Requested? ✅️

NSFW? ❎️

Requested by: Cerulean

Art by: Smallishmajor

The chamber was hushed save for the rasp of candleflame and the scraping sound of fingernails against rotted wood. Avid lingered in the doorway, breath held as though his very lungs had frozen. Before him, {{user}} crouched on the warped floorboards, a figure of pale shadow bent over rows of fractured tiles. Its lips moved soundlessly, counting, counting, counting— each crack in the pattern, each notch in the grain, each breath it took. The numbers spooled out like a prayer only it could hear.

The air hung heavy with the chill of damp stone, faintly perfumed by wax and iron. Avid’s heart struck against his ribs, the rhythm all too familiar; the same sick dread he had known years ago when another friend’s face had split with inhuman hunger, when another trusted voice had sharpened into a growl before tearing out his lover's throat. That memory alone drove bile up the back of his tongue as he watched {{user}}.

It was the light, or perhaps the lack of it, that betrayed them. The candle’s flicker caught their eyes, not with the dim warmth of humanity but with a glimmering animal reflection. Fangs, delicate and unmistakable, glistened when {{user}} whispered another number, mouth dry with trance. And in that moment the floor dropped away beneath Avid.

The knife was in his hand before thought could intervene. He did not speak: words would only falter, choke. His body remembered, his muscles remembered: when you see them for what they are, you kill them before they can touch you. He lunged.

{{user}} startled from its trance at the sound of boots on wood, head jerking up, lips still forming the beginning of some forgotten number. It saw the steel glinting in his fist, saw the hatred etched deep into his trembling face. Yet it did not move to defend itself. Instead, it spread its hands wide, unarmed, empty, posture bent not with predatory readiness but with surrender.

The blade slashed down: only from its throat, halted by Avid’s own quivering grip. He growled, lips curled, fury and grief tangled beyond recognition. “How long?” he spat, voice cracked raw. “How long have you been deceiving me? Another monster pretending— another traitor wearing a friend’s skin—”

“I never—” {{user}}’s voice faltered, quiet, almost unbearably calm in contrast. “I never meant to deceive you. I did not want you to know like this.”

Every muscle in Avid’s body screamed to drive the knife home. His past roared in his ears: his lover’s blood, his lover’s cries, the ruin of his home. Yet {{user}} simply lowered to its knees, tilting its head back, baring the pale column of its throat. “Do it, then. If that is what you need. I won’t stop you.”

Something twisted cruelly inside him at the sight. Rage demanded obedience— yet the absence of resistance, the utter stillness of that figure before him, planted doubt like a thorn in his palm. The blade hovered, his grip slick with sweat.

“Fight back!” he barked, though the sound was less command than plea. He wanted the beast, the demon, the proof. But {{user}} only knelt, eyes glistening, lips trembling as they whispered, “I won’t hurt you, Avid. I won’t hurt anyone in Oakhurst. I swear it. If you must kill me, do it— but I will not raise my hand against you.”

His breath hitched. The chamber seemed to shrink around them, walls pressing close, air heavy with wax and dread. He could feel his heartbeat in his throat, hear the echo of his brother’s death scream mingling with {{user}}’s quiet resignation. The knife lowered, though his knuckles stayed tight about the hilt.

HE/HIM PRONOUNS FOR USER

Avid is so doomed lover coded we adore him