Big Book Of Parvill One Shots

drunk on rose water (N)

TW: Non-Consensual Kissing, Possessive Behavior, Mind Control, Blood Magic, Stabbing, strife gets slowly more and more (metaphorically) fucked, Unrealistic Wounds

"anything you say can and will be held against you, so only say my name; it will be held against you"

The knife digs into the soft flesh of Strife's stomach, cold, and drawing all of the air out of him. It's sharp, which goes without saying, but he can feel the rust and dried blood against his insides, and for one detached moment, he worries about getting an infection thanks to stupid, stupid, Parvis.

Then he snaps open his eyes.

Parv's grin is wide - two rows of sharp white teeth bared to the world.

"Hello, Strifey!" His tone is bouncy, jumping from syllable to syllable with no care for proper prosody. "Don't mind me, or anything. I just wanted to stab something, and you were closest."

Parv says it like his violent urges aren't a thing to be tempered, and Strife opens his mouth to protest. Parv twists the knife, and the protests dry on his tongue.

"It's fine, I promise! Parvy promise, see?"

He pulls out the dagger. Strife makes a pained sound in the back of his throat, and one of his hands weakly moves to staunch the blood flow. Parv, though, brings the blade to his own pinky finger, lightly cutting it, and grins even wider, like it's all okay.

"There we go! All better!"

It's not all better, not by a long shot. But even as Strife furrows his brow and searches for words, nothing comes out of his mouth but a dry croak. Parv tilts his head, earnest smile turning cloying in an instant.

"Oh, Strifey," he says, "Are you just lost for words?" Parv giggles, high-pitched, like it's a joke that only he knows the answer to. He brings down his free hand and presses it onto where Strife is desperately clutching his wound. It's a mockery of caring, but, more importantly, it's painful.

Hissing, Strife presses his hand in further, trying to get away from the skin-crawling parody of kindness.

Parv just laughs again, moving his hand away. Slick fingers begin to move over his skin instead, drawing patterns on the unmarked flesh further up his chest. Whether there's any rhyme or reason to them, Strife can't puzzle out - he's beginning to feel more and more dizzy, scarlet liquid seeping out of him despite his best attempts to staunch it.

"Your blood's so powerful, you know?" Parv's tone has turned conversational again, though his gaze is sharp - focused on where he's drawing lines in blood on Strife's stomach. "I don't know why. It looks exactly like mine, really! Nothing special!"

Quirking his lips in his concentration, Parv tilts his head. "But then, I guess it could be because you're kind of an alien, right?" Strife opens his mouth again, and Parv's gaze flickers up. His fingers still, blood dripping off them.

It feels like there's a fog building in Strife's brain, a dry, cotton-wool feeling sticking in his throat and blocking all his words.

Parv's expression is dark and serious. His eyes are near-black in the light. But a sly grin slides onto his face after a moment, and he leans down towards Strife's face.

"I don't think that's it, though, do you, Strifey? I mean, otherwise someone would have killed good ol' Xephos years ago!"

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Strife thinks that the only reason someone hasn't done that already is the goddamn respawn. Parv laughs, as if he can hear what Strife's thinking. Hell, Strife wouldn't really put it past him at this point.