#vilestblood.

[desalvar]

@vilestblood // horror starter ghskjs

"Now this.. is what I'm talking about." He lifts it with a flourish and a weaponized delay, gleefully conscientious of Antonín's direct line of sight just behind him. It's in the antiquarium's discount bin, ornate frame ruined with royal blue overlay and painted on a canvas just shy of being tolerably sized. Something like 16x14.5, the Thing depicts - piteously enough - a brilliant desert landscape in its middle. Brushed on with care and tasteful strokes, perspective perfectly honored and colors matching, it's unfortunately offset by the most hideous of mustard skies. There's been an attempt at steepling - something to the effect of disturbingly hair-like texture - but the value is flat the entire way through and the slab of white on the left looks nothing like a cloud. Still.. it utterly pales in comparison to the comically small figure in the off-middle, plastered on without care for distance or depth. It is staring at the viewer with its awful, almond-shaped eyes, jaunted at the hip.

Surrealism doesn't even begin to describe it.. Middle school art class might.

Nik turns to grin. "For our bedroom."

[vullcanica]

"To me, all shall kneel, but you. To you - all but me." — 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠/𝐊𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞

@vilestblood

[pre1ude]

'I never hated you.'

❛ don’t lie to me. ❜ // @vilestblood

And just like that, the wound opens.

By god, he'd imagined it all so differently for almost three years now. Gone over the scenarios diligently before he'd bare-knuckled the decision to come here. All the viable outcomes, joyful and humiliating and selfishly cruel alike ― what do you tell someone who's both kissed and betrayed you? ― Written down what to say and sat with the words for days, and still it had taken little more than his favourite chair on the eastside balcony, the feeling of warm velvet on his skin again and the sight of him alone for all sense to flee Daniel. He'd outgrown the little joys of this place, he tells himself. Replaced morsels of rare contentment with true peace, clawed and scratched his way up to something resembling happiness. The big empty manor on the edge of town is no longer a respite, nor Antonin - a beacon of comfort - and yet here he is, more willing to jump the parapet than bear to sit where they once laughed together and speak to him like a stranger. Like something worse.

In the end, he has no means to prove they're anything else... not when they'd parted so bitter. His aching heart would make for poor evidence.

So he sits there, straight-backed and prim, and all but takes the words like an arrow. Eyes and fists closed, mouth thin, feeling it fly true. Maybe it would've angered him instead, back then, when Antonin was overfond of his perilous tones and imploring eyes. Part of him misses that time still. Wishes it'd been said like an order than this resigned, tired plea that lodges under his third rib and sits there like a stinger. Something quietly weeps there now.

"...I couldn't hate you, Antonin," his voice is quiet and calm when it fights its way up at last. He can't bear looking at him, knowing he would look back. "Even when it seemed like the most reasonable thing to do."

He trains his eyes on the horizon evenly. Rests his hands in his lap and lets the admission hang in the scarse stitch of space between them. In the chasm that has opened there since. Here is the implication too: he had tried his hand at hatred. Played at it. Had yearned for the closure of that finality, the end of what they'd shared, only for it to never come. What else do you do with a dark, unsalvageable chasm than try to cut the last bridge? What do you do when it no longer looks like a chasm in the daylight?

"It would've made everything easier, I think... Hatred is such a horribly simple, uncomplicated emotion... Love is not. When it comes to you, I've only ever managed one."

[desalvar]

@vilestblood // cont. from x

  It's only a little daunting how well-kempt pristine the whole neighbourhood looks. He hadn't predicted that 'old' in Antonín terms meant the well-preserved historic kind with cornice and friezes, not whatever wreck falling apart at the bricks Nik had come from, so his well-loved ACDC shirt's a little bit of a sore foot against the tasteful backdrop. He wouldn't be surprised at a dress code of ironed socks around here.

The face at the end of Antonín's accusing little fingers scrunches up in mockery, joke abandoning his tongue in lieu of laughing. "Semantics." Yes, he remembers the younger, dumber days well. Too well, in fact, by virtue of a faded scar and badly-aged insults.   (('Like you can talk, princess! Whoever gets you's gonna have to be either dumb, broke or blind!))   Oh, he'd pay money for his scrappy little pipsqueak self to witness this and clutch his pearls. Cainhurst and Desalvar, hand in hand on their way to willingly sharing a space. (-- Well.... maybe..)

His hand dips to Antonín's waist while he rustles for the keys, shoulder indulgently leaned against his own. "I'll agree to drop the 'crazy' if you stop packing your dress shirts by categories."

The interior is spacious. Terribly spacious, by the looks of the decent-sized main room, even this barely lit and lumpy with covered furniture as it is, lined with far too many doors and tall radius windows for comfort. He's left standing dumbly in the middle, weighing his choices, eyes drawn to the cooker as its glass-ceramic top gets a light shined on it. This is.. too nice. "And you're sure this is free? For the both of us?" Does the landlord know about me, he means to ask until Antonín turns, backlit against the speckled english landscape and the green blot of some park opposite ( -- He could get used to the view.. ) , and snatches his hand.

There's only time for an incredulous smile before he's whisked through the sheet maze beyond, enraptured by his best friend chattering to him about the space. The balcony's big enough for Antonín's stupid plants and a chair or two, overgrowth permitting, and the kitchen's fit to cook his soups and steaks on. Until- "And we have a bathroom each?" He might've been envisioning it just fine before the double bedroom reveal. It.. well. Logical, yes, yet perplexing. "It's.. bigger than I thought." Is what he probably means.

[desalvar]

Booping but like a mutual /Cat Distribution System/ kind of situationship 👀🐾

Odd, somewhat cat shaped abominations found and bonded with each other (!), general populace breathes sigh of relief

I love them so much, fate-assigned distribution has nothing to do with the unwell shit they did to get each other 💜

[desalvar]

@vilestblood // cont. from x

 There's a stinging reminder of his original intentions gone cold on the ugly countertop nearby, perfectly prepared and seasoned, still in its tupperware. A hopeful serving for two, now far more fit for the sink drain. He hasn't even sat down yet. Can't afford to, or he might soften, might shed the momentum of his rage across the bland upholstery. He might look at Antonín too close and end up acquiescing to another caricature of peace. It's been a week of this.

 Pacing the narrow armchair-coffee table margins of a cage, stuffed there with its willing prisoner, and reduced to the absurdity of begging him to leave, he too has to him the look of a trapped thing. Watching Antonín like this hurts like a gutting, clavicle to bottom rib, teeth-grinding agony incarnate, but he knows bleeding his heart out on the carpet has meant nothing so far. He wants to bundle him up and whisk him away, he wants to leave him there and go. He can't do either. The arguments loops over and over, Nicodemo walks wall to wall and back.

 "Anything, say anything." he lurches over the back of the armchair with a hissed plea, nails digging in the drab fabric... ( -- It's an awful, basic color Antonín would never choose. Every single thing in this place drives him insane. Most of all, its tenant - thin, ragged, collapsed in on himself - for how much he's beginning to look like he might even marginally fucking belong here. He's abandoned asking for truth, Comehomecomehomecomehome - lie to me if you have to! )

 And here Nín's fire goes as well, snuffed to bitter coal and smoking out Nico's anger in turn and it isn't fair that he has to see his withering ghost of a body like this, curled up like an injured animal, after torturing himself with visions of it for a year. The mottled scar comes acutely close to a nightmare he's had before. His mind superimposes the image over the clothed expanse of skin where Antonín's fist tightens masochistically, bloody-fresh puckered inwards like countless others he's seen on to-be-corpses. He knows exactly how much red to imagine.

 Do you want to know how I almost died?

 "I can tell you how!"

 Within seconds he's a desperate shadow looming over Antonín and grabbing at his hand, gentler than the speed suggests. Reaching as if to yank, he hooks his fingers into Antonín's own like a tender handhold and when he speaks, it's in the tone lovers use to plead forgiveness. He finds his body won't allow for less. The glint of tears in ice blue eyes pierces like a wound.

 "I know how. -- Stop it. -- I can tell you what parts are hurting and why, what you need for it. I can gauge the fucking round if you give me time. That's not what I'm asking." If there's still fire in his eyes, it's only for the pain remaining; everything else burned to ashes in his chest. Sliding down to Antonín's level, he finds he's knelt before him again, trying to bundle joined hands against his breast where the heart stutters. And there he stills, a haunted beat of shuddering breath. "Am I gonna have to beg or bully every bit of truth out of you?.. ..Even if it's eating you alive?"

[desalvar]

🍆how do they feel about toys? do they have any? what’s their favorite? do they use them with partners?

❤️‍🔥what’s their most erogenous zone?

🫶what does after care look like for them?

SINDAY HEADCANONS // accepting

🍆 - how do they feel about toys? do they have any? what’s their favorite? do they use them with partners?

he enjoys toys well enough. uses them pretty liberally when available, though, to him, they're not a replacement for the pleasure of physical bodies and have to be prepared and all, which kind of dampens the kick of spontaneity and passion (doesn't use them on his own for example, can't be bothered with the hassle). he's a bit too candidly eager, unembellished, 'want you here and now' about sex for that sort of premeditation most days.

he'd own some with a committed partner though - pretty much the only time he'd go dedicatedly browse a sex shop. and probably go overboard with the selection, but well, horniness does his impulse control in 🤷 it's also a pretty good motivator for inventiveness in the bedroom, so he's scarily good at being creative with whatever tool he's given. his beady little eyes light up, lmao

as for specifics: vibrators are pretty versatile to him, as are dildos. he has a love-hate relationship with chastity/restraint devices and, on the other end of the spectrum, a bit of a built-in hard on for tools for impact or pain play (paddles, whips, etc). i also think he'd like a shock collar a bit too much... in short though, he wouldn't knock anything until he tries it, pretty standard for him.

❤️‍🔥 - what’s their most erogenous zone?

unsurprisingly - beyond the obvious (genitalia) and going with the theme of him being more 'eater' than 'man' - nik's ultimate erogenous zone is mouth and tongue. oral fixation off the charts and absolutely shameless about it. both surrendering something to his mouth and tongue (AND teeth, mind those please) or taking pleasure from them as one sees fit tie into various kinks he has, but also, generally, passion, pleasure and love is stored in the Eater Maw, believe it or not.

🫶 - what does after care look like for them?

it depends, was it vanilla or more heavy duty, a dear lover or a stranger, slow or quick? he can be tender and clingy or casually cold about it, depending.

giving - heavy on grounding touch. enjoys continuing intimacy into the afterglow through holding, kissing, caresses, little talks, soothing the body - kneading sore muscles, employing a towel or washcloth if needed. mostly physical comfort, though he'll fetch water or snacks eagerly too. famously will make breakfast the morning after, if smitten enough.

receiving - just likes feeling valued after, really, and he's not particularly picky about how that happens. enjoys being held or holding most of all. let him cling, he gets needy whenever out of sorts or overwhelmed.

[vullcanica]

“You’re like a big, dirty raccoon.” (Affectionate — for Nik 💖)

 "Half your fault."

 And he has the audacity of one too, stretched in full over their little garden swing, hands dirty up to the forearm and head pillowed sweetly onto an inviting lap. Grinning. There's a growing stain on one pristine linen sleeve where he's lovingly stroking his husband's wrist. Since Antonìn doesn't move, he takes it as acquiescence.

 "If you didn't want some awful cretin bare-fisting your begonia dirt, you shouldn't have invited him in the garden at all." A playful dig. But he doesn't mean it. Not really. Not with the smooth purr of his voice at its most content. Left with a pleasant ache from hours of gardenwork, he's laid out his achy bones and sweat-soaked meat and secured a worm's-eye vantage to Antonín's fondly exasperated smile. Resting, simple as that. It's warm out. They have homemade lemonade on the little glass-top table nearby. There's a sunbeam caught in one loose silvered strand of hair up above, perfectly sundialling something like ten in the morning. It might be heaven.

 His weight heaves gently, ankle anchored over the swing's armrest, and a hip pops out long-overdue tension. God, but he's getting old. "He might need some upgrades soon, if he's to catch up with you." Perhaps it's time to get it over with and get his bones nailed down secure...

 With the huff of a satisfied bear stealing his coherence, he turns to bury his nose in Antonín's warm belly and rests his eyes. The arm he's stolen tucks securely under his chin. Ah, he'll wash the stain out himself later.