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
The rain didn’t stop, but it changed.
It moved around them, slow and deliberate, beading on his lashes before it ever dared touch Frey. The heat hit next—low in his spine, crawling forward like fire under bark. For a heartbeat he forgot how to breathe.
He’d heard what Remi had said about this side of them. He’d thought he understood.
He hadn’t.
They weren’t one thing. The eye couldn’t pin them down; they changed with the light, fluid as the river overhead. For a heartbeat he thought he saw a woman—hips, shoulders, warmth—and then it was gone, the lines blurred into something leaner, broader, backlit by the shifting red glow. Frey was every shape the world could take when it wasn’t bound by rules.
It wasn’t their physique that struck him first, though—it was the heat. The sense of something vital. Their skin looked like it should burn to touch, the way sunlight burns through ice. They looked alive in a way he’d never been.
And gods, they were looking at him.
The air between them hummed. He couldn’t tell if it was the storm or his pulse. He found himself swallowing against a dry throat, steadying his stance like he was facing down a wild creature that might bolt—or pounce.
When they looked at the carving and called it cute, something in him folded quiet. The hare suddenly looked smaller than it had a moment ago, just a bit of wood with the wrong kind of life carved out of it. His thumb twitched once against his palm, the ghost of a habit he’d never lost—measuring where he’d gone wrong, how to fix it.
“Yeah,” he said, voice low. “I suppose it is.”
He studied the little figure a second longer before lifting his gaze back to them. Frey’s eyes caught him and held him the way heat holds smoke; there was nowhere else to go.
“I didn’t mean to insult you,” he went on. “It’s what I know. Wood. Bone. Guess that’s my problem.” A faint, self-deprecating breath escaped him—half laugh, half exhale. “Everything I touch ends up still.”
The admission hung there a moment. He shifted his weight, steadying himself against the pull in the air.
“But I could do better,” he said after a moment, “if you’d show me what you want.” The words surprised even him. "I mean, or tell me. You can just—tell me. If you want.” Heat flushed across his cheeks, the embarrassment sharp and sudden.
Frey’s grin was sharp as a blade’s reflection. The heat between them pulsed, and he had to remind himself to keep his hands where they were. Aria’s presence pressed at the back of his mind, alert and amused. From where she perched, she purred, smug.
He dragged in a slow breath, forcing the world back into focus—the red river looping above, the smell of rain on fresh earth. His voice came steadier after that. “As for the other axe…” He nodded once, dry humor edging in like relief. “I lost it in the mud. I was hoping to make another—one that comes back on its own, maybe.”
He tilted his head slightly, a ghost of a grin finding its way through. “Seems I’ve got a habit of losing things I mean to keep.”
He let the words settle, still looking to meet their eyes. The rain hissed softly where it met the earth, and the heat in the air tasted of life.
It moved around them, slow and deliberate, beading on his lashes before it ever dared touch Frey. The heat hit next—low in his spine, crawling forward like fire under bark. For a heartbeat he forgot how to breathe.
He’d heard what Remi had said about this side of them. He’d thought he understood.
He hadn’t.
They weren’t one thing. The eye couldn’t pin them down; they changed with the light, fluid as the river overhead. For a heartbeat he thought he saw a woman—hips, shoulders, warmth—and then it was gone, the lines blurred into something leaner, broader, backlit by the shifting red glow. Frey was every shape the world could take when it wasn’t bound by rules.
It wasn’t their physique that struck him first, though—it was the heat. The sense of something vital. Their skin looked like it should burn to touch, the way sunlight burns through ice. They looked alive in a way he’d never been.
And gods, they were looking at him.
The air between them hummed. He couldn’t tell if it was the storm or his pulse. He found himself swallowing against a dry throat, steadying his stance like he was facing down a wild creature that might bolt—or pounce.
When they looked at the carving and called it cute, something in him folded quiet. The hare suddenly looked smaller than it had a moment ago, just a bit of wood with the wrong kind of life carved out of it. His thumb twitched once against his palm, the ghost of a habit he’d never lost—measuring where he’d gone wrong, how to fix it.
“Yeah,” he said, voice low. “I suppose it is.”
He studied the little figure a second longer before lifting his gaze back to them. Frey’s eyes caught him and held him the way heat holds smoke; there was nowhere else to go.
“I didn’t mean to insult you,” he went on. “It’s what I know. Wood. Bone. Guess that’s my problem.” A faint, self-deprecating breath escaped him—half laugh, half exhale. “Everything I touch ends up still.”
The admission hung there a moment. He shifted his weight, steadying himself against the pull in the air.
“But I could do better,” he said after a moment, “if you’d show me what you want.” The words surprised even him. "I mean, or tell me. You can just—tell me. If you want.” Heat flushed across his cheeks, the embarrassment sharp and sudden.
Frey’s grin was sharp as a blade’s reflection. The heat between them pulsed, and he had to remind himself to keep his hands where they were. Aria’s presence pressed at the back of his mind, alert and amused. From where she perched, she purred, smug.
He dragged in a slow breath, forcing the world back into focus—the red river looping above, the smell of rain on fresh earth. His voice came steadier after that. “As for the other axe…” He nodded once, dry humor edging in like relief. “I lost it in the mud. I was hoping to make another—one that comes back on its own, maybe.”
He tilted his head slightly, a ghost of a grin finding its way through. “Seems I’ve got a habit of losing things I mean to keep.”
He let the words settle, still looking to meet their eyes. The rain hissed softly where it met the earth, and the heat in the air tasted of life.
