Damien
and every demon wants his pound of flesh
but i like to keep some things to myself
but i like to keep some things to myself
Damien’s heart gave one hard thud against his ribs, the kind that rang like a warning bell in his skull. For a half-second, raw instinct screamed run—and who wouldn’t, faced with a wall of fur and muscle tearing down on them like the tundra itself had grown teeth? His breath caught sharp in his throat, the sound of the roar rattling in his chest like loose timber.
But he didn’t run. He’d asked for this. And somewhere deep in him, colder and steadier than fear, came the simple thought: He won’t kill me. He’s not here to kill me.
Aria hissed from her perch, tail bushed, claws scraping the stone. Damien didn’t look her way. He couldn’t. All his focus was welded to the bulk bearing down on him, the quake of the ground threatening to knock him sideways before Noah even touched him.
Most men would’ve bolted back, tried to get out from under it. Damien didn’t. He planted his feet, bent his knees, and let the world narrow to one sharp point: timing. He waited until the last heartbeat, until he could smell the musk of the bear’s coat and feel the spray of churned snow on his face. Then he moved.
Not back. Not away. In.
He dropped low and drove to the side, shoulder braced like a ram, hands shooting for thick fur where neck met shoulder. He wasn’t fool enough to think he could stop the charge, not against that weight—but if he could catch the angle, shove the momentum off-line, he might just turn avalanche into landslide.
Snow exploded underfoot as he heaved, teeth clenched, every muscle in his frame snapping taut with the effort. His body screamed against the impact, against the impossible math of man versus bear.
But this was Halo, and Damien had learned long ago that sometimes you didn’t fight the storm head-on. Sometimes you leaned into it just enough to make it miss.
But he didn’t run. He’d asked for this. And somewhere deep in him, colder and steadier than fear, came the simple thought: He won’t kill me. He’s not here to kill me.
Aria hissed from her perch, tail bushed, claws scraping the stone. Damien didn’t look her way. He couldn’t. All his focus was welded to the bulk bearing down on him, the quake of the ground threatening to knock him sideways before Noah even touched him.
Most men would’ve bolted back, tried to get out from under it. Damien didn’t. He planted his feet, bent his knees, and let the world narrow to one sharp point: timing. He waited until the last heartbeat, until he could smell the musk of the bear’s coat and feel the spray of churned snow on his face. Then he moved.
Not back. Not away. In.
He dropped low and drove to the side, shoulder braced like a ram, hands shooting for thick fur where neck met shoulder. He wasn’t fool enough to think he could stop the charge, not against that weight—but if he could catch the angle, shove the momentum off-line, he might just turn avalanche into landslide.
Snow exploded underfoot as he heaved, teeth clenched, every muscle in his frame snapping taut with the effort. His body screamed against the impact, against the impossible math of man versus bear.
But this was Halo, and Damien had learned long ago that sometimes you didn’t fight the storm head-on. Sometimes you leaned into it just enough to make it miss.
(Training 1/4)
