The Hand That Chooses
Rain/Cirrus: 3.650k
AO3
Summary: some throats won't be missed. Murder Ghoul Rain with some heavy petting at the end
Warnings: murder ghouls; murder ghouls on ice edition; murder; it's fine the guy deserves it; blood and injury/blood and violence; lite bloodplay; blood drinking (not lite); knifeplay; Rain has a switchblade pass it on; Predator/Prey meant in the most literal sense; carnivore romance; ice skating; worship through violence; rain would do anything for his mate and even worse things for his best friend; oh and kissing :D
a/n: everyone say thank you canada for allowing the ghockey pics to infiltrate everyone's brains!!! unfortunately, my brain is rotten
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The lake glitters under a pale winter sun, ice stretching smooth and silver beneath a sky the color of cold porcelain. Pines ring the shore, their needles dark against bare-limbed birch. Snow curls in soft drifts at the edges, tufted like down, and the occasional gust sends it whispering across the ice in lazy arabesques.
Music plays tinny and sweet from a speaker tucked beside a cider cart near the bank. Laughter echoes in bursts. Ghouls and siblings of sin dot the surface in loose pairs and clumps, bundled in velvet and wool, hands clasped or flailing for balance.
Rain glides through the center of it all.
His coat trails behind him like the tail of a comet—deep navy, lined in soft white fur at the collar, clasped high at the throat. Beneath it, his uniform shimmers faintly: layered and warm, but tailored to move. His black skates cut clean across the surface, each movement fluid and precise—water given edge.
And yet, he finds himself wanting to play.
He shifts his weight, leans into the curve of the wind, and spins—a full-bodied twirl that sends his coat fanning around him like a stormcloud rimmed in light. His skates chime softly against the ice, ringing out in crisp staccato notes as he dips low, carves a sweeping arc, and rises again in a single, unbroken motion.
Snowflakes kick up at the edges where his blades meet the frost. They glitter in the air around him, catching in his lashes, clinging to the hem of his coat. He’s grinning now, too. Flushed with the pure, unburdened joy of movement.
Cirrus laughs in delight as she watches, and he flashes a wink mid-pirouette.
There’s no rush. No urgency. Only the ache of winter in his lungs and the crisp bite of air across his sharp cheekbones.
He breathes in and hums low to himself. Everything is beautiful.
A perfect winter's day.
At least until he hears it.
A gasp, a squeal—the unmistakable scramble of hands on ice.
Rain’s head lifts and his body slows, posture shifting subtly as he turns towards the shoreline.
Cirrus is flat on her ass, mittened hands smacking the ice in gleeful protest. Her scarf has come undone and her hair has puffed out beneath her hat, a picture of pastel joy as she tries (and fails) to get back up.
Rain chuckles under his breath, already changing direction, gliding toward her.
But before he gets there, a figure streaks past.
Too fast. Too close.
Snow kicks up in a sharp spray across Cirrus’s knees, chest, and face—a deliberate sweep. She yelps, startled, as frost hits her eyes.
The man doesn’t stop, doesn’t bother to slow.
He just keeps on gliding, coasting backward with a shit-eating grin, clearly proud of himself.
Rain slows as he appraises the man.
He's not one of theirs. Someone from a town or two over with an expensive jacket, sharp jaw, and no idea what kind of ground he’s skating on.
Rain watches him nearly trip a kit pushing a battered traffic cone. Sees him glide straight through Ifrit’s fishing setup, shearing his lines in two.
Careless.
Unfortunate.
Something flickers in Rain’s eyes before it settles dark and still behind them.
He glances toward the shore. Cumulus is helping Cirrus up, dusting her off with a mittened hand and a loving smile.
Rain catches her eye.
They exchange a single nod.
And Rain is off.
He pivots on his blades, graceful as a falling star, and begins to follow.
“Hey,” he calls, calm and soft-spoken.
The man half-turns, already smirking, like he expects praise. Rain coasts up beside him without hurry, skates cutting a clean, elegant line. He slows just enough for the blades to catch the light.
His cheeks are flushed from the cold, high with color. Frost clings to his lashes and curls at his temples like spun glass. His lips, barely chapped and bitten pink, part in a lazy smile as he tips his head.
He looks devastating.
Like the kind of thing you ruin yourself for, if you’re very lucky.
“You're pretty fast on the ice,” Rain says, eyes trailing slowly down the man's frame and back up. “Show me?”
The guy blinks and grins, arrogance dripping from his bright white veneers.
He thinks this is going somewhere else.
Perfect.
“You skate?” he asks, cocky.
“Better than you,” Rain answers, and pushes off with a flick of his heel, coasting backwards, arms open.
He lets the other man follow.
Lets him think he’s keeping pace.
Lets him get drawn further down the lake, where the treeline thickens and the wind picks up and the crowd's laughter fades.
The music warbles, then disappears.
Just snow. Just ice.
And the sound of Rain’s blades whispering ahead like a promise.
The guy follows, of course.
As Rain glides gracefully ahead, he glances over his shoulder once—just enough to make eye contact. Just enough to invite.
The man picks up speed.
They slip further past the edge of the crowd—past the ring of pine and birch where the lake narrows, where the shade deepens, and the ice starts to hum beneath its silence. Rain slows, circling lazily as the man catches up.
“You always skate like that,” the guy asks, “or just when you know someone’s watching?”
Rain shrugs.
Frost clings to his lower lashes. His lips are still flushed, cheeks pink from motion and wind, hair a little mussed. He looks ethereal in the dimming light, backlit by ice and sky.
“You've been watching me long?”
His tone is light and teasing.
Dangerous, if you’re listening close.
“Hard not to,” the man says, winking as he coasts closer. “Pretty thing like you out here showing off.”
Rain tilts his head, lets his gaze wander slow over the man’s body, measuring him.
“Flatterer,” Rain murmurs. “But I saw the way you move. Fast and reckless. No respect for the ice, or anything on it.”
The guy shrugs with a laugh.
“Can’t help it. Gotta let off steam somehow.”
“Mm.” Rain drifts in, close enough that their skates nearly touch. His voice drops, barely louder than the wind.
“Tell me your name,” Rain says.
“You first.”
Rain clicks his tongue, half a laugh.
“Now why would I give that away? You might try to find me again.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” the man drawls, inching even closer.
He’s grinning.
Rain's gloved fingers lift and brush lightly down the man’s front—just the edge of his coat, enough to make the breath hitch.
He leans in, like he might kiss him.
“You showed me everything I needed to see," he says quietly.
He ghosts a finger along the guy's collarbone, tilting his head like he’s curious.
That proud grin twitches. Still trying to flirt, but it falters for a moment under Rain’s eyes.
“Beautiful and intense. Dangerous combo.”
Rain hums.
“Wouldn’t you be? If you knew where all the cracks were?”
He takes a slow step forward, and the man, without thinking, steps back.
The ice groans.
Just a little.
Rain’s smile doesn’t falter.
He skates forward again, their chests nearly touching now, breath mingling in pale clouds. The man barely holds his ground.
“You feel that?” Rain asks quietly.
The guy frowns.
The ice beneath them gives a low, shuddering groan, deep and hollow.
The man startles, shifting his weight with a nervous laugh.
“You bring me all the way out here just to fall through the ice?”
He tries to sound amused, but his eyes flick downward.
Rain tilts his head.
His tone is syrup-smooth. Saccharine.
“What makes you think I’d be the one to fall?”
He begins to circle again, slow and tight .
His blades scrape rougher now, carving a delicate spiderweb outward from their path.
The man shifts uneasily, neck craning slightly as Rain passes—because up close, he’s tall. Taller than expected. All long limbs and quiet power, every inch of him measured threat.
Rain hums to himself.
“This lake doesn’t like carelessness,” he says. “It remembers every bruise. Every insult.”
Another groan beneath them—longer this time. A deep, sonorous warning.
“You’ve been skating like nothing can touch you,” Rain murmurs, coming up behind him. “But this isn’t your water.”
He leans in close.
His breath brushes the man’s ear.
“It’s mine.”
The man jolts as the ice groans again—louder now, more splinter than song.
His laugh this time is brittle, too high around the edges.
“Okay, you’re fun and all, but I think I’ll head back—”
Rain doesn’t stop him.
He watches as the man stumbles into motion, blades screeching against the frost in a graceless push. Panic flattens his posture. His arms flail, desperate to build speed, to get distance—to get back to the light and music and warmth.
But the lake is wide.
And Rain is already moving
Fast and flawless.
He glides across the ice like a shadow unspooling, calm and composed, every line of him elegant and lethal. His skates make no noise now—just a kiss of steel against ice as he arcs wide and begins to close in.
“You can't run from water,” Rain calls, voice echoing across the surface. “You float. Or you drown.”
The man looks back and sees how close Rain is—how untouched, how smiling—and panics harder.
He cuts a sharp turn.
Bad choice.
The ice screams beneath his skates and a fracture flashes across the surface in a long, jagged vein.
Rain chases it.
His blades glide alongside the crack, tracking the weakness, coaxing it forward.
They pass through a curtain of trees—thin, skeletal branches scraping sky. The wind dies.
No crowd. No music.
Just ice, breath, and the scent of building terror.
The man hits the far shore in a graceless scramble, blades grinding on crusted snow. He collapses to his knees, panting.
Looks up—
And Rain is already there.
The man’s palms skid as he scrambles backward on the shore, heart hammering, face blotched and wild. He opens his mouth to beg. Or bark. Or bluff—
But Rain is already standing over him, luminous in the silence.
His breath curls in the cold.
“You made a mess of the afternoon,” Rain says softly, stripping the glove from his right hand.
Finger by finger.
Snow dusts his knuckles as he tucks it into his coat. The air bites instantly, but he doesn’t flinch.
He wants to feel it.
The man twitches.
Rain reaches into his coat and draws his blade.
It gleams in the half-light, slender and deceptively elegant. The handle, smooth ivory and polished to a soft sheen, rests easy in his palm, catching a shimmer of gold where the sun slips through the trees.
She’s lean. Balanced.
The kind of weapon that doesn’t need to scream.
The ivory warms under his bare skin. Familiar.
Beloved.
Rain flicks the blade open with a practiced twist of his thumb.
The sound—that crisp metallic snap—breaks the silence like a verdict.
In his hand, she doesn’t look particularly modern.
She looks ritual-born. Lovingly kept. Often used.
The kind of blade you clean the same way you pray.
And the hand that holds her—
Pale, grey-blue skin stretched smooth across long fingers, stark with vein and tendon. Steady and precise. Beautiful in motion.
He spins the handle once, quick and clean, the blade catching light as it arcs through the air and settles perfectly back into his grip.
The contrast between the sleek ivory hilt and the holy violence behind it is striking.
But it fits. It belongs.
Because the blade may do the cutting.
But it’s his hand that chooses.
The man says nothing. Doesn’t move. He only stares at the blade. At the hand that holds it.
Rain lets him look.
Leans closer.
“And I,” he murmurs, “am here to cleanse.”
The man tries to crawl backward, skates catching on packed snow, but Rain is already pressing forward, blade angled with care, resting the flat of it against the man’s throat.
“Still think I’m pretty?”
The man whimpers.
Rain tilts his head, studying him. His eyes glow faint now, sea-glass and stormlight.
“Say her name.”
“W-what—”
The tip of the blade slides along his collarbone—just a whisper of pressure. Enough to encourage.
“The ghoul you sprayed with ice. The one you mocked. Say her name.”
“I—I don’t know—”
Rain sighs.
“I figured as much.”
The man starts to stammer some broken apology, but Rain’s eyes have gone unreadable.
A vast, glass-smooth stillness—the kind you only see underwater where the light doesn’t reach.
“You may not know her name,” Rain says. “But I do.”
He shifts his grip. The blade catches the last glint of sun before it's gone behind the trees.
His hand moves fast—
One clean stroke. He draws the blade diagonally down the man’s chest, slicing through fabric, through warmth, through whatever shallow protection that coat was meant to offer. The man howls, slumping forward, arms trembling.
Rain catches him gently by the hair.
“Shh,” he soothes. “Don’t scream yet.”
He leans in, voice right at the shell of the man’s ear.
“You hurt someone small. Someone soft. Someone mine.”
Rain presses the blade under his chin, tipping the man’s head back. His eyes are wide now. Dazed. Blood stains the snow in splatter-bursts, vivid against the pale.
“Look up. Look around. No one’s coming.”
Rain exhales once, steam coiling in the air.
“You shouldn’t have run,” Rain whispers. “You shouldn’t have skated through her light.”
And with one hand steady at the throat, the other lifts the blade again and he cuts
—quick and beautiful.
The body slumps forward, steam curling from the new wound, from the still-spilling heat. Blood trickles in slow rivulets across the snow, pooling in the ridges of ice and soaking into the pine-strewn bank in radiant, crimson strokes.
It smells like iron and fear and something bright—fresh-cut and wrong against the sanctity of winter’s hush.
Rain breathes it in.
His eyes slip closed for a moment, lashes casting little shadows across wind-flushed cheeks.
He lowers to his knees.
His hand presses over the chest, palm slick with heat, and he leans in, lips parted.
It’s quiet, but he drinks.
No snarling. No growl. Only the sound of breath over skin.
The wet pulse of communion.
His glow hums faint under his ribs, low and steady, a predator’s purr. The cold doesn’t touch him here, heat rolling from his spine in waves as he drinks, as he takes what was never offered.
But this isn’t gluttony.
It’s devotion.
He sits back on his heels and decides Cirrus needs more than just a sip.
She needs something special, just for her.
He removes his other glove and puts it in the same pocket as the first, hands bare now against the cold, blood warming his fingers in slow pulses.
He presses one palm over the sternum and the other beside it, breath steady, eyes half-lidded.
"C'mon now," he whispers. "Be good for me."
His claws ease forward, working with the grain of blood and bone, parting the still warm flesh.
The ribcage yields beneath him with a low, softened crack.
He works gently. Precisely.
Each rib popping open with a delicate touch, as if what lies within might vanish if handled too roughly.
One at a time.
“There you are,” he murmurs, voice low, warm with something like awe. "Precious little thing.”
The heart, still warm and pulsing faintly with electric memory.
He lifts it with both hands, careful as if cradling a newborn kit. Fingers curved beneath, thumbs resting light across the curve of it.
He holds it there for a moment, admiring.
A shuddered breath as his thumb drags slowly across the atrium—the body’s chapel, still warm.
He could swear it thrums beneath his hand.
So small. So soft.
And somehow still singing.
A final hymn. A love song for the living.
Snow crunches beneath him as he stands, careful not to disturb the hush.
He leaves the body where it fell—half-covered now by windblown frost, blood streaking away in slow, freezing veins. The lake will take what it wants. He has what he came for.
He carries the heart with both hands, cupped carefully, carrying a relic from its altar.
He glides to the crooked tree at the edge of the shore, its branches bowed low with snow and years. The wind gentles as he approaches.
He kneels again, carves out a shallow hollow beneath the roots, and lays the heart into it, cradled by down-soft powder.
“For her,” he murmurs.
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The crowd has returned to its laughter—the scrape of skates, the whistle of wind.
No one notices when Rain glides back in from the tree line.
His coat’s caught a little red at the hem, but it melts into the velvet like shadow. His cheeks are still flushed from the cold, but now there’s a glow beneath it—an inner heat, slow and deep.
He glances down at the blade still in his hand as he skates, small and sharp and elegant. He tilts it toward the fading light and runs his tongue up the edge, slow and reverent. When he pulls back, the red on his lips looks less like blood, more like a flower in full glory.
He’s in no hurry. Nothing to hide, and no reason to try.
It leaves a clean streak behind, metal polished in the wake of his mouth. He licks his lips once.
Smiles like it’s spring.
By the time he reaches the crowd again, the blade is sheathed. The warmth in his cheeks isn’t just from the cold anymore.
And his eyes—
He keeps looking for her.
He stops when he sees her—Cirrus, bundled again and laughing at something Cumulus says, her hair back under her cap, a little blush still on her cheeks.
Rain skates right up to her. Offers a hand.
“Come with me.”
She blinks up at him.
“Out there?” she asks, a little uncertain. “Isn’t it far?”
He leans in, presses their foreheads gently together. His breath is warm against her nose.
“I’ll keep you safe.”
She hesitates before nodding, offering him her hand.
He laces their fingers together and begins to guide her back toward the quiet end of the lake. He slows for her now, adjusts his pace to her smaller strides. Every few seconds, he glances over, checking that she’s steady.
When the wind kicks up, he shields her with his coat.
When the ice groans, he doesn’t flinch.
“It won’t crack,” he promises softly. “Not for us.”
And when they reach the edge of the woods, the little curve of shoreline where the tree bends low over the snow, he stops and points.
“There.”
Cirrus steps carefully off the ice and into the snowdrift. She bends—gasps.
It’s tucked in a hollow beneath the tree, just where the needles dip: a perfect heart, cradled in packed white, still pulsing faint with residual warmth.
Seeping scarlet into the pristine surround.
Her favorite color.
“What—”
Her breath hitches—soft and startled. She looks up at Rain, eyes bright as winter stars.
He just smiles.
“For you,” he says, as though anything less would be unthinkable. “He was rude.”
She doesn't speak at first. She only reaches up with one mittened hand, warm and trembling, and touches his cheek.
Rain leans into it and then she tugs gently—drawing him down with her, knees folding into the snowbank beside the tree.
Cirrus settles close, eyes never leaving his.
“Will you feed me?” she whispers.
Rain’s breath catches.
His glow flares soft beneath the collar of his coat.
He nods.
Snow begins to fall again—slow and soft, the world blanketed quiet—as Rain kneels deeper into the drift and opens his coat, pulling out the blade like it’s a gift for her, too.
He holds it in both hands and tilts it toward her, flat across his palms like something sacred.
Cirrus doesn’t reach for it.
She leans in, instead—until her breath fogs against the polished steel, until her lashes flutter and her voice brushes like snowfall against the space between them. She kisses the edge of it before looking back up at him.
“Is it still warm?”
Rain’s eyes darken, lips parting slightly.
“It should be.”
Her mitten trails down the length of his arm.
Rain shifts to reach for the heart, letting the tip of the blade rest gently on its crown before making a shallow, deliberate slice.
The blood wells instantly, rich and dark against the cold.
He gathers it on his thumb and raises his hand. Cirrus meets him halfway.
She parts her lips, soft and slow, and draws his thumb into her mouth.
Suckles once and smiles and then she's reaching for him—mitten sliding down his coat, pulling him in.
She kisses him filthy, hungry, stained red at the edges with devotion and blood, with a sweetness only they understand.
Rain makes a sound low in his throat—somewhere between a laugh and a growl—and kisses her back like he means to drown in her.
When he presses her down into the snowbank, slow and sure, his coat flares around them like wings.
His mouth brushes her jaw, voice dark with praise and heavy with heat.
“Good girl."
He mouths at her throat after, tongue dragging slow before the faint scrape of teeth. Her pulse jumps beneath him, and she turns her face to give him more.
She whimpers quiet and wrecked, arching under him as his hand slides to her waist, his dripping red thumb pressing into the soft give of her hip.
"Rain—"
“Say it again,” he murmurs, breath brushing behind her ear.
She does—soft and trembling, the taste of him and his offering still warm on her tongue.
