works to skin their quarry. He uses a similar technique he remembers from hunting in the forests of Valinor, but the sheer mass and weight make it a long and arduous labor. At least the effort keeps him warm. He looks at his hands, now bloodied to his wrists. A raw smell and warm steam rise in the air, and he briefly lifts his head to the others, also making do with the improvised tools available.

His breath rises misty in the night as he brings his hastily braided hair over one shoulder. It is snowing, and silent flakes coat his shoulders. He tries thinking of ripened fields instead of hard ice, of summer gold instead of the crimson mass beneath his hands.

A light scent, opposed to that of fresh, freezing blood; Laurefindil ceases his movement and lifts his head once more.

A presence, a drawn, sullen face. She places a container with steaming water by his side. "For your hands," the auburn-haired Elf says, hazel eyes cutting to his.

Laurefindil nods then lathers his hands. His stiffened fingers regain some mobility, and he hastily wipes them dry with his cloak. "Thank you," he settles, unsure what else to say as he takes the skinning knife again.

"I am here for the hide." A raspy voice; not too pleasant-sounding, considering what he'd heard of her singing.

Looking up, the Elf meets an expectant gaze. Her hair is tucked beneath her hood this time, and a thin thread of auburn is in her eye. She appears to take no heed of it.

"Have you finished?" she insists when Laurefindil says nothing. Her eyes turn questioning, and an impatient crease forms between her brows.

Laurefindil looks down. "I need more time." He works faster now, seeing as she is apparently tasked with retrieving the hide to be treated. His focus drifts to her feet, still standing before him, then back to his work. He stops after a while, gazes upward again. "Are you going to wait here?"

"It is not as though we are hurrying anywhere, is it?" she retorts, crossing her arms.

"I could bring it over if you tell me where. But it may take a while longer—"

"Here," she says, retrieving a short blade from her belt. She kneels and begins laboring alongside him. "Works faster in two."

Laurefindil raises an eyebrow but keeps his peace, and their heads come bent together over their task; the heavy scent of warm blood lingers in the air, rising sickly around them.

Her hands, though small and fine, work fast enough, and Laurefindil has to admit she flicks the blade well, wasting no movement.

Soon she is softly humming in song—a gleeful lay, reminding him of careless days spent riding through the fields of Aman; his spirits lift, just barely. But each stroke of the knife keeps him anchored to the dismal present, no matter how good it feels to hear about the past.

He stays silent, at first. But when the light notes continue, oblivious to their pitiful state, Laurefindil pauses his movements. "Must you do that?" he snaps, looking her way.

She flinches, and ceases singing; the sounds fall like clipped wings between them as the stranger focuses back on their work without a word.

"If the memories affect you so, perhaps you should not have followed," she murmurs after a time.

Before Laurefindil can find a proper retort, she has taken a handful of snow and rubs it between her bloodied hands. She stands, drying her palms fast against her cloak. "Done."

Laurefindil rises as well, wrapping the hide in a manageable way, and hands it to her. She spares him not a glance but turns and hurries away, swaying only slightly with her burden.

"What is your name?" the question escapes him of its own ridiculous volition.

She had not gone that far— despite the hissing wind, she must have heard him. But she neither turns nor offers a reply, walking ahead until her figure is obscured by the falling curtain of snow.

AN:

Lines used from the original works:

"For blood ye shall render blood, and beyond Aman ye shall dwell in Death's shadow." - Quenta Silmarillion, Of the Flight of the Ñoldor.

The lyrics of the song in this chapter are from The Lays of Beleriand, "II. Poems Early Abandoned: The Lay of the Fall of Gondolin". They reference Gondolin, but I took bits and pieces to suggest Tirion, the city after which Turgon modeled Gondolin.

Banner image credit: Caspar David Friedrich, Felsenriff am Meeresstrand

Part II

#self-reblog #silmarillion

[ruiniel]

typos in one's shared written works are a friend, they remind one to be humble

#even if you want to crawl into a hole 🙏 #beta or no beta doesn't matter can still happen

[ruiniel]

Remember

Fandom: Demon Slayer: Kimetsu no yaiba

Pairing: Kokushibō x fem!Reader

Rating: 🔞

Count: 1.7k

On AO3

Part I

Tags & Warnings: Multichapter, Darkfic, Angst, Ambiguity, Past Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Reincarnation, Toxic relationship, Codependency, Blood kink, Flashbacks, Kokushibō's wife, her name is Hisami, References to childbirth but nothing graphic, POV Second Person, Tsugikuni Michikatsu POV, Emotional Sex, Mild Smut, is it gratuitous yes and no, Human!Kokushibō, Kokushibō | Tsugikuni Michikatsu-centric, Sengoku Period (1467-1590), if there's anything Upper Moon One fears it's his memories, Making promises he can't keep

Author note

My hands, they slipped this chapter... rating changed, see the tags.

Naginata: a versatile, conventional polearm, mainly favored for its length, which can compensate for the strength and body size advantage of male opponents. It was a weapon-of-choice of the onna-musha or female warriors in pre-modern Japan.

Ashigaru: in a samurai household their primary role was that of protectors and warriors but were also responsible for various tasks around the estate.

Koshimoto: the personal attendants to the samurai. Among others, their tasks included dressing the samurai in their elaborate armor.

III.

Worry is a deeply human trait. You know this, and you know the world will never give without taking just enough to keep one fighting on. You’ve tried mastering your breaths as you’d been taught, but your grasp is clammy on the naginata which never tasted spilled blood. 

When he left, you wished to go, too, but buried your desires at the feet of duty for the good of your clans, your futures and the precious, rare spark that flourished from nothing in such short a time between you. 

Michikatsu has always been talented in the way of the sword, dedicated and perseverent. All traits required of him, ingrained in you too. You’d watch him train when you were too small to join, you toiled to reach a skill level enabling you to protect your own if things took a turn for the worst in the land.

He promised he’d be careful. He promised. You cross the engawa countless times, watching the night for a sign.

“Hisami-sama, the tea is ready.”

You thank the girl, who lingers, hesitates to speak further, but you can feel her unrest. She retreats, and you are unable to tear your eyes away from the outside.

The neighing of horses bursts upon the beaten path like omens from a distance, louder and louder. Sweat beads on your forehead. You ought to remove yourself and go inside, but invisible weights latch around your ankles. Your shoulders stiffen, and the remaining ashigaru become alert until you see a familiar standard, known faces, and finally him, dismounting fluidly as the household are swift to approach their lord and returning retainers.

Your weapon set aside, you exhale a deep breath then draw another.

His gaze locks on you as you rush to reach him but before you can throw yourself at him, custom and all be damned, his hands are on your shoulders, holding you firmly at arm’s length. 

In the torchlight, you see the blood on his face is dry, and the same stains match those on his chest, his armored sleeves, and his shin guards. His violet stare is distant, its dark depths empty. This was his second military incursion as a kogashira leading his squad in battle. 

You greet him as befits custom; Michikatsu is silent. His eyes never leave your face, and now something new lurks behind them, something you’d not seen there before. Slowly, he releases you, turning and—curious—dismissing the koshimoto. 

What is this? You don’t understand. 

Michikatsu then looks your way with the kind of expression that bears meaning: a beckoning. Worried, compelled, you let the steward handle the rest and follow his heavy tread inside. 

Once there, he removes one gauntlet, then the other; silent, so silent. You near, aiding with the removal of the armor piece after piece. So many questions, that you nearly bite your tongue to force them down. His gaze follows your movements, again always returning to your face. 

“Will there be anything else, Michikatsu-dono?” 

With just the two of you together, here, you wonder at your choice of address: the only way you allow yourself to express the hurt, the rejection of that one gesture outside after so many weeks of uncertainty. He must see it, and still, nothing. 

His eyes meet yours, as though surprised you’re there at all. “No, Hisami. Thank you.”

He says nothing else. He rises, turns away, and leaves the room.

The space by your side is cold and empty, all the emptier the more you stare, the more your mind drowns in rumination. A demon of silence, has forced its way into a corner of your chamber, lurking and layering doubts like nightshade over your spirit. 

The slow slide of the fusuma panel interrupts this torturous reverie.

Michikatsu nears, kneels by the futon even as you rise to sit, facing him. The glow of the lamp plays over his features and his unbound hair, still wet from a bath, shining like ink. He wears nothing but a carelessly fastened yukata, and droplets of water shine golden as they drip down his pale chest. You see a bruise, large and dark, beneath his collarbone. There must be others. 

You stare, unsure what to say. Michikatsu has always had a gentle, withdrawn nature, but he’s never acted quite like this before. If someone didn’t know him better, one would think he is his usual self, albeit spent mentally and physically after weeks of immense strain that only warfare can cause. His breaths are labored, though, as if he’d crossed a great distance on foot and not merely the path to your bedroom. The fact that he even is here should gladden you, after his earlier manner, but… be that as it may, you will try again. 

“I missed y—”

Your words are severed. He knows how to be gentle; but like deep waters with roiling currents that drag one to the depths, he also harbors an unpredictable side: and now his hand is heavy on your thigh, the other gripping the nape of your neck, bringing your face closer none too gently. His lips are hot, crushing against yours; it’s close to pain, and the weakness from the time spent apart only allows you to feebly press your palms against his chest.

His breathing is still harsh against your mouth, and with this his earlier peculiarities seem so insignificant. If this time has been difficult for you, a thread of understanding dawns as to what it must have been like for him.You slowly sway together back and forth as you kiss, your fingers gliding through his sable hair and him releasing you seems out of the question, the hand on your thigh snaking up and around your waist, forcing your body flush against his. He ends the kiss, sucking on your lower lip with an abandon that will surely leave a mark, and goes still; panting, silent, resting his forehead against your shoulder.

“Michikatsu, please, say something…” 

He bares your shoulder, the wet warmth of his mouth gliding over your skin, along your neck and there he lingers, kissing and licking a spot he learned has you shivering—and it does, sparks of pleasure rushing waywardly through you, dispersing all and any fears or troubles; a soft sigh leaves him when your fingers tighten in his hair. 

If he chooses to speak this way rather than using words, you mind it less and less, lending yourself to the careful way he cups your head, the tickle of his wet strands on your skin as he descends with you in his arms. His weight presses you into the futon and hungrily he still nips at your neck, your chin, licking a warm stripe between your breasts before staring at the hardened tips peaked through your yukata. He looks… adorable, you think, like one might when coveting a ripe fruit. He meets your eyes as his roughened hand carefully undoes your garment, palming one breast; the softness of his mouth closing around one hardened tip leaves you dizzy with need.

With urgency you slide his garment down his shoulders. He moves as to make it easier, his naked hips shifting against yours, left, right, left, right… languid and slow.

A hand runs through your hair; your eyes open, finding his. “Forgive me for earlier,” he whispers, watching you in that manner again, the way he did earlier at his arrival, the way no one ever did. His hand reaches between your bodies, slow and with intent, exploring; his lashes lower when he finds you. His finger traces slow, soft circles, covered in your slick. You know he loves this, takes pleasure in seeing all the ways he affects you. “I was… for one, I did not want to soil your clothes,” he jests.

Your back arches off the futon as he plays, your sight lost in the black centers of his eyes, rimmed with faint ribbons of amethyst; he is hard already, and your sense is reduced to the memory of how he feels when he pins you down, takes you and takes you and takes you. You relish in the thrum of his voice, low and sincere, your hands running up and down his tense back—the work of art that is his body honed by training, by all the ways he’s always pushed himself until his hands bled on his sword. 

“It is difficult, out there, and I was relieved…” Michikatsu smiles drunkenly at the slow sway of your own hips against his, retrieving his hand and rising enough to cage you beneath him. “... to… to finally be home.” Without warning he rises, flips you over on your abdomen and lines his body against yours, his knee nudging your legs apart even as he keeps speaking in your ear. “... with you.”

You’re long past reason, lashes fluttering and core tightening as he finds you, and a coil of primal delight unfurls in your body from the warmth of his arousal slicking inside—so easily, such a perfect fit. He pauses halfway, met with your desperate little mewl of protest. 

“I know… I know…” He kisses your cheek, licks your ear. “Hisami, listen to me,” he murmurs, sucking on your earlobe; your assent comes in the form of a sigh, which seems to be enough for him. “I am a flawed man but I will…” he rises, propping his fists against the futon on either side of your shoulders. “I will do my utmost to leave as seldom as I can…” His hips press against you, pushing deep; you turn your face into the quilt, stifling your moan. “I will protect what we have for as long as I live…” His voice is hoarser,  words hitched with the effort to control the tremble of pleasure in his own body.

He moves not at all, but you’re already unraveling and undone at the mere thought of him doing so. He places shallow kisses to the nape of your neck, the crown of your head as his back arches, and the first thrust relieves you of all thought, all but him.

“I promise,” he repeats on the second thrust, and the third, building a rhythm that has you tilting your head up, hands blindly groping at his forearms until he eases down against  you. He moves deeper, slower, reaching to lace your fingers with his, his scent and lips and voice weaving with that ethereal thread now drawn impossibly tight between you. 

Part IV

#self-reblog #demon slayer

[ruiniel]

#silmarillion #maedhros #maglor

[ruiniel]

#we're all in it together #photography

[ruiniel]

#demon slayer #mangacap #kokushibo #cw blood #cw injury #muichiro tokito #seriously great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-granddad #kimetsu no yaiba #kny