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Love Begins
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Not today Justin
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@hadeons-a
“I’ll worship animals in the night, I’ll lay violent hands on the holiest icons, I’ll clutch at all lies, I’ll grow bestial in my dreams and will allow myself to be slaughtered like a beast.”
— Ingeborg Bachmann, Malina (tr. Philip Boehm)
Thomas Doherty for RAW’s Word Play.
builtofsin:
“ no, hadeon, i don’t believe you do. you have near singlehandedly dismantled all that i have done to ensure the sanctity and freedom of our kind, your own brothers and sisters, and in doing so, have besmirched the name of our very best in the eyes of the clave –– and now it is i, once more, who is brought forth to clean up the mess you made. what is it that you expect of me now? how much more shall you have me sacrifice? ”
“ i expect you’ll do as you have always done, and survive. who are we if not a patchwork of our sacrifices, our losses, our hatred — there are times where i can’t recall how to feel anything but. you made us what we are, and what we are is eternal. you are eternal. you were here before the clave, and you will be here long after they’ve fallen. with me, or without. ”
builtofsin:
“ –– to bleed, yes, but to die in times as perilous as these? do you have any idea what you have done? ”
“ yes. you’re disappointed. strange, that i still prefer your anger — decisive and clean, quite remarkable to witness. rozcharuvannya syahaye nabahato hlybshe. ”
builtofsin:
“ if i hear … one trace of admission that it is you who is to blame for once more garnering the attention of the nephilim, those words may very well be your last. i suppose i’ll make my decision once i hear what mistake it is, exactly, that you have made this time. ”
“ ... batʹko, budʹ laska. the shadowhunter approached me. you taught us your tricks, yes, but did you not also teach us that we must never deign to suffer their disrespect? roby shcho khochesh. he deserved to bleed, and perhaps i do as well. ”
builtofsin:
“ –– i know your tricks, malen’kyy khlopchyk. i taught them to you well. you will speak honest or you will not speak at all. ”
“ ya poslyznuvsya. a mistake. we’ve all made our share. vasylko had nothing to do with it. ”
“ — ya tobi vzhe kazav, ya nichoho ne robyv. ” @builtofsin
builtofsin:
the blood in his mouth starts to taste a lot like penance that doesn’t belong to him. it tastes like shame, and shame is never merciful.
shame can be deafeningly silent and dark as a tomb. it can also be as bright and loud as a pipe bomb explosion with pieces of shrapnel embedded in the heart. this shame isn’t his to carry, but he’s forced to shoulder it anyway. forced to face it as his body is hauled upright and the fistful of hair strains the wound, staining his golden hair in shades of deep red. the ferocity of it brings tears to his eyes, brimming at his waterline. because of this, he doesn’t dare blink.
let me tell you how much we have already paid.
his valor couldn’t save him from this, either: the ravaging of flesh, ripped and torn half apart from his neck, and the scream that erupted out of him in the same way. it couldn’t save him from agony but it can save him from fear, or at least placate it long enough to spit a mixture of blood and saliva into the boy’s face. “ sounds like … a personal––problem–– ” voice scraping out of his throat, caught between a strangled breath and mirthless laugh as if he weren’t staring death in the face.
as if he weren’t saying: try harder.
oh, but it does. it does belong to him. watching him wear it, in blood and rending viscera, in his tears — the heady scent of his fear, intoxicating as the blood itself — is incomparable. watching him suffer and knowing how much worse is in store. and that might have been enough, for today; he might have taken him to vasylko just like this, wounded but not fatally, beaten but very much alive.
the herondale spits in his face, and it’s almost oddly poetic. he stills, only for a moment; a moment where time holds her breath, deceptively calm as the glassy black surface of a lake. like the abyssal black of his eyes before the spark. he inhales deeply. then his free hand snaps back and propels forward with a velocity that should be impossible at such close range. a strike that would have knocked the boy’s jaw clean from its hinges had he put his full strength behind it, but it’s enough to crack molar, enough that when he releases his hair, he falls back and smacks the floor again. hadeon rises to a stand, sweeping a palm down his face.
“ on that, i suppose we can agree. if this weren’t personal, nefilimy, i could have been persuaded to let you live. ”
his foot comes down on the bend of jace’s knee, snapping the joint out of place.
“ as it were ... ”
pulling his belt free, he slips it through the buckle and leans down to hook the loop around the boy’s neck, yanked tight as a noose.
“ ... i’m afraid your dear parabatai will just have to learn to live with his grief. or not. perhaps he’ll take his own life and spare me the incessant trouble. it’s the worst pain a shadowhunter can experience, is that not what they say — ? a soul death such as this? ”
grabbing for the loose end of the belt, he uses it to drag his prey by the neck towards the stairwell. he promised to share, after all. vasylko will have to forgive him the indiscretion of starting early.
“ tragic, ” he says, unmoved. “ but, as you so aptly put it ... sounds like a personal problem. ”
baby (2018)
builtofsin:
if she’d had something else to say, it melts away into nothing but sound; a soft gasp, the overture of a sweet moan that parts from her lips. head tips back against the pillow, baring the smooth column of her throat –– all but bare save for the swirling black rune peeking out beneath a curtain of ginger curls. anticipation has her thighs trembling, the in between slick and wet with arousal and the laps of his tongue. the reason she’d came here still lingers like a phantom, but his mouth and the way he licks into her wards it off. euphoria ignites like a wick, spread out like embers beneath pale skin. hips arc from the mattress and she’s desperate for more, to ride the motions of his tongue, chase the heat of it. “ you, ah … said never settle, right? i know you––can do better than that … ”
“ — good girl. ” extricating one of her hands from his hair, he pins it by the wrist to her lower belly, pushing her hips back into place against the mattress. to offset the balance of control, make sure that she can have only as much as he gives her. the tempo is ceaseless, unpredictable; lips and tongue in tandem, sometimes with the accompaniment of pumping fingers, sometimes the circling press of his thumb. but all mouth, no matter the rhythm. she trembles harder the nearer she gets to undoing, and he relents a moment; still bracketed between her thighs as he shifts himself up the length of her body to kiss her, make her taste the slick heat of her own arousal all over him. then he’s easing back down, again. claiming her with his mouth, again — and this time, there’s no relenting.
builtofsin:
“ –– unhappy that we’ve disobeyed him, you dolt. he didn’t take kindly to it the first time, ” if the pulsating ache still lingering at the hinge of his jaw was any indication. or the hunger. that feral, clawing hunger he’d endured for three days. “ although, i suppose as long as his precious lightwood remains unscathed by day’s end, we technically haven’t broken his rules … particularly if the herondale boy strikes first … ”
“ he didn’t take kindly to you sniffing around his new pet, ty kobylyacha sraka. ” swinging his legs down from the armrest, he sits up and stretches, languidly, like a cat. “ compromising himself for a lightwood, and expecting us to follow his rules ... ” hadeon tuts softly, then jabs a finger in his brother’s direction. “ precisely. if the boy strikes first, we’d only be defending ourselves, no? and besides that, you’re overdue a good meal. the doghouse does nothing for your skin. ”
builtofsin:
for over two-thousand years, that word had sat bitter and heavy on his tongue. he’d spit it like a curse with a curling sneer, bathing every syllable in a kind of hatred like corrosive acid. it never missed the mark. never left room for uncertainty. his resolve had always been firm –– until recently. “ careful, ” he warns, an arch of his brow to punctuate. “ his parabatai is not the only reason. killing jace herondale would act as a catalyst to a war we are not yet prepared for. oleksandra has made sure of that. be wise. we would be vastly outnumbered should you act on impulse. this is why i’m tasking you instead of vasylko. do not disappoint me. ”
and he had never questioned his father’s resolve, until recently. but he recognizes that tone too well, and holds his tongue before it gets the better of him. precious little is received worse than disrespect. “ — yak khochesh, batʹko. ” his lips purse, holding vitriol for a moment behind his teeth. then, a breath out. “ she’ll keep going. leaving the dead on their doorstep like a cat dragging in vermin, and they’ll keep blaming us. how do you know a war isn’t exactly what she wants? ”
builtofsin:
“ –– worse than that, but please, don’t remind me. i find him repulsive enough on his own without that knowledge. ” repulsive, and loud. he makes a wry face, but fonder memories put it at ease. “ mynulo zanadto bahato chasu … are you suggesting we turn this one into a meal ticket? bat’ko buv by neshchaslyvyy. i’m in. ”
“ oh, i don’t disagree. ” he has him, hook, line, and sinker. the smile broadens into a shameless grin. “ unhappy that we indulge our natural instincts and prey upon the thing he’s taught us to hate most? a meal ticket is a generous fate, compared to what the boy deserves. i’ll take the lashing for it. ”
builtofsin:
‘other things’ leaves a lot to the imagination and clary’s has an awful habit of spiraling, much like it’s doing now. first, there’s apprehension. the tightening coil of muscle as he cleans the blood from her thigh feels like a jolt going through her entire body, despite how tender and careful hadeon was with her –– but there’s something in the way he handles her, how he’d moved her into a better position and speaks to her in that charming voice of his that has her unwinding with ease. “ this kind … ? ” both hands in his hair now, but there’s an almost virginal tenderness to it. teeth graze over her bottom lip as warmth spreads between her hips, a rosy dust cresting her cheeks. “ is there another kind i should be holding out for? ”
a thoughtful hum resonates in his throat. “ arguably, that’s an attitude you should keep towards every aspect of your life. ” his eyes flicker upward again at half - mast, lingering on the bloom of color that sprang to her skin. “ holding out implies that there is always something better. never settle for less, krasunia, ” that last is a playful chide. his head bows once more, this time to kiss between her thighs. through fabric, at first, before a thumb hooks the edge to ease it aside, mouthing over her and then into her with long, slow strokes of his tongue.
it isn’t. an upir’s hunger is insatiable, and moderation isn’t always a given. it’s about control. discipline, not overindulgence. not here. he smiles up at her, languid and sharp, and the taste of godliness that lingers on his tongue feels anything but holy. “ this, among other things. ” the heels of both hands push gently beneath the bend of her knees, coaxing her legs up until they’re draped over his shoulders. a dip of his head to lick the bite clean. “ for example, ” he says, and starts mouthing a slow line of kisses along the curve of her inner thigh. “ if you keep an open mind, ” still further inward, edging that thin layer of fabric between his mouth and her sweetest warmth, “ this kind of experience can be almost ... spiritual. ” @builtofsin / cont.
builtofsin:
jace should have left. minutes ago, before the door of opportunity closed in his face. he should have taken it. if he had, maybe he wouldn’t be here. maybe he wouldn’t feel so crippled and helpless, vulnerable, remembering what it felt like to be a defenseless child again –– but that feeling is what spurns something inside of him, the very grit of fierce determination. sometimes it’s as brave to live as it is to die. death, as it turns out, had neither a preference for one or the other.
he should be dead. he should have dissolved into ashes and embers.
fear could have kept him in a stronghold now, but it didn’t. even when the flesh of his neck is pulled apart mangled and bloody, breaths ragged and strangled in his throat, heart pumping wildly against his chest. even as the second bone-cracking strike of his skull has him losing all sense of equilibrium, dropping to the floor as his vision begins to fade into all-encompassing darkness.
he blinks hard, once, twice, resilience twice as strong as his indignation. “ you’ll pay for this––i swear–– ”
“ you swear — ? on what do you swear, shadowhunter? calling upon the precious sanctity of your angels — did you know that raziel himself, your mighty creator, is known as the keeper of secrets? ” the blade’s handle sears the skin of his palm upon extraction, provoking a hiss more animal than man. he throws it aside, well out of reach. “ and you loathsome nefilimy do love your secrets, don’t you. ” bearing down upon his prey in a low crouch to drag the herondale halfway upright, one hand gripping his collar while the other, again, fists his hair. utilizing that grasp to jerk his head back and force him to make eye contact.
“ let me tell you how much we have already paid. ” his bite lands adjacent to the first and with the same savagery, but quicker. mere seconds until jace’s head is yanked back again. “ in blood, and in death, and in losses you could not possibly begin to imagine, at the hands of those like you. your misguided valor cannot save you from the inevitable. and when the time comes — because it will come — all of this will be a dream compared to the nightmare my father has waiting for you. do you understand, jace herondale? when the time comes, death is a mercy you’ll beg for. ”
builtofsin:
the collision knocks the wind out of him, stunting him hard enough to see stars behind his eyelids. something feels wet and warm at the back of his skull, pulsing like an open wound. his attempt to reach his seraph blade is thwarted, ligament and bone nearly snapping apart beneath the pressure at his wrist; pain had never been a comfort but always a familiarity, and so he doesn’t award him the satisfaction of hearing it.
herondales?
before he can answer, before the thought even forms a question or sentence, his neck is torn into by something feral and deadly –– and this time, jace doesn’t get a chance to stop the agonizing scream that rips from his throat. he tries to move but can’t. can’t escape, can’t push him off. he does the next best thing instead: utilizes the range of his free hand to brandish a different weapon, a smaller dagger crafted in the same image as his seraph blade, and plunges it forward into his stomach. twisting, violently, his knuckles stark white against the blood.
the scream is music to his ears. he had expected divinity, of course; enticed by the smell and the lure of a bloodline that’s long since forfeited the right to exist. it’s the ineffable strength of it that surprises him. the vigor unlike anything he’s ever tasted. a thousand years of practiced restraint is put to a dangerous test, and barring the interruption, the oversight of that free hand, he might have drained him right here against splintered oak paneling without a moment lost to consider repercussion.
pain in his upper abdomen. white, sharp, burning pain, enough to pull his focus, anchor him in the present. the tearing of teeth from throat isn’t lethal, but nor is it gentle. a gash of lacerated tissue is left in its wake. tongue catching rivulets of red around his mouth, he growls, “ how resourceful, ” with a glance given to the blade’s hilt where it protrudes. he smiles bloody. “ pity — it’ll take more than that. ”
springing forward again, he grabs hold of a fistful of hair painfully close to the scalp, driving the boy’s skull against the wall a second time.
