Consider Dewdrop who let's a fanatical church kidnap him because he's a pure masochist lil bastard and finds it entertaining that they're going to perform an exorcism on him. They grab him thinking he's just a human worshipper of Satan and not literally a demon himself, drag him into their basement and chain him up.
He screams and cries as they bring blow after blow of a whip down on his back while screaming prayers at him, the whole time he's rock hard in his pants and making lil rough jerks of his hips as he pants and moans. They don't see the way he bites his lip and grins as they continue to beat him.
Eventually Aether and Mountain kick down the door to the basement, covered in blood from the church members that had already gotten in their way with all the casual appearance of parents coming to pick up.
"Are you done playing with your friends?" Aether asks, cracking his neck and his lips sliding back to reveal his glistening fangs.
The church members start screaming when they turn back and Dewdrop has revealed his own fangs at them. His hands already free from the chains that never could hold him and he cackles.
Every time I’m like “I don’t need any more Ghost tshirts” they go and do something like this. And what, I’m just supposed to NOT buy the murder ghouls t-shirt?!!!?!?!?!?
You think murder ghoul Dewther ever fuck in the blood of a really good kill
You think Aether thinks Dew's never more beautiful than when his pupils are huge from adrenaline and his hair's plastered to his cheek with blood and he's still half-growling with every exhale
bc I think about that a lot
It's the best when Dew takes the lead.
Aether follows deep in shadow, watching Dew pick his way through thick underbrush. He's barefoot, claws and fangs on glorious display and that proud nose in the air. Aether can see his nostrils flare when he catches a scent, watches Dew's throat bob when he licks his lips. The little ghoul holds up two fingers, gives Aether a quick signal, and just like that the chase is on.
It's a beautiful thing, watching Dewdrop hunt. He's sure-footed and agile, weaving around thick tree trunks and felled branches like rainwater. He doesn't make a sound despite his speed, not a twig snapped nor a bush rustled as Aether trails behind in the darkness. Every now and again Dew will pause for another cursory sniff, and Aether drinks in the amber glow of his eyes and the long, long line of that beautiful neck. His fingers twitch with excitement when he sets off again, and Aether knows by the way his tail swishes that they must be close.
They reach the edge of a clearing together, a gap in the trees giving way to a small pond surrounded in clover and buttercups. The moon glints off still water, a gentle breeze stirs the flowers, and yet all Aether can look at is the eager ghoul before him.
Close.
Dew sends it straight to his synapses, a raw growl deep in Aether's mind. His eyes flit across the clearing, and moments later Aether knows he's found his prize - the way he licks his lips is a dead giveaway.
Where?
Dew stares unblinking towards the far side of the pond, and after a moment Aether sees it. A lump on the ground, nestled in a cluster of boulders. In the dark it would be easy to mistake for another rock, but when he focuses - there it is, the steady rise-and-fall of deep sleep.
He's the one?
Dew nods, flexing his fingers.
So says our Frater, he replies, and Aether can hear the hunger in it.
Will you make it quick?
Dew glances over, his smirk nothing but cruel.
Do I ever?
Aether throbs, the shadows ripple around him, and with a wink Dew stalks into the clearing.
Aether watches from his dark shelter, out of the way as promised. He'd gotten to maul the last of the church's dissenters, it's only fair to let Dew have his way with this one. Not that he isn't having his own hunger pangs, of course, but the little guy always shares after he gets his choice cuts. Aether can picture it now, can already see Dew's skin painted in sticky crimson, ripping into muscle and viscera. Sinking his fangs into a traitorous throat in the name of their Frater and the Ones Below, silencing a wolf in sheep's clothing. Wrath and gluttony and the worst sort of lust.
A sharp gasp cuts the heavy silence, Aether snaps back to attention, and the wretched oh-so-human scream that follows makes his eyes roll.
The first blow isn't a death sentence, never is with Dew. Just one good swipe of the claws across the stomach, enough to cut but not to eviscerate. Enough to keep even the strongest man from standing up straight, and their meal tonight was never known for his strength. He tries to run - they always do - and a thrill drips down Aether's spine when he sees Dew give slow chase in a very specific direction.
Got him?
Got him.
Aether focuses, breathes, and the shadows surrounding him melt away just in time for the former sibling at their mercy to run headfirst into his chest. He stumbles and falls into a heap at Aether's feet, looking so much like a lost little lamb, and all it does it make Aether's stomach rumble. He crouches, observing this pathetic little man with deep disgust and even deeper joy.
His eyes sit large and watery, clothing torn from hours traipsing through the forest - it's where all traitors to the clergy end up, one way or another. He's pale and balding, panting and heavy around the middle. A whimpering little mess of a human, really and Aether tips his head in curiosity when he gets on his knees.
"H-help me!" He pleads, grabbing at Aether's legs and scrambling to stand. He's noisy about it too, so much so that he doesn't notice deliberate footsteps approaching from behind. "P-please, please -"
"I would," Aether replies with a shrug, stepping back just to make the man fall right on his doughy, wibbling face. "But I'm actually here for dinner."
He grins when the man looks up, genial and light, and the cartoonish way his eyes go wide when Dew grabs the back of his shirt makes Aether laugh.
"Dibs," Dewdrop growls, and in a beautiful gush of scarlet his fangs find their home.
It goes quickly after that. Dew can rarely restrain himself once blood touches his tongue, and Aether really can't blame him. Dew makes sure not to dispatch their prize too quickly; some may say suffering ruins the meat but ghouls happen to like the sharp edge it provides. It's a delight to watch him carve patterns in flabby skin, to nick each artery and watch them spurt with the man's fading pulse. To watch his chest heave and hear his breath rattle, begging with everything he has left for someone, anyone to help. It's cute, really.
Soon enough though, the bloodlust takes over. Dew snarls, opening wide and gripping his gurgling throat in tight jaws. Digs his claws into that soft stomach until they tear through the surface. The crunch and full-body twitch that follow are exquisite, and while Aether doesn't know when he took his cock out he certainly isn't going to stop stroking it now. Especially not when Dew finally, finally loses himself, drenched in blood and gore and rending chunks of flesh from bone with nothing but his teeth.
He's rarely more beautiful than in these moments, Aether thinks. Bestial and crazed, yet still elegant. His hair had fallen from its tie in the chase, clinging to his face and adding to the crazed look in his eyes. Dew's pupils have gone so wide, reducing amber irises to thin rings in the darkness, blood dripping from his chin and a chunk of liver between his teeth. It's damn near torture to stay where he is, but he did promise he wouldn't interfere...
"Fuck me," a rasping voice demands, and Aether blinks. Pulls his focus from Dew's face to the rest of him, only to find the little ghoul on knees and elbows with his pants shoved down just past his ass. The bloodsoaked clover squelches beneath him, and the only thing louder is the sound of Dew's hand working between his legs. "Now."
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.
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.
need more Cirrus murder too, her and Dew being pious about it
Oh it is holy for them.
Blood and gore and death are the way they get closest to lucifer. How they show their gratitude--their love. He has given them so much, everything they could have ever wanted. The least they can do is send a few souls his way.
Is bathe in the blood of the wicked. Purge the earth of them, one by one. A gift to their unholy father.
Cirrus/Dew murder ghouls is actually one of my favorite duos. I think they are just so on the same page about it. And you're right--it's pious. It's ritual. It's important and special and deeply worshipful.
When they kill together it is hedonism at it's most pure. It is Dew lapping blood from Cirrus' fingers. It's Cirrus closing her eyes in bliss as hot blood pulses over her hands.
They are so in sync. Barely talking about who does what--who they're going after--what the plan is. They operate on finely honed instints, on their similarities that always guide them to the same places--the same desires.
And they're both just so fucking into it. Into watching the light bleed from someone's eyes. Into savoring those last staggering breaths.
This is the way lucifer's most devout ghouls pray. And Dew and Cirrus do a lot of praying.
Spreads her wings and a fog so thick you can’t even see your hand in front of your face covers everything.
Of course she uses it to hide her movements but I think it’s more than that. I think she laces it with quintessence so whoever gets lost in it is truly stuck. Makes them see and hear things. Makes them afraid so they get reckless. Makes it so they can never truly find their way out not matter how hard they try.
And the longer they’re stuck in the fog the more the quint affects them. Think the effects depend on her mood. Maybe they get more and more tired until they can’t even move. Maybe they start to properly hallucinate, seeing past loved ones or representations of their greatest fears. All the while she’s just watching, stalking closer and closer as she learns about her prey.
When she’s finally had enough of the chase I think she lets the glow in her chest shine. Acts as a beacon to the poor lost soul. I think it does something to her to watch her prey willingly run into her arms, thinking they’ll finally be free from the fog. But by the time they get close enough to see her wings and claws and horns it’s too late.
The fog clears and the human is missing. Not even a drop of blood remains.
Phantom had been partially blind from an accident that happened when they were a kit. But with the stress of being forced away from their Papa - who chases every bad memory away - not only do they lose sight of a possible reunion, but they also lose their sight, altogether while they other Ghouls are helpless but to watch them spiral into depression...
Tags: they/them Phantom, Phantom and Aether are siblings, blindness, hurt/comfort, angst, family dynamics, forced separation, parent-child relationship, implied murder Ghouls at the end, mostly phanter and aethtom (platonic) but a little bit of dewther and swisstom for the soul lol
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Phantom’s skin had long been painted in a myriad of scars acquired from a whole host of injuries and tales, but perhaps the most obvious is the one on their face. They got it when they were just a kit and training with their clan, getting a little overeager and causing a burst of unbridled Quintessential magic to erupt into their face. The instinct they got to turn away caused the damage to only hit the left side of their face, but it also took away most of the vision in that eye.
They had no peripheral vision left, very little depth perception and only a straw’s width of a gap in the eigengrau void to actually see through. They slowly adjusted to their new way of having to view the world, always feeling unbalanced and often getting migraines from the sheer amount of compensating their right eye had to do.
But, by the time they were summoned to Earth, they had fully adjusted and accepted what they now had to live with. And considering they now had their Papa with them, and were reunited with their brother, Aether, once more, they could never complain too much about anything in their life.
Nightmares of all they went through were chased away by Copia’s scent of stale tobacco settled into woollen sweaters and aged parchment. The human’s strong arms around them made them feel safe and at home. And they could never get enough of sleeping in their Papa’s arms, listening to his heart and feeling his fingers thread through their black and white hair.
It was all so perfect and Phantom could memorise every detail of their Papa despite their partially blind condition.
Well… That was until it all fell apart, and a wedge was driven between Phantom and their beloved Papa. Now, they could no longer spend their nights holding each other, Phantom couldn’t be soothed by Copia’s scent after a nightmare, and their soul ached with the loneliness of it. All because of some promotion and arbitrary new rules that deemed their parent-child relationship as unprofessional and unsafe.
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Copia no longer had the responsibility of caring for the Ghouls. That was a Papa’s job and he was a Papa no more.
The most interaction Phantom got with Frater was a nod in the corridor and a handshake at formal events. No hugs, no I love you’s and no visits to either’s rooms for sleepovers and cuddles.
It had been just over a year and a half since this separation started and Phantom was losing hope for any reunion. They were having more nightmares than ever and so many were of Copia getting hurt and Phantom not being able to save them. The anxiety of those dreams possibly being premonitions was making them beyond stressed and what sleep they were getting was of no real quality.
One day, they woke up from one of their nightmares and cracked their right eye open, gently smacking their left temple to get the other eye open. Sometimes it took a little longer to clear the sleep out from what little they could see from that side. But… that side was open… Why was it still so dark?
Phantom felt their breathing pick up and their throat become dry. Their right eye saw the room spinning and the left saw completely nothing.
“Aeth?! Aether, help!” They called, smacking their hand against the wall behind their bed that separated them from their older brother.
The older Quint was in like a flash, holding their face in his hands and checking them over.
“What’s wrong, love? Nightmare?” He asked, his heart breaking for his younger sibling.
They shook their head as all breath seemed to have failed them.
“M- my eye… C- can’t s- s- see anyth- thing…” They strained out against the panic and tears that had started to consume them.
Aether’s face grew to one of worry as he checked in and indeed saw their left eye devoid of anything, and his mind devoid of a solution or remedy.
“It’s okay, Bug. I’m here, it’ll be alright.” He said, gathering the little Quint into his arms and holding them tight, rocking them back and forth and encasing them both in a Quintessence bubble to calm them.
Phantom didn’t know if it was calming them or just stopping them from getting worse. What they did know, was that their Papa being there would have made it all a lot better.
Over the following weeks, they couldn’t adjust to their completely half-blind state. They practically had a constant headache from how much effort their right eye was putting in and they felt so horrifically unbalanced that they were a walking hazard. If it wasn’t this situation, it would be slightly funny and everyone would be calling them Bambi on ice.
Aether was at a complete loss for what had caused this. He helped heal Phantom when the accident that took part of their vision first happened and even the best healers in their clan said it wouldn’t get worse after it had healed. Inbetween reassuring Phantom and shifts in the infirmary, he was researching everything he could about ocular health and spending as much time as he could doing it.
One night, when Dew came down to force-feed him and make sure he actually took a break, he found the answer.
“IT’S STRESS!” Aether called as he read the article on the screen.
After the librarian came to admonish him for his volume, he hugged Dew tight, happy to have an answer.
“Wait, if stress causes blindness, how come Mountain hasn’t been blind from birth? He’s the biggest stresshead we know.” The Fire Ghoul chuckled.
“Who fucking knows? Probably because Phant’s left eye is already weak? As for Mountain, no clue.” Aether was still smiling, happy to have an answer for his little sibling and now hopefully start being able to help. That smile, though, was soon wiped from his face when his phone buzzed with a message from Swiss.
‘Get back up here NOW. Phantom needs you.’
Aether forgot to clean up or switch the computer off before he was running out of the library and back up to the den but he didn’t care one bit. Nothing and no one stopped him until he was back in Phantom’s room, asking what was wrong when he saw Phantom deep in another panic attack.
As Aether desperately tried to get Phantom to calm, Swiss explained that the vision in Phantom’s right eye was starting to fade now too…
Aether’s heart sank as he saw that cloud of blindness start to creep in around Phantom’s healthy eye. The distress of this whole situation being so cruel to such a pure soul that had already fought so much. When would they ever get their break?
The right eye now saw what the left used to. Merely a pin-point of light and the blurred shapes and figures of things in their immediate vicinity. They couldn’t read, couldn’t see the faces of their loved ones and couldn’t even see when they passed Copia in the corridor.
After Swiss told them when they had, yet again, missed a wave from their Papa they broke down and sobbed for what they were losing. Not only their sight but the hope of everything going back to how it was. How was everything meant to be the same again when Phantom couldn’t even see the person in front of them?
They knew blind Ghouls could still live good lives but they didn’t want this. They wanted to be able to see their Papa’s eyes light up when his pipistrello entered the room and the warm smile that caused every little crease and wrinkle on his face to pop out.
Every morning that Phantom woke up without Copia was another that made them more depressed for what they lost. And as they lost even more of their vision - it only taking a couple weeks for sightlessness to completely take them - they only became more catatonic. The pack ached to see such a vibrant Bug so dull and flat.
Aether’s heart cried even more for his little sibling and he was draining himself dry to try and give them plenty of Quintessence to just do something other than stare at the nothing and cry.
Seeing the little Quint’s stars fade was tearing the pack apart. All of them had been affected by the forced separation to Copia, but none more than Phantom. There had barely been a night since they came home from Frater’s last tour that at least one of them didn’t sleep with Phantom because while their Papa may not be there to chase the nightmares away, someone else could be.
No one dared tell Copia either. Aether, Swiss and Mountain – being the biggest and strongest Ghouls – were occasionally chosen to escort Copia as security on business trips but even then they were too scared to be anything but professional with Frater.
They’d all seen what the Clergy is capable of - Primo, Secondo and Terzo’s bodies and Dew’s unnatural Element are all proof of that - and no one would dare tempt a reprise or something even worse. Sister may be gone, but she certainly didn’t act alone in her cruelties and her followers still dominated the Clergy.
If Copia knew the situation had made his bambino blind from the stress of it all it would break him more than he had already been broken by the separation too. And at least very least, one of them had to appear strong for the other.
Copia knew his Ghouls though, and suspected they were hiding something from Swiss’ jaw tightening, the way Aether’s Adam’s apple bobbed, how Mountain’s ears flicked at the mention of Phantom’s name. But, pry as he might, he could never get any information from them that told Copia how his pipistrello was doing aside from the bare minimum.
He couldn’t go and investigate either. Not without risking so much. He already had visions of his Ghouls being sent back to the Pits they came from and he could never risk Phantom being sent back, not after all they’ve been through.
So Copia kept his nose down and did his best. Though even his best didn’t seem to be enough to help Phantom. He never saw them in the halls anymore or in the cafeteria. He couldn’t find them in the crowds at Black Mass and apparently they could no longer attend rehearsals or their duties either.
Phantom couldn’t do much of anything as they rotted in their own mind. They felt as useless as a kit as they wandered the den in tiny steps with one hand on the wall for stability. Their other senses were overwhelmed by what they had to make up for too but they couldn’t shut them off when it’s all they had to rely on now. They didn’t really leave their room much anyway. Sitting in front of the TV felt like a mockery and it wasn’t like they could cook for themself – even before they were blind. Walking around the halls was more hassle than it was worth and they could barely even feel the sunlight on their eyelids anymore.
Aether went in to see Phantom in the morning before work, kissing their forehead with a promise to come by after his shift. When he did, his heart broke into an infinitesimal number of pieces as he realised they hadn’t moved an inch since he left them twelve hours prior.
“I don’t know what to do, Dew.” Aether said to his mate in the evening after Swiss came in to sit with the Bug. Planting his elbows on the breakfast table, he buried his face into his hands.
Dew poured two glasses of neat whiskey for them both and pushed one towards the Quint, standing next to him and combing his fingers through his short hair.
“We could kill them.” Dew suggested, only half-joking as he referred to the humans that had enforced these cruel rules and restrictions.
“I thought half of why we’ve done nothing is that we’re scared of what the Clergy will do.” Aether responded as he took the glass and let the whiskey burn down his throat.
“Do you have any other ideas?” Dew said, shrugging his shoulders as if he was suggesting the most casual activity you could think of.
Aether exhaled and traced a claw around the edge of the glass.
“We know who Sister’s loyalists are.” He said.
Dew’s wicked grin heated up the space around them both. “We do.”
“We’re natural born predators too. We know how to be discreet and only harm, not kill.”
“That we are, love.” Dew said, kissing his mate’s cheek with a deep purr.
“Someone needs to stay with Phantom tomorrow then. While we explain this to the pack.” Aether thought out loud.
“We’ll figure it out, Aether. We’ll get our Bug back.” Dew promised, toasting their whiskey glasses and letting the glow of the moon light up the amber liquid.
Phantom didn’t know why, but the next morning, as they awoke next to Swiss, they felt the sun on their eyes a little stronger than usual. And while it was quickly snuffed out by the tidal waves of depression they had fallen into, the tiny spark of hope that fluttered in their chest was so so bright.
Almost as bright as Phantom would see Copia’s eyes when they finally reunited…
One shot master post can be found here
#phanter cuddle buddies master post can be found here
And the amazing @anotherbananasong did some art of Phantom based on this you can find here
