Archive of Our Own ^beta

"What an interesting flavor."

Bam ignores White as the man follows him. He doesn't do this often. He is a Slayer and he took the privileges back with impunity. No followers, but no one is in a hurry to flock to a man who may eat them or disappear at the height of their following. Or both.

He knows better than to look when White consumes someone. It's supposed to be bloodless, according to the books he's read between training bouts, but Bam wouldn't put it past White to make it as bloody and painful and awful as he can. His ideas of spice are questionable at best.

White tends not to do so in front of him and Bam had left normal people behind long ago.

So, Bam figures, he must be talking about him. He doesn't mean to turn around, but those words send a chill up his spine.

White smirks at him, dabs of red on his cheeks like tears.

"I beg your pardon?" Bam says slowly. He means it politely, truly, because they're on the same side for the moment. It wouldn't do to be rude.

Arie Hon and his closest descendants are pure white, positively radiant in their flow. The darker the shadow, the brighter they gleamed. Even dimmed with a lack of power, this is true about White. Only the red he's painted all over himself sets him apart.

White merely smiles. Likely, knowing him, he thinks this is a natural expression, a face you show a person. It looks, to Bam, like something you see before you die, in its sweetness.

"Your power," White says slowly, as if Bam is a child who doesn't know the meaning of the word. (It's conceited. Bam knows plenty about power now. It'd be stupid of him not to know.) "Is still a simmering dish. But even the aroma, to myself, is quite distracting. I want to savor the time it takes to make you right."

Bam wonders if it's the spell that makes eating souls feel good and addicting. Or if it's the years of dulling taste buds on eating nothing else that any variation of a different person was exquisite.

Or maybe White is just an asshole who doesn't understand human conversation and thinks this is normal. Bam, who has little understanding of what normal people talk about, is sure he's not being complimented.

"Is that why you're here?" Typically this sort of thing is beneath a full fledged Slayer. There were lists of things that Karaka delegated to others and the sheer amount of canine people who Bam met exasperated by their king was… exhausting to think about.

Sometimes, Bam thinks of having followers, and the loneliness that would come from it.

He bites back a shudder, so White cannot see it.

"I go where I wish," the man replies. "As is befitting of majesty. You ought to learn similarly, if you want to burn the world as it is into better."

"I'm not as grandiose as you," Bam says, turning around and continuing the trek. It takes longer, not using shinsu to endure. But it feels better. It hurts, like making the tower of stone. "I simply want my loved ones with me."

White laughs.

He's not the first nor the last. Many in FUG called him sentimental, soft, weak. Luslec had stroked his growing hair and smiled, too simple an expression for so much emotion.

Somehow when White does it, it makes Data Viole stir with revulsion.

"Don't you know, Viole?" He says Bam's name like a purr, a promise. "That is the most grandiose wish in this world of force. If you truly wanted it, you would hold them at your side."

Bam hums and says. "Don't you have anyone you want willingly by your side?" He dares to ask. "Or did you eat them all instead of hold them?"

Shinsu spikes, sending leaves and branches scattering across the forest and shattering the trees, but Bam keeps walking. The anger simmers low, held by a kettle lid.

"I must be careful," he says. "I cannot become like you, or I'll digest the ones I love."

He leaves White behind. He can feel the man's smile at his back.

It's not Khun's, so he makes himself ignore it. He has to.

The transient shadow between Twenty-Fifth Bam and Jyu Viole Grace widens like a chasm again, after about a year. It melds from one to the other and he …well, if he's honest he doesn't know what else he expected.

Isu and Hatz call, but they're the only ones. Endorsi has disappeared and Anak was never close and the others…

Rak is the only one of his friends who stays for a while. But it's never for long. Stones and fire call his name, a hunger for a new glistening hunt. So much like before, Bam spends a lot of time alone.

This time, the unintentional nature of it all makes things so much worse.

Without Master Jinsung, Master Evankhell takes over. She's ruthless and thorough, and all the accelerated healing in the world does not replace the tired feeling in his bones. He goes to any number of opponents who break him down and put him back together again. It's refreshing because it gives him little time and energy to think.

It's the journey there that leaves him with nothing but his thoughts and the lingering taste of his own uselessness.

He scares them. He knows now that he scares everyone he's come across who stays. Sweet and Sour, Miseng and Wangnan, and everyone… even Rachel.

The only one he knows doesn't fear him for certain is Hwaryun, and she doesn't seem to fear much of anything or anyone. At most, they amuse her for the amount of time they try to dance against her tune. She is still gone, however, so she's not helping.

White is the other exception.

White, however, is a shark, who has been left starving, so he doubts that it's intelligence that guides him around.

Still, he'll follow Bam's training sometimes. When he wants to, of course. Bam has never asked him to follow, has never invited him to spar (he thinks sparring with White would lead to them killing each other, which is what White would probably want, as he'd survive.) or even invited him to a meal.

(Once, White watches him cook, watches him chop things and stir and move his arms. He follows every single movement with his eyes. Bam ignores it. He's used to being stared at.

When he'd left him a bowl, White had savored each bite, as if he could taste Bam's soul. He'd looked at Bam with smoldering, knowing eyes and said,

"Our next meal we should take from the source, we think."

The thought should have terrified him more than it did.)

He avoids White on purpose, even if it makes him lonely. The time apart from the others has taught him that being alone is better than being in unpleasant company.

Yet the man seeks him out when he returns regardless. Sometimes at a distance but slowly he gets closer.

As Bam breathes, air rushing into his lungs after completing another fight, a hand brushes his cheek.

White's fingers are cool, but he can feel each ridge of their hands, the long let calluses on their fingers. Bam freezes, making himself not jump.

"Your hair is growing," the amalgamation says slowly, staring down at him. "Are you going to make a bride of yourself for some lucky light?"

"...What?" What on earth did that mean?

"Perhaps not," White muses. "For us, we care not for those matters. Most do."

Bam doesn't dare move. He barely breathes. He'd forgotten, seeing White thrown around, him lacking all of the souls he'd needed to become the high ranker and slaughterer of his father that -

They were stronger than him, set apart from others.

"I just want to," Bam finally says.

White chuckles. "Do you believe, if you resemble him, he will invite himself home and remember you?"

For a moment, Bam flounders inside. Then, it clicks, and hot guilt and rage bubbles up like acid.

"Khun-ssi will come back, no matter what I look like."

White laughs. "And then you will pretend you are not a monster for him. One of our majesty tried this many times. They always run in the end."

He said he'd chase me anywhere, Bam thinks as White's hand drops.

That is still running.

"Oh Viole," says the amalgamation of human life. "You don't have to tend to them forever. You are still a baby shark. There is much room for you to grow."

He leaves Bam behind, something twisting in his innards.

At one point, White gets closer, to the extent of napping in the same room as him.

They know why they are approaching him. It is to devour him and to make him the best to eat, the best proof of their power. With an irregular's soul, could they not kill the father, then the king?

There's a morbid part of Bam that wonders if he could.

His friends would lose their shit if he followed that rabbit hole, so he does his best to avoid it.

If he's realistic about it, it's probably more that White wants proof of his existence and power. It seems like a Great Families' thought process. Also that he can. Many people in the families seem more interested in doing things for the proof of it.

He tries not to think of Khun and it hurts.

Then again, the juice has not melted him either. Could it? Should it?

He wonders and that's not like him. He has to focus and look forward. Khun would worry when he woke up if he hesitated too much or ran away again.

Then again, if he hadn't listened blindly to Khun's strategies, maybe Khun wouldn't have had his heart blown up.

He couldn't have known that; he tells himself.

"For someone who hones themselves so thoroughly, your thoughts are louder than the anvils that forged you."

Bam doesn't jump. Even sans killing intent, the souls murmur inside of him whenever White gets closer. Those pale bone fingers squeeze his shoulder, like a kind companion. Like the pressure of hands kneading bun dough.

Bam closes his eyes and thinks of the image of White floating in the blood of an administrator, like a stick of yew, and collects himself. "What is it, White-ssi?"

The man laughs, puffs of air by his ear that make Bam tense up. "As we said, you are quite noisy when you think. Our sleep is more valuable than your troubles, so we are here to quiet them."

Bam's brain takes a moment to interpret that. "You're, you're concerned about me?"

"Concern?" White laughs. It's low and rich and still so close. "What a lesser emotion. We would not have expired spices sour our meal so we will wring it out of you, Jyu Viole Grace."

So, yes, Bam thinks. He wants to smile. If he wasn't such a pompous fellow, White could almost be considerate. "Thank you for coming to check on me, White-ssi."

The slayer's energy shifts and he yanks Bam around. Bam refuses to flinch, meeting those eyes as their owner tugs him up in the air. "Do you think you're worthy of our consideration, little slayer candidate?"

"I'm not sure," Bam says. "But I appreciate it all the same. It's very kind of you." His head is certainly clearer now, without thoughts of his own failure and Khun's body floating in his ice and not moving, not really breathing.

White stares. Then Bam finds himself sprawled on the ground before he can blink or even really acknowledge it until it happens. His ass stings. The thorn heals it in seconds, but not fast enough to stop White's fingers as they dig into his arms. He's kneeling, somewhat, but he towers over Bam, glaring into him as if his anger will provide color to his almost colorless visage. Bam doesn't look away. He doesn't flinch. He's not afraid.

These hands held swords. It's nothing like Hatz, who is sturdy, unrelenting and well-practiced. Who is quick and decisive but still rigid (the most dangerous for Bam once he starts moving because Bam has never loved a weapon, not even Black March). White is smooth and graceful and immediate danger. They grip Bam like they'll shatter his bones. The movement is like water.

He could crush Bam like a soda can.

"How dare you insult our royal visage?" White's face is close enough to kiss, to bite, to tear, and Bam's heart starts to thump loudly in his ears. "Kindness? What about us is kind?"

Bam blinks, perturbed. This is one of those rhetorical questions, isn't it?

When he doesn't speak, White shakes him. It hurts, but it's no more painful than drinking Hansung's coffee.

"Where is your fear?" White snarls. "Where is your reverence? Do you know what you're saying, Jyu Viole Grace?"

Are you lonely? Bam wonders but doesn't say. He simply stares, trying to pull the answer from thin air. Bam knows that he is lonely but why else would White stay so close to him? See him so often?

He wasn't eating him after all.

"I." Bam stops, restarts, thinks. "Dying myself doesn't make me afraid, White-ssi. It's all of you who have placed your hopes and dreams on me. Losing me will be a blow to you. Me losing myself, well, I've lost all the things that make me myself anyway."

White's cold eyes stare at him. Then he pushes Bam down. His head hits the concrete of the balcony. Is this the moment, he wonders. Is here where he'll be devoured, braising be damned?

But he doesn't look hungry. He still looks annoyed, like Bam should be disappointing or meeting his standards and Bam is apparently doing something else. Something unwanted.

"You are …" White exhales, breath hot. "You are incomplete. Where are you?"

In an ice coffin, Bam thinks but doesn't say. With the one person who wanted me to be human.

Something presses against his thigh. Bam doesn't twitch. He barely breathes.

White's fingers stop digging. He pulls away and rises, all swift and purposeful. "Do not disturb our sleep again Jyu Viole Grace, or there will be consequences."

He stalks away.

Bam watches him go, blinking.

What was that about?

White avoids him for a while. The others have the coffin, so he can't even nap next to Khun to remind himself that Khun wasn't decaying or rotting somewhere. Calling Wangnan gets voicemail and that hurts, but it's about what he expected. Miseng will answer sometimes and ask him questions about training and how to cook certain things. But that's it. That's all.

It shouldn't hurt, to be abandoned. It's all that ever happens to him. But it surprisingly does, even if it's White doing the abandoning.

No one seems angry or scared. It doesn't feel like he's done anything wrong.

But those are feelings. They could just be too scared to tell him or even to show it. He puts the idea aside for now. It's totally small to worry about. If the others hurt him, it wouldn't be the first time.

If Khun hurts him, he won't know what to do with himself.

Doubt is dangerous. Doubt is something Rachel thrived on providing him.

Bam recognizes the technique that White is pulling for what it is. It is part punishment and part tormenting thoughts. Silent treatment if considered but Bam doesn't think White would waste time with such things. He doesn't really consider it a punishment. It's not the same kind of separation as someone who used to care about him.

But then White approaches him as he's putting away groceries. Master Evankhell prefers spice and heavy flavors but Bam supposes he would too if his partner had no taste buds whatsoever. White will eat if he chooses. Everyone else stares at him when he cooks like what he's doing is abnormal. "Sate our hunger, candidate."

"Dinner will be a few hours yet White-ssi." It looks as if we're pretending the other day never happened. That's more than fine by him. He had never thought of White as someone who would be aroused about him, let alone aroused by anger. Or maybe it was defiance? Karaka and White were not fond of being told no. Bam considers they have that in common, but then he hasn't been the one to melt people or eat them for defiance.

A cold hand grasps his wrist and yanks him around to meet White's gaze. Bam wants to sigh. What is it with FUG members and manhandling him? At least he put the groceries down.

"You misunderstand." White is smirking, for all the tower's wonders like he knows something Bam doesn't. He likely knows a lot of those. It wouldn't take much. "We hunger, Viole."

Bam stares at him, unamused. "If you were going to take my soul, you would have done it when my back was turned." There's a gleam of rage in those silver eyes. "If it's something else you want, I'm not making the kitchen into a biohazard for you."

The idea of it is not unwelcome, but he's not chomping at the bit to sate the beast's hunger.

He keeps his voice even because every member of FUG he has met hates when he is calm. They like docile, mostly, obedience. Not when he's calm.

The way White's nostrils flare proves they are no different. A shiver of delight threatens to make him turn but Bam doesn't. He refuses. He won't smile or laugh or give in meekly. Not here. Not again.

"You speak as if you're doing it on purpose."

Bam almost rolls his eyes. "I'm not arousing you on purpose, White-ssi. You're the one who follows me, who gets in my face. You are the one interested in me."

"And you?" White's mouth widens into a smirk. "Are you not interested in us?"

Bam does not lie to himself. He is not good at it. He does not lie to others. They are more accomplished liars. "You make my skin crawl," he says honestly.

White sneers. "Your honesty will be the death of you one day." But their eyes gleam with mirth and delight.

It's an oddly Khun expression of interest.

"It would not be the first time," Bam says before he can think better of it.

This makes White laugh. "Do you know what you are, candidate?"

"A monster?" He replies without a hint of irony. He futilely tries to tug his hand away. Do Hatz-ssi's hands hold Isu-ssi this tight? It'd be a faux pas to ask but Bam kind of wants to know if he could.

White laughs harder. "A delicacy. An interesting little fly. I still don't understand how you won."

Bam stares at him. Then, he uses Quick Step and kicks out with all of his strength. Surprise makes it work.

Bam runs.

He knows White will catch him. There's a thrill in him if he does because White, at least, won't break.

He shouldn't smile. He shouldn't laugh. He is a monster. That is what they do, but all the same, he knows that White will be just ahead of him as soon as he recovers and there will, there will be something.

Even so. Even so!

White thinks he can break Bam. All these people think Bam is delicate in one way or another. They're wrong and Evankhell has proven that in many many ways.

He'll have to get her a basket of peppers.

Bam hears the snarl from halls down and his wings snap out to propel him exactly where he wants to be. But he laughs. He laughs hard enough for it to hurt.

Look at me now, Khun-ssi, he thinks, raw and without tears. I'm learning tactics all by myself.

Naturally, White finds him in minutes.

He's smiling, mouth stretching once human cheeks with teeth that could cut. He's not broken a sweat of course. He likely didn't even run or look very hard. Bam thinks that White memorized the scent of his soul if it had one.

He'd waltzed into Bam's open door. It's still ajar and Bam watches. His chest is empty, it aches.

Still. "There are snacks in the kitchen," he dares to comment, eyebrows high.

White sneers but his eyes are dancing with that awful mirth. White wants him. It's a pure, simple desire, like Bam once wishing for Rachel to return. Khun's wishes have more wishes in them and that was why he'd like them.

It's a bit muddied by who White is, but right now, it's better than what it could be.

It's hardly the first time that Bam has been the subject of people's lusts, let alone their desires. He's even given into those desires at times for the sake of his friends, he would tell himself. Because he was lonely and loneliness hurt and if it hurt too much he'd give up and then they'd die.

Eventually, Bam had figured out it was also a desperate need to be touched, but no one would hear that last part out loud so intimately.

"You are a slayer," White says, amused. "Even in your weakness, they taught you as we were."

Idly, Bam wonders if FUG paraded prostitutes in front of Hoaquin or if that came later. Poor Anna. Poor all of them.  "Are you able to satisfy me, White-ssi?"

There's a flash of white and the sword forms. Like before however, Bam brings up his blade to meet him. It's not with the rage of adrenaline this time or the absolute loathing that so rarely hits his bones. No, it's in a challenge, monster meeting monster.

He doesn't try to win this time, but Bam bares his teeth into a smile.

White smirks. "Do you think you can win, Jue Viole Grace? Against us?"

Bam continues to bare his teeth. His heart thumps even louder in his ears. "I'll know when I remember your name, Hoaquin-ssi."

Those pale eyes darken. "We will make it the only word you know."

This is the truth of things.

Twenty-Fifth Bam was a monster long before he met Slayer Arie White. He's a baby shark and still growing. But he desires humanity and godhood in each hand.

Jue Viole Grace is alone in a base of people who want to use him. White is no different. Just this once, Viole tells himself, just this once he will use another person. Until the one person he trusts with all he is wakes up and calls his name once more.

White, he thinks wryly, would hate to know how he's not special.

White bites his lip before kissing him, leaving the taste of metal on his tongue. Viole doesn't cry out. He presses forward, palms splayed to hold himself up. White's hands grip his upper arms as he hauls Viole up against the headboard. He kisses slowly now, languid and hard. He smirks as Viole tenses up. One hand lets go, the other moving to tear his shirt open. Viole gasps for air as he pushes them back, kissing back and seeking Shinsu to leave his lungs and fill the space between them.

Viole gasps for it. It's what the man wants and Viole can give it. He's done this before. He's given himself piecemeal before. As long as he holds his heart, he will still be Bam in the end.

He wonders if Khun would be better, if he would be gentler. Those long fingers meant for a piano, well cared for and tensed for a spear, as opposed to the hard grip White has now to hold him still. Would he look at Bam like he held the world in his hands?

"You're thinking of another." White's mouth is right by his ear. He bites until Viole bleeds and Viole feels the scowl set in by his cheekbone when he doesn't do more than hiss. "Look at us."

Viole opens his eyes and looks up at him, at this powerful man who is taking care somehow, to not crush him in his hands. White looks down on him, as he has on many, but like when they fought in the train, that desperation lingers, a spark in the furthest reaches of his soul. Like try as he might, Viole himself is something far beyond his grasp no matter how close he gets.

Does White know it? Does he hate that about himself? Does he think Viole is the same way?

"I will never look at you alone," he says. There's no hatred or disgust. It is a simple fact. "I've made that mistake before. I have learned."

White laughs. "I will make you then," he says, watching the thorn close every mark White has made on his pale skin, every bit of proof that Viole belonged to the ranker. And that ember only grows.

That's all right. Viole can douse it.

White's mouth gives and digs lower, nipping and then he tugs, ripping the fabric of Viole's shirt properly. "Fight back," he orders. "Fight back like you fear me."

Viole meets his gaze, and he replies, "Well, I don't. So that will be difficult."

The snarl he gets is sweet. And those fingers dig in like they want to hurt and oh, yes, here he is. Here is something familiar, something deserved. Pain is a never-ending type of lesson and White ruts pleasurably against his inner thigh, promising, demanding. Each kiss is bruising, each part of him is looking for an answer. And Viole-

They don't understand. Viole doesn't like to fight.

He just can.

Viole summons shinsu to his fingers and swipes, lazy-bladed arches that tear into clothes. He shoves and White lets him -because he is still too weak for now- throw them back against the foot of the bed. He climbs on top, straddles White's waist, and drags his sharpened fingers over the robes. They survive a bit, but he is beloved by the tower's ever-present ruler, and what it can give him it will in spades.

Interesting. He thinks White is harder now than he was a few seconds ago. "Do you bleed? As a mass of souls, I mean. Can you bleed? Can you come?"

Does he sound curious or desperate? Hungry or aroused?

White stares at him. Then he laughs. "My body is mine as I will. I will fill you and mark you from the inside out."

Viole wants to roll his eyes, but he nods. Those fingers slide up his belly, a chill on Viole's bare skin. He shivers and White's smirk widens, just enough.

"You want that, don't you?" White holds his hips and shifts up.

Sex is erotic when someone makes it so. It can be clinical, demeaning, enticing, rewarding, welcome. These things, Viole has learned, but avoided using them when around his friends. White knows these things and does not know not to be them. All belongs to them after all.

Viole lowers his eyes and lets his growing bangs fall over his face just a little. "That's-"

"You do." White smirks and pushes his hair back. "You want to belong to someone don't you?"

Viole gasps, a high giggle leaving his mouth before he can stop it. It's too intimate to look into this man's eyes without a filter. There is no love there, after all.

White continues, tugging lower and lower as Viole squirms. His other hand holds him, watching for a single moment of rebellion. Viole spits at him and he laughs, tracing up again to one nipple. He pinches it, and rolls it between his fingers. Viole flushes, squirming further.

"Look at us," White grabs Viole's face and drags him close. Viole opens his eyes. Gold and silver and two voids meet in hunger and Viole -

Shoves with shinsu and holds. It's tenuous. He bites down, power is thrumming through him to make it doable. It's feeble, a cat against a panther, but he fights. It doesn't matter if he hurts White. It doesn't matter if he's hurt. He slices down into White, blood and white smoke dripping and fizzling out.

"I'm looking," he spits. An extra weight is forming on his head, the rough point of horns. He knows it, his wings are snapping out, black and white smoke melding into something grey. White isn't straining, he's braced his muscles, ready to flip him and hold him still. (He thinks, he can't tell based on gritted teeth alone). "But that's not enough for you, is it?"

Those silver eyes gleam brighter as Viole rises. He steps back, balancing on the bed and holding himself delicately.

Most Slayers, Master had told him, journeyed to become so because they were sure of their place and desires. Everyone who came with them also fell into those desires. They fought for those as if they were their own, for they'd lost everything in their race up the tower. Viole knows his friends care about what he wants, but inevitably he is just as caught up in their own. White cared not about such things. Viole did not try to even parse what White's were.

He poises himself in between White's legs and places two fingers right above the button of his pants. He flicks it open and lets them fall. With a hum, he taps the hem of his boxers and slides it up slowly. A smirk, daring and wrong, pulls his lips upwards. Viole dips his head, as he's learned from so many seductions. It makes him look younger, more fragile, doll-like as he kneels between White's legs, kicking off his pants. He holds himself there, widening his gaze as if he has no power at all.

"May I worship you, Your Majesty?" He bites out the words with a soft rumble in his throat.

White can get up now. He can force Viole's head down and fuck him into it. Those rough hands grab his ponytail and head as if they will.

Then White smirks and lets go. "Show me what your precious master taught you."

Viole's Shinsu flares, horns shining and wings threatening to lift him. Then he smiles, sharp teeth and loathing. "As you wish, White-ssi."

The Slayer candidate is a monster with a pretty mouth and dangerous eyes.

That mouth is wrapped around White's dick, slowly licking off sweat and going deeper without much pause. No hesitation. FUG taught its slayers to use everything they had, and devote themselves to their task of destruction. No one would follow a hesitant god. No one would put their faith in shaking hands.

They press down, those chestnut brown locks giving even if the skull doesn't. It would be easy to lift them off and use Viole until the feeling of heat and fury in their veins faded away. White even suspects that Viole would allow it, to sate a monster's hunger.

Viole moans around their cock, even though there is no one here but them. No one can appreciate this star performance. Saliva connects them when he takes a breath and White shoves them back down.

Finally, they get a noise of complaint, but he doesn't stop, shifting his legs in those boxers to get a better angle, stroking White where his mouth didn't reach. His other hand is in his underwear, likely opening himself.

White has never seen the little candidate in the apex of pleasure. There were moments where he would smile and laugh, cracked ajar doors filled with whines and huffs of breath, all alone. Tears had fallen from his eyes and the bumpiness of flesh on flesh and plastic in wet holes couldn't hide the soft gasps of sobs.

He isn't crying now. He doesn't look at White with adoration as he moves, his tongue going slack and bobbing. It's the same concentration from battle, adept to one point.

"Why now, little monster?" they murmur, loosening their grip on his scalp. "There have been plenty of times to sate your hunger and our own. Why now?"

Viole pulls himself off and breathes in, then out. He regards White with that same look; the curiosity and interest tempered by distrust and recognition. "The same reason you are," he says, unabashed by the saliva and precome on his face. He doesn't even seem to care it's there. White has a sudden urge to paint him in their colors, to carve into his skin, ruin his back, and tear off his wings. Anything.

Anything to break him.

Viole wipes his face with his fingers and licks them clean. "We're both existences of use, I think." He smiles like the world has come to an end, the once real sun has set. Father would describe it sometimes, and compare it to the beauty of the moon that controlled the tides.

"We'll use each other. I am bringing you to a battlefield to save my master and you will gain your power back. And then, in that moment, you'll probably try to eat me. I will persuade you not to and I will fight you every step."

"Is this your first step?" White drawls, sinking fingers into his waist. "To whore yourself out to me."

Viole tilts his head again, like he would at the coffee machine when he suggested instant coffee as a medicinal tea. Infuriating. "You want to use me anyway. I can use you as well. You will not break me."

I wish you could, the thought lingers in their mind, unspoken and unkind. But there is too much that matters to me.

"What will your Khun think?" They drawl. Viole sighs and sits up.

"I don't know," he says. "But don't you want me to look at you, White-ssi?"

Those eyes. Those eyes that see a place further than he can reach. Those eyes that see Hoaquin and find him lacking.

They wonder if he knows. Has he thrown them away for the sake of this high? No, they are sure that he doesn't. Viole is very different and very similar to Father in certain ways. This is the way they differ.

So Jue Viole Grace looks at them like all they are is what is. As if White is merely White and cannot go further or higher, or worthy of doing so.

They despise that.

"If you are not ours," White murmurs. "Then why look?"

"Because you want it." Viole shifts back down. "Don't you? You'd have never followed me if that was the case. You would never chase something that was not worth hunting."

White laughs. It feels twisted and wrong. "Perhaps this is why you are alone," they say. "Your friends do not understand how pure and twisted you are."

Viole smiles with those sharp canines. It is sweet and cold, like ice cream left out in the sun. Then he tosses lubricant and condoms at them, unphased when they land at their side.

It is only theirs to see. This dismissive boredom, like a spoiled prince. Truly, a hatchling of FUG.

Viole moans like music.

Each percussive thrust inside, the blood that White has gouged out of them dashing in droplets over white sheets, the horns glowing then fading as Shinsu pulses in and out in time-

All of it is something only White gets to partake in. They savor it, licking the sweat from their lips.

They've buried him face down in the pillows. The squeaks and groans and pained noises are muffled and there's a twist to his neck he will suffer through but that is not their concern. Pinning him down (he is small and fragile like a bird this way), holding his arms close to the desperately fluttering wings and horns skewering everything they touched.

Viole kicks out with one leg. It's entirely involuntary, they assume because he wouldn't miss otherwise. He smirks and grabs a hold of it.

Viole makes an annoyed sound low in his throat. White cuts him off, tightening their grip on his hip.

"You're a natural," they praise as they thrust, dragging out slowly and thrusting back in. "Did your master fuck you like this? Is that what you miss about him?"

Viole raises his head to whine. "Ah-I was too delicate to him for that."

White imagines Karaka, the disheveled child who wrapped himself in armor, and chuckles. "He's very fond of coddling his monsters."

Viole shoves back, Shinsu wrapping around their neck like a silk scarf. It tugs. White turns its head and loosens its grip, thrusting hard. They adjust their hands to shove him back down, caging him.

Viole drools into the pillow but he doesn't stop fighting. No matter how feeble it is, or the more marks White leaves or how good it must feel (he is so tight after all, more so now, the faster White becomes, the more he lets go). Shinsu dances at his command with no rhyme or reason.

Unless.

White hauls him upwards, sliding Viole down further. It punches a groan from his throat, wetness and lubricant sliding between their legs.

White presses a hand over Viole's chin by the throat and squeezes. Viole through the strain, forces his head down and bites his thumb, but it feels so good that White can't care. His blood slides into Viole's mouth and throat and he swallows despite the lack of air.

And yet it is not enough. Those eyes, cloudy with pleasure, look towards the ceiling. "Look at us," he snarls. "And I'll let you come."

Viole's eyes fasten on him, head lolling, mouth open in a sob of pleasure. "No, you won't," he gasps, laughing. "You will never be- ah!- satisfied with me!"

White snarls and lets go of his throat. They're smirking, they shouldn't smile. Why are they excited like this? They grip Viole's hips until they feel them bruise and move him like a ragdoll.

Viole leans back against their chest, following each thrust, sweaty hair free of its frustrating ponytail and swiping at his neck. His back rubs pleasantly against White's chest.

His inner thighs are red, White's precome trailing from between his legs and glistening in the low light. It's beautiful like the moon.

They wonder what that Khun sees when he looks at the candidate. There are thousands of them, millions of little minnows who want to devour their sire. Does he see power or a weapon? Does he see what lingers in Viole's eyes?

Something White could never have.

Impossible. That would never exist.

Viole plants his feet and pulls free. He turns around. His hand reaches and wraps around White's dick. They jolt as he gives a few quick tugs before sinking down on him once more.

Viole bares his teeth and White grabs him, holds him. But he doesn't stay still. Like a prey animal, a cat trying to survive against a much bigger monster.

"You can pretend all you like," they say, thrusting, trying to break him, to make those tears fall. "You're a monster and you'll be my monster. Just you watch."

The moan he rips from Viole's throat sends him over the edge, the first victory and a triumphant release.

The glow doesn't last long. Viole yanks himself free and moves after a few seconds of catching his breath. He doesn't immediately step away and leave. Gleefully, White doesn't think he can. He rolls onto his side, and wraps his fingers in another condom, starting to clean. White watches, savors the soft huffs of pleasure that come from his careful movements, those stocky fingers that know themselves intimately. It's too soon to feel hunger again, but he might just.

"I'm no one's monster," Viole says when he can breathe.

White smirks through their hair. "Not even your Khun's?"

Viole pauses. Then he smiles. "Especially not his." His expression sours all at once like they weren't just intimately joined. "I will never be enough for you, White-ssi. Eating me will not give you what you want."

"Is that so?" It will give them power, which even now thrums in his veins. It will bring them victory, and it will make those damned eyes disappear.

Viole's strange, narrowed smile widens a little. "White-ssi, you asked me the other day where I am. Here is my answer: who are you looking at, White-ssi?"

And those damned eyes meet his own, even as they crinkle into a respectful smile. "I hope I sated your hunger."

Viole does not walk with dignity, changes into spare clothes without fanfare, and limps from the room to make a meal.

And yet once again, White feels unsatisfied.

Inside of them, Albelda laughs and Hoaquin paints the scenes he had partaken in on his eyelids.

"You did not," they whisper. "But you will."

Soon Viole would be an exquisite meal, when the right spice of pain comes to mind.

When the truth will break him.