be not afraid

question :   HOW FAR DOES THE SWORD FALL BEFORE IT TAKES ON  GOD ? 

he positions himself in sweet layers - a two-faced design of a good natured blade .  he will eat and undo .   and so he inches closer to the other,  holding their face between two fingers , as if he were not a living thing but a corpse for a mass grave . and here his ploy turns to smiles -  to  chuckling  as he looks to  tie them both together . “ and how my dear bird, shall we seal this agreement? must we cut our palms and bleed - or shall a kiss suffice ?”  his lips are but inches away - giddy and teasing the breath of his new found comrade.  “ i’d rather let you in bed with me but since i came to you i’ll give you the right of choice.”

his fingers drop from the other’s face ,  down to his arms pulling him closer.  pushing himself against the other -  like a prayer at an altar .  fingers grasping at the other’s back to bind them as one - “ fear not chickadee - fear not for we are not as different as you may wish to believe. “   he is heavy breaths and a mammoth caging itself so that it may have the sweetest of fruits.  “ let us do this so that we may be free.”

he leans in, his lips brushing against mikhail's with a tenderness that belies the storm of emotions raging inside him. it's not just a kiss—it's a promise, a pact sealed in the sweetest of sins. his clothed hand moves to the back of mikhail's neck, fingers tangling in his hair as he deepens the kiss, tasting the bitterness and longing that they both harbor.

oh how he kiss like an innocent young boy in a boarding school. guilty of sin, yet craving for more. it's innocent yet it is dirty.

a sinner in disguise. (oh father is waiting for your confession this week, sunday. what have you done? why are you moaning someone else's name and not god's?)

as their lips part, sunday lingers for a moment, savoring the aftertaste of their exchange. he lets mikhail feel the ghost of his touch before gently, almost tenderly, pushing him away. he lets mikhail hear his silent moan of quick pleasure, feel the shudder of his desire. it’s a measured retreat, one that leaves, a measured movement, for mikhail to yearning for more without making it seem like sunday is the one who desires it.

sunday’s gaze softens, but there’s a gleam in his eyes that speaks of something deeper, something far more calculated. "mikhail," he begins, his voice smooth and unhurried, almost sound like he is begging and mocking, "are you having fun for drawing me into the abyss with you. that idea of me being tainted, does it excites you?"

his words are velvet-covered steel, soft yet unyielding, turning the focus back onto mikhail without ever losing his own composure. sunday allows a small, almost indulgent smile to grace his lips, as if he’s watching a game unfold exactly as he anticipated. "you tempt me with such sin, but i must say—i won't let you see me fall. watch me from the hell you belong to, i will become holier than your god for you."

ONE HAND PRESSES A TRUSTY KNIFE AGAINST THE OTHER'S NECK, WHILE THE OTHER IS PINNED TO THE WALL. This amount of pressure on a human's neck would've drawn blood, and yet it does not draw Conrad's - what colour should he expect once their dance is done and his ichor is splattered on the floor? The strength of the hand pinning his wrist to the wall is beyond anything the vulpine had expected; so far, in his unfortunately long running life, he had never met an anomaly that could match his power... by the gods, surpass it even!

They were not that different in height, and yet the looming presence of the other is enough to make the soldier feel smaller than he actually is, beneath him. Their chests are just about to touch; his masked head is tilted down, and his golden hues gaze up - trying to analyse his next move. The sound of bones breaking echoes in the building, as nine, black, spiked tails burst out from his tailbone - now all pointing at the eldritch being, threatening to pierce both of them.

From the outside, he bets it looks like a cocoon.

[...] "Once I've killed you, I'll make sure to eat some of you too, so don't worry... This dance won't last forever, but within me, you will dance forever.. That is my gift."

"then," conrad’s voice sings, a deep, haunting resonance that seems to echo from the void itself, "i will make sure to fill your stomach full."

the words hang in the air, carrying with them an eerie promise. conrad’s touch is cold, almost otherworldly, a reminder of the abyssal depths from which he draws his power. his hand—an unsettling blend of cold and something foul and sticky—penetrates the man’s stomach. there is no blood, no gore, just the grotesque sensation of something dark and writhing filling him from within, like maggots squirming under his skin. the feeling is both profoundly invasive and disturbingly intimate, a testament to conrad’s unfathomable nature.