Chapter Text
The marks appear the moment Kravitz steps into his human flesh. Skin contracts on his left ring finger to form a perfectly circular indentation. On every part of him south of his chin, he is covered in marks. It makes him look like a ladybug, the haphazard bruises forming a nonsensical pattern across his body. He takes a moment to appreciate them, eyes lingering on the marks that have turned nearly black, before he summons his clothing – immaculate and black with a hint of purple.
Somewhere on the material plane, someone else bears the original artwork on their skin. Kravitz’ is a lousy copy. He has not slipped on a wedding band, and he has not felt the lips that left those love bites.
It’s a known fact of the universe that those destined to be together are bound physically as well as spiritually. The magic involved is grander than any of the gods, though understandably many mortals believe that the bond exists based on the wish of the gods. Kravitz, as an emissary of one of these gods and not a mortal himself, knows that it is not so, and perhaps that is why he regards the bond with such reverence – a reverence akin to the one he shows his boss. Perhaps it is because he never thought he would be gifted a bond.
Though he has served the Raven Queen for centuries, the bond only made itself known twenty years ago. The bond only manifests once both parties have reached adulthood, but Kravitz still feels odd about suddenly sharing his scars with a stranger much younger and more alive than he. He has spent many nights tracing the lines down his chest, wondering if his match already hates him for marring their skin. If his match does not hate him already, he is sure that they will when they realize that he has no intention of finding them.
Romance should have no place in the mind of the Grim Reaper.
Kravitz does his best to whisk any daydreams away as soon as they appear, and he refuses to inspect the bond closer. The magic lingers just below the occasional marks (scratches, bruises, cuts) and it would not be far-fetched to believe that Kravitz has the magical capabilities to follow it straight to his match. So, he looks at them like a farsighted man reading the newspaper without glasses, revels in the fact that he can have them at all, and sends out a soundless apology for the lover he will let down every day of their life.
Today is an improvement, therefore. The wedding band and the hickeys signal that his match has given up on waiting and has decided to take their own fate into their hands. Good. Kravitz wishes them all the best and only feels a tinge of disappointment for not being the one to have worshipped his match’s body.
***
Taako wakes up sore and sated, body starfished on the king-sized bed in a Goldcliff honeymoon suite. The silk hugs his body and the sun filters gently, lazily, through the lacy curtains. Even this removed from the street below, he can hear the rush of people and faint chiming of bells. Burying himself further into the silk, he reaches for Sazed. His husband. Istus, that’s weird to think.
The wedding and all that was Sazed’s idea. He was worried the press wouldn’t take them seriously as a couple if people started suspecting they didn’t have the bond. They don’t, and they both know that, but they would instantly lose their “it” couple status if their fans knew. It was a good enough argument to convince Taako, who’s never been much a romantic anyway. Fate deciding who you should end up with seems a little authoritative, and Taako hates authority. Nobody decides what Taako should do except Taako. Plus, he’s not interested in his career taking any hits.
Sazed is spread out similarly to Taako, the huge bed big enough for two orcs to lie comfortably next to each other, and when Taako attempts to haul him closer, Sazed refuses to move. It forces Taako to curl up against Sazed’s side, which isn’t bad in and of itself, but the odd, passive rejection stings a little. Taako forces the hurt aside, silently scoffing at himself for being so emotional, and instead wraps a bare leg around Sazed’s. His fingers trail down Sazed’s chest, which should be covered in three vertical lines running from just below his pecks to his naval. Like Taako’s is.
Honestly, maybe the reason Taako hasn’t run into his match is that they’re dead. He’s considered that. The bond doesn’t really tell you anything about the status of your match, and if Taako’s is sewn up but in the ground somewhere, well, he wouldn’t know.
Whatever, it doesn’t matter. Taako’s wrapped around a handsome guy, who spent the whole night worshipping him like a god. That’s all a guy can ask for.
To punctuate his conclusion, Taako leans closer and places a kiss on Sazed’s throat. Only a few minutes later, they’re once more entangled, heavy breaths mingling, Taako’s hair brushing against his husband’s chest. Without thinking, he traces the shapes of his match’s scars with his lips, kissing wrongly smooth skin as if the touch will bring them forth.
When it doesn’t, Taako focuses on how Sazed says his name like it’s a prayer.
***
The love bites slowly wane over time. Kravitz keeps an eye on them. Every time he wears his flesh, he takes a moment to update himself before he covers himself. The day they have disappeared for good, he doesn’t know how to feel. Bones hollow, he follows his queen’s orders while his mind is on a different plane altogether.
Other love bites appear here and there the next weeks. They are placed like afterthoughts, and sometimes in placements embarrassingly visible – almost as though they have been carefully curated there. Kravitz takes to wearing scarves, ones that Istus has knitted him centuries ago. If the goddesses notice, they make no comment. For that, Kravitz is grateful. He does not wish to discuss his situation with the master of death and the master of time. His little life seems benign next to them.
Kravitz has never noticed time like he does now. Every day is significant, a chance to catch a glimpse of the life of his match. His own skin is impossible to damage. That is, he can typically heal any slash or cut within the second it is applied to his dead, not-really-there flesh, and so whatever lingering mark will always be a result of his bond. He feels terrible for having his scars at all, for without them his match might believe that they were born without a bond at all. It would make life easier for them. Unfortunately, the cause his of death is one that he cannot banish. Like the bond with his match, it is too strong for even the Raven Queen’s magic to corrupt.
About three months after what Kravitz supposes was the wedding night (time is perceived differently on the astral plane, though it passes at the same rate as any other plane), the love bites stop arriving. For a long time, his skin remains relatively smooth, save a few, short-lived scorch marks on his fingers or superficial cuts on his hands. These wounds make him ponder, despite his resolute decision to not seek out his match at any cost. What could cause these frequent but minor injuries, always focused on their hands?
Kravitz is reaping the soul of a necromancer, eyes burning with righteous fire and body alight with the power of a goddess, when he realizes. The necromancer’s lair is small and dug into a cave wall, but it has all necessities. Including simple kitchen appliances. Kravitz splits the fabric of reality and tosses the soul into the astral plane, where it will automatically be swept off to the Stockade. Then he approaches the kitchen area and gingerly picks up a knife. It’s rusty and simple, but it is clear to Kravitz that he holds the solution to the mystery: his match is a cook. The scorch marks tell tales of skin too close to heated iron, and the superficial cuts are results of chopping too carelessly.
Though the knife has nothing directly to do with his match, Kravitz pockets it.
***
The restaurant is bustling with life. Opening night is a fucking success. Taako whistles to himself as he completes order upon order at lightning speed, incorporating his magic so that he works just as efficiently as a whole kitchen staff. Servers, all awed by their boss, mill about, and out in the restaurant itself Sazed is playing host. Something bothers Taako about that, but he can’t pin it down. The restaurant bears Taako’s name anyway, and everyone is sending compliments to the chef, so it’s not like Sazed is taking any credit that isn’t due. Still… he was a little eager to take the job for someone who’s supposed to be supportive but still let Taako live his own damn life. Just because they’re married it doesn’t mean that they’re attached by the hip. Sazed doesn’t seem to know that, but whatever, Taako’s just got that effect on people he supposes, and it’s only been three months of marriage. They’re in that honeymoon phase everyone gushes about, and the sex is fucking fantastic, so Taako will let it slide for now.
Yes, for now Taako will focus on perfecting every dish he sends out of the kitchen so his newly established restaurant will be fully booked the next five years.
As a former TV host and famous personality, he has plenty of advantages that other new restauranteurs don’t, and he can hear the chatter of tabloid reporters from his position by the stew. It’s not hard to get attention. The problem is to keep it. But as long as he dishes out some amazing food and makes entertaining appearances and events, he should be alright. He’s Taako! From TV!
He takes up his whistling again and barely cares when he accidentally cuts himself while chopping some onions. Sazed always wears bandages on his fingers anyway. No one will suspect a thing.
***
It has been five months since the wedding night when Kravitz is enveloped by his human form and notices a series of strange bruising. With a frown, he summons a full-length mirror, and privately assesses his back as well as his front. The bruises are only present on Kravitz’ arms. They’re strangely oblong and so faint that the pressure cannot have been more than exactly too hard. It looks as though a strange creature has had its grip on Kravitz’ match, and for a moment Kravitz is indignant. Who dares lay a finger on his match?
His scythe is summoned before he has a chance to think further, and then he is forced to confront the fact that he has no business being upset. While fate, or whatever other power has willed the bond into existence, might believe that they are destined for one another, they do not know each other. Kravitz should have no opinion.
It doesn’t make him any less nauseous whenever he spots the bruises, and he is grateful for his long sleeves.
They have completely disappeared only two days later. No other bruising follows. Kravitz convinces himself that it must have been a one-off. Perhaps a mugging, or just a passionate moment taken a little too far before boundaries were reasserted. Either way, while he was never meant to worry, there is now no need for his worry at all. The fact grants him a restless sort of ease.
A few times, he considers abandoning his human form altogether. Perhaps it’s possible for him to conduct his work without it. It would certainly make him more focused on his missions. But no matter how many times he considers it, he always dismisses the idea. It might be sentimental, but he does prefer knowing that his match is well and alive. A sort of security system is the only thing he can give his match. Should his match be in mortal peril, he will know, and he might be able to help as a stranger passing in the night. It would be his way of repaying for any worries his match might have for him. Although, he would not be insulted if his match spared him no thought.
***
(tw: domestic abuse)
“Let me go! I’m serious, you dick, let go!”
Sazed’s hands are wrapped tightly around Taako’s forearms. The latter tries to rip himself away, but Sazed is stronger than he looks. His pleading eyes bore into Taako’s and make Taako feel like a jerk for being so rough. He’s not the one holding his husband down against his will, though, so fuck that, Taako’s allowed to be a jerk if he wants to.
“You promised!” His pleading is downright laughable. He sounds like a five-year-old who’s been promised an ice cream or something, not an adult man who has been given a hesitant ‘ehh’ on changing the name of a restaurant, which has been built on someone else’s image anyway.
Never one to hide his scorn, Taako does laugh straight in Sazed’s face, and forces himself to continue when he sees Sazed’s eyes darken with anger. “My dude, the whole brand is Taako – it’d confuse the customers, and I never promised a fucking thing. We both know I don’t do promises, that’s just not Taako’s style, ‘kay? Great. So, be a fucking dear and let me go, or I swear to Istus I’ll blast your ass across the room.”
Hours later, when Sazed is snoring in their bed, Taako locks himself in the bathroom. Under the harsh white light, which he summons, he inspects the growing bruises. He is clad in only a satin robe and is curled up in the bathtub. Finger slowly trailing the yellows and greens, he wonders if someone else is staring at their arm right now, speculating on the origin of the marks. Are they worried? Are they scared? Do they feel their eyes well with water despite themselves and watch as a few, pathetic drops land on their discolored skin? Taako for sure fucking doesn’t. He sniffles. The sound is too loud.
The silk of his robe absorbs the tears that have escaped, and the rest are blinked away. His feet are cold against the ceramic of the tub. For another few moments, he stares into the air in front of him.
The walls need a scrub. So does the toilet.
Slowly, he climbs out of the tub. His feet are unsure, but they nonetheless trace the steps back to the bed. He sinks into the mattress and pulls the covers over his shoulders. Without looking at his husband, he closes his eyes and lets the luxury of sleep overwhelm him.
The bruises are gone after two days, but Sazed keeps nagging. Taako makes a habit of flashing his wand whenever he can to remind Sazed that while he may have the upper hand in terms of physical strength, he is no match against magic. It keeps him docile.
No direct threats are exchanged but Taako stops sleeping.
Staying with Sazed, though, is as natural as breathing. Leaving him wouldn’t be right. They haven’t promised each other love; they haven’t even promised to like each other. They’re both here for the physical and the fun – and they like turning heads when they walk down the street with each other, both dazzlingly attractive in each their ways. A split wouldn’t look good in the press, and though Taako is weary of his husband, he’s also the only one who’s ever made his body sing like this and not pushed for the kind of love Taako doesn’t think himself capable of giving anyone.
It’s a rough patch. Sazed just needs to figure out where the boundaries are, and then they’ll go right back to the carefree fun.
(end tw)
***
The small cuts, blisters and scorch marks continue to appear whenever Kravitz dons his human form. Some are fresh, most are always a day or more old, and they’re never something to worry over. Though he begins to wear gloves – black, sleek leather that he can excuse as being a part of his Grim Reaper aesthetic – he often runs his fingertips over the marks on the opposite hand, taking comfort in this strange closeness he shares with someone many planes away.
When work brings him to the material plane, he sometimes looks for them. It isn’t a conscious effort, and whenever he catches himself doing it, he purposefully sheds his human skin in favor of his skeletal appearance (if he doesn’t need the human appearance for his work’s sake, of course), but he does look. He scans the souls around him, subconsciously looking for one that shines like the magic simmering under the cuts and blisters. Nothing ever sticks out to him. It’s for the better, but he keeps looking. Why does he keep looking?
One day, the Raven Queen calls upon him, but rather than having a bounty at the ready, she’s holding a cup of tea. Her vaguely threatening, otherworldly energy seems to upset the tea, which stirs in the cup. Kravitz, too, is uneasy. The two may have a good work relationship, but this is different. It feels personal.
Apprehensive but not disrespectful enough to turn down the offer, Kravitz approaches slowly and accepts the cup. The Raven Queen promptly summons a chair for him, and he sits down carefully. “My queen,” he begins, holding the cup as though it’s a pile of cursed gold.
The goddess interrupts him before he can say anything else, “Have tea with me, Kravitz,” she simply says. There is a smile in her voice. Whether there is one on her face or not is guesswork: she wears an elaborate mask of feathers and lace, much like a mourning veil that is prevalent in some material plane cultures.
The mask falls around the back of her head, too, and though Kravitz knows her hair is long and black, it is currently out of sight. It must be pinned up. Her fingers are long and sharp, like claws, and her nails extend much further than Kravitz has ever seen any mortal keep theirs. The fingers are wrapped in black jewelry which glitters whenever her fingers move. The rest of her body is covered in a dress as dramatic as the mask, this one also black and covered in feathers. He has never seen her feet, and she makes no sound when she walks. It’s unknown to him when her body stops or becomes a cloud of smoke, or if she is simply that graceful. Overall, she makes an imposing picture. It took Kravitz decades of service until he could breathe in her presence.
And now they’re having tea, apparently. Another cup, hers, is perched on a small table next to her, though he’s not sure how she plans on drinking it.
Kravitz blows nervously on his hot beverage and watches her through the corner of his eye. “Is- is something wrong, my queen?” he tries and stumbles pathetically over his words.
She laughs gently and stirs her cup with a nail. “Not at all, dear. I simply wish to speak with you, that is all.”
That still sounds like something is wrong. Swallowing his nerves, Kravitz shuffles in his seat and clutches the cup. Although the temperature seems to be appropriate, he can’t get himself to drink. If he had a beating heart, it would be thumping erratically. “I see,” he mutters dumbly and looks for something to focus is eyes on – but the room around them is fluid, like the rest of the ethereal plane, kept in shape only when a god wills it to, and the Raven Queen doesn’t seem preoccupied with that. Eventually he settles on watching her jewelry sparkle as her hand moves in circles above the tea.
“Let me see your hands.”
Kravitz freezes, but he has no choice. If she asks for something, he must deliver. Swallowing, he sits the cup on the table, removes his gloves, and stretches out his hands for the goddess to inspect. She firmly grabs his hands and moves closer. Her touch makes the hairs on his arms stand on end. Though he cannot see it, he imagines that she frowns and squints as she twists and turns his hands. Eventually, she lets go and sits back.
He is ready to be reprimanded or simply reminded that though the bond may be present, it is not something that he must ever pursue. In fact, he wants her to say so. It would make it easier to let go. Head bent to the nonexistent floor, he waits.
“Thank you,” is her simple conclusion, another smile present in her voice. “Istus will join us shortly. Do you need any sugar?”
“I,” he begins, eyes shooting up to search her mask for any sign of emotion other than … curiosity? As he cannot see through the material (is there even anything to see behind it?), his search is fruitless. “No… thank you.”
“Suit yourself,” she says with such humor that Kravitz temporarily feels as though this whole conversation is a figment of his imagination. Goddesses do not joke. They do not take tea with their emissaries. And they do not express almost motherly tendencies. Has he somehow consumed a type of hallucinogen on his latest mission? It would make more sense than this.
The next hour is strange not because it is eccentric but because it is domestic. Istus joins them not two minutes later, her brightly-shining form followed by a train of knitted yarn so long it extends into infinity. She takes a seat next to the Raven Queen, and it briefly looks as though the two are interviewing Kravitz for a job. However, Istus’ knitwear soon curls around Kravitz’ legs, and the atmosphere becomes infinitely stranger – more domestic. Istus asks for a cup of lemon tea, and only stops her work to sip appreciatively. There is not a lot of talk, but the simple, calm atmosphere is enough to keep Kravitz’ mind occupied.
Every five minutes, one of the goddesses asks the other about something that is just outside of Kravitz’ reach of understanding. It is as though they are speaking another language that he stopped speaking years ago. He tries to discern the words, but they make less sense as he does. Taking pity on him, no doubt, Istus makes pleasant conversation with him. She expresses interest in his work, which feels strange given that she is, in mortal terms, the wife of his employer. Kravitz answers her questions, though, and finds a peculiar pleasure in being listened to with interest. It is not as though he is ignored, but he rarely gets the opportunity to speak openly about his work.
When the Raven Queen finally dismisses him, she momentarily cradles his face in her sharp hands. Then she steps back, and he bows deeply to both goddesses. They nod back, Istus with a kind smile on her face and knitted yarn slung across her shoulders. The world transforms around him as he returns to his quarters in the astral plane.
Too late, he realizes he has forgotten his leather gloves.
***
An unseen power slashes Taako across his chest, leaving behind a large gash stretching from his left shoulder down to his right hip. Screaming in pain he doesn’t feel, he leaps across the slippery tiles of the shower and grabs the wand sat in the shampoo holder. He immediately casts Detect Magic and pulls the shower curtain aside to spot any villains hiding behind it. Heart thumping hard and skipping lightly in his chest, he half-expects another blow. The spell reveals that everything is as ordinary or as magical as it usually is. There is no trace of any traps, other presences or antagonistic magic. Taako can’t take a chance: he still holds the wand tightly as he steps out of the shower and snaps his fingers to dry off his body.
Belatedly, he realizes how fucking weird it is that he can’t feel the wound.
He breathes heavily as he looks down at his chest. The slash is incredibly severe, beating the already scary-looking vertical scars by miles. Carefully, he traces his fingertips on the sides of the cut, not stupid enough to jam his fingers right in there, but foolhardy enough to test the weird sensation. All he feels is that near-tickle of running his fingertips gently across his skin. Even as he prods, there is no pain. No blood gushes out, even though he can see straight into the pink flesh.
This is so fucking weird, what the shit?
He’s about to call on Sazed, who’s probably still sprawled out in bed with his computer balancing on his chest, when the wound heals within a split second. Blinking, Taako prods his skin again, this time right where the slash is supposed to be. There is still no pain, and now there is no sign the wound was ever there at all. What the fuck??
It takes him a few moments, staring square at his own chest (both directly and through a mirror) before he rediscovers the three scars and has an idea. Maybe… maybe his match isn’t dead. Why they would’ve gotten scars from whatever it was and not this nasty wound, Taako can’t say, but… maybe his skin was never cut at all: it was all his match. Well, fuck that dude, whoever they are, for giving him such a fucking fight. At least it seems like they have a competent cleric with them.
He’s not sure how to react to this, honestly. Finding his match is something he’s given up on. He’s not sure he even ever wanted to. Love and all that… that isn’t his scene. It might suit lots of folks – like Lup and Barry, the fucking lovebirds – but it just doesn’t work out for old Taako. The reemergence of his match, twenty fucking years after Taako was gifted those scars, doesn’t change anything. It’s still a call for love Taako can’t physically answer. It’s too much.
Still… they’re bound together. They… they share something. And for all that Taako pretends that he doesn’t give a shit about anything or anyone, he can’t shake the feeling that he should reach out. Just because he can’t give his heart out like that, it doesn’t mean that he has to ignore a dude in peril, especially if there’s a chance that someone might actually care for–
Banishing the ending of that thought, Taako rummages through the cupboards to find a pen. Some people’s bonds are strong enough for superficial ink to carry over, though science suggests that it also depends very much on genes and chance. Taako hasn’t exactly studied it, but he knows enough from Magnus’ endless cooing over the fact that he and Julia can send each other secret messages throughout the day without even using a phone.
There is no pen. Hm. A simple solution presents itself to him, and he has to grin. A moment later, he is holding his liquid eyeliner and applying it to his chest, on skin that was previously all chopped up, in the shape of three letters.