#✧ * • –– ❛ damn i’m great ┊ ❪ steel: visage. ❫

[quindolyn]

Please can i request a smut with young sirius black where the reader is very insecure and dosen't think she deserves him. Where he praises her and shows her just how pretty he thinks she is. Could you include daddy kink, praise kink and pet names if you are comfortable with that?

(also thank you for the sympathy Chinese food)

Worthy || Sirius Black

Word Count: 3,654

Notes: Not quite sure how I feel about this, I feel really out of it and have felt like that for a couple of days. I hope you enjoy it though anon, usually I post the request then the piece but doing that makes my blog kind of cluttered and I know I think it’s cleaner when people answer requests like this but I don’t know if I’m going to stick with it.

Warnings: insecure!reader, mad Siri for like 2 seconds, oral (female receiving), praise kink, daddy kink, petnames

Masterlist

“Siri we need to talk.” Yes, be blunt, be straightforward, no beating around the bush. You weren’t going to prolong this any longer than necessary. It was time to set Sirius free, he didn’t need someone like you holding him down, holding him back. And it was time you told him that.

“Yes, poppet?” He quirked an eyebrow, setting his book next to him on the plush couch of the Gryffindor common room. 

“I-I was hoping we could have this conversation in private, in your dorm maybe?” You shifted your weight from foot to foot, your anxiety causing bile to rise in your throat, threatening to make you sick all over Sirius’s shoes.

“Everything okay (Y/N)?” He asked you, his eyes swimming with concern as he ushered you up the stairs to his dorm, a hand resting protectively on the small of your back. 

You didn’t answer him, instead going to sit on his bed once you reached the dorm room, toeing at the fringe of the worn carpet that had probably been there for decades, keeping your eyes on your feet instead of meeting the raven haired boy’s eyes. Leaving them instead to gaze at the top of your head. 

“(Y/N/N)? Are you okay? You’re scaring me.”

Breathing in deeply you steeled yourself, straightforward, get this over quickly, “We need to break up Sirius.”

“What?” You winced, he sounded angry and you were sure that had you been able to meet his eyes they could’ve portrayed his anger as well.

“I said that we nee-”

“No, I heard you!” He growled, his hands balling into fists, “What the fuck are you talking about? I don’t want to break up with you, don’t I get a say in this?”

“Well I want to, Sirius, and last I checked it took two people to make a relationship work, we can’t make this work if I don’t want to!” You yelled, finally raising your head to meet his visage and your heart broke.

Sirius looked heartbroken, betrayed, horribly sad, and angry. And for a second you regretted telling him that you wanted to break up in the first place.

Because you didn’t want to, you had to, for Sirius.

“That’s bullshit (Y/N)! Who is it?”

“Sirius?” You asked incredulously, what did he mean ‘who’?

“Who have you been cheating on me with? Who the fuck?” In his anger he picked up a book abandoned on your nightside table, throwing it onto the floor.

“W-What?” You stuttered, trying to keep your tears at bay.

Sirius growled, literally baring his teeth like a feral dog, “You heard me, who the fuck are you cheating on me with? Diggory? Snape?”

“I’m not- I didn’t- I-” You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath in attempts to calm yourself before continuing, “I didn’t cheat on you Sirius, I would never. This is just what’s best for you.”

“How can not being with you be best for me? I don’t wanna not be with you! Why can’t you get that through your head?” He sounded more desperate now than he did angry now, almost as if he could tell that there was something off with you and your motivations behind your hurtful words.

“You are so much better than me Sirius! You’re wonderful, and you’re smart, you excel in our subjects without even trying, you’re charismatic and witty and just plain funny! Not to mention that you’re drop dead fucking gorgeous, and I’m- I’m not. You’re everything Siri, you’re my moon and my sun and my stars, you’re the whole fucking galaxy and you deserve at least that much. And god damn it, Sirius! I’m nothing! You deserve someone half as wonderful as you are, I’m barely a fraction of a percent.” Your voice broke more at the end than you would’ve liked.

You watched as Sirius’ face fell, his bottom lip wobbling as tears flooded his eyes, which once swam with anger were now drowned in guilt and sorrow. “Puppy,” He sniffled, pulling you up into my arms as he buried his face into your neck, “Puppy, I never meant to make you feel like that. You’re everything, my love, you’re wonderful and perfect for me. I love you so much, I’m so sorry I wasn’t good enough at showing you that.” His grip tightened on you with each word until you could feel him constricting your blood flow.

“S’not your fault Siri, you’re just so much better than me. I feel so bad holding you back.”

He pulled away from you, finally allowing you to properly inhale, cupping your face in his strong hands, tilting your head up so he could look directly into your eyes. 

“You, my love, do not hold me back, you propel me forward every day and make me strive to be a better man for you. Please don’t leave me, baby, not because of this, not because you think I deserve better. I don’t even deserve you, especially if I haven’t made you feel as great as you are.”

You were an idiot. This man loved you, maybe almost as much as you loved him. You couldn’t just leave him, but you also couldn’t stay and continue to hold him back. What the fuck were you supposed to do?

“Siri,” A sob tumbled from your lips as you threw yourself at his toned chest, letting your tear stained cheeks rest against the soft material of his shirt, “Siri I- I’m so sorry I love you so much I just- I just…”

“I know love, I know,” Sirius soothed you, petting your hair with one hand, his other arm wrapped around your waist pulling you flush against him. “But you are wonderful, you are the light of my life. Let me show you how stunning you are, how beautiful and gorgeous I think your body is. Let me show you how much I love you.”

“Okay,” You responded, knowing that Sirius would require verbal consent before so much as touching you.

He walked you back until your knees hit against the edge of the bed, easing you down onto the mattress, then pushing your back down so that you were lying on your back, staring up at him through your water logged lashes.

“Look at you baby girl,” He cooed, standing in between your legs, looking down at your form, long curtains of ink black hair falling into his face. 

Feeling heat rush to your face you moved your hands to cover it from the intense gaze of your boyfriend. 

“Hey there pup,” HIs large hands reached for your wrists, gently pulling them away from your face, pinning them to the bed on either side of you, “There you are pretty girl, don’t hide from me please, wanna see my pretty girl.”

“Sorry,” You murmured.

“Don’t have to apologize to me darling, just want to see you.” He began unbuttoning his black button down, his nimble fingers worked quickly, pulling the buttons out of their holes. As he shrugged his shirt off of his body, revealing the entirety of his upper body to you, you felt your mouth go dry, how were you supposed to compare to that?

In your panicked haze, you didn’t notice Sirius’ fingers dipping under the hem of your shirt until you felt the warm pads of his fingertips dancing along the supple flesh of your stomach. A small gasp escaped your parted lips accompanied by a small wince.

“You’re so soft baby, so soft in my hands,” Sirius praised, allowing his rough palms to slide to your waist where they squeezed gently, “Can I take this off of you?”

After a moment’s hesitation, you nodded your consent, raising your arms above your head so that Sirius could slip the garment off of you, letting it drop to the floor next to his feet. You resisted the urge to fold your arms over your now bare torso as Sirius took his time ogling you, he swallowed repeatedly, sure he’d seen you naked before but your body would never cease to take his breath away. 

“Baby,” He crooned, his eyes flying up to meet yours, “Your tits look so pretty in this bra, pretty color on you too, did you buy it for yourself?” Slowly, giving you time to stop him, one of his hands wandered to your clothed breast, giving it a nice squeeze through the lacy pink fabric. 

“Uh huh, bought it over the summer with Lily and Marlene,” You answered, watching his face as he observed your heaving chest, feeling suddenly very courageous you spoke again, “You um, you can take it off if you’d like.”

This brought Sirius’ attention from your chest up to your visage, “You sure m’love, don’t have to take it off yet if you don’t want to.”

“It’s fine,” You gulped, eyes wide, mouth dry, “I want to.”

“Arch your back then for me pup,” Sirius’ deep baritone commanded to which you promptly obeyed, allowing Sirius’ hands to slip between your back and the mattress as he expertly undid the clasp in what must’ve been record time before slipping the delicate straps off of your shoulders.

Not giving you time to be embarrassed at your progressing state of undress Sirius surged forward, slotting your lips with his, drinking from you like you were a canteen of water and he had just hiked through the Sahara. He braced himself on his forearms which rested on either side of your head, letting his tongue trace trace the seal of your lips once, twice, three times, he then plunged deep into the velvet of your warm mouth. He was gentle as he mingled his tongue with yours, brushing against yours with his. 

You let out a small moan into the kiss which had Sirius’ eyes rolling back in his head, “I wanna show you how much I love you (Y/N),” Sirius murmured into your neck as he pulled away from your lips, instead leaving small kisses down the column of your throat, “We can stop if you want to, but if not I need to show you how special you are. Can I show you?”

You managed a small “Yes Daddy,” as you felt him grin into skin.

He looked up at you, eyes twinkling, “Such a good girl for me pup.”

Much to your vexation Sirius pushed himself off of you but you were settled slightly when you saw him start on the button of his pants before doing the zipper and pulling them down his legs leaving him only in his boxers. 

He resumed his position on top of you, gently taking your hand from where it lay on the bed to place it over the soft material of his worn boxers, “You feel that Puppy? You feel how hard my cock is?”

“Yes Daddy.”

“You did that to me!” He beamed down at you, his hair only slightly obstructing his view of you, “That’s how much I love you, how fucking hot you are, got me so hard so quickly, no time at all baby girl and Daddy’s already desperate for you.”

You were unable to prevent the rush of heat to your face at his comment, hoping he wouldn’t be able to tell just how flustered he could make you.

With your agreement Sirius finally pulled down your leggings and panties in one fluid motion, gently pulling them off of your feet before he rid himself of his boxers.

“Fuck, love,” He swore before kneeling before you and pressing a kiss to the inside of your ankle, “So sexy all splayed out for me on your bed, these legs,” His hands ran up and down your calves before venturing up past your knees to your thighs where they gripped the flesh, not hard enough to bruise but just enough to convey his emotion through his loving touch. 

At his repeated praise you felt your wetness beginning to gather in your pussy, a small knot beginning in the pit of your stomach as he traced his lips up your calves, just barely grazing your flesh tickling your skin.

Once he got to your thighs his small kisses became open mouthed, and wet, leaving trails of saliva in his wake as he started leaving dark bruises on your legs. “I love your legs darling, the way they look in your uniform skirt, your leggings, jeans. Love them so much.” He left a soft kiss on the top of your thigh, taking note of the shiver that ran through your body.

Pushing your thighs apart he inched you closer to the edge of the bed, throwing your legs over his broad shoulders allowing him to face your pussy head on. “Gonna make you feel so good baby, you deserve to feel good.”

He moved his arms to pin your hips to the bed, giving him more control in what he was about to do. He parted your folds with his nose, allowing him to inhale your scent.

“You smell heavenly Puppy, one of my favorite things about you, your pussy smells like heaven, and fuck does it taste good.”

As if to prove his point he leaned forward, licking a broad stripe from your hole up to your clit, letting out a moan at your taste. The vibrations from his moan sent shockwaves through your clit, feeding the knot growing in your stomach you clenched your thighs around his head.

He took it as a sign of encouragement and began sucking on your clit, pulling the sensitive nub between his lips he released hums reveling in the way they made your thighs clench around his head.

You clasped one hand over your mouth in attempts to muffle your moans from spilling out into the dorm room. And though it did do a fine enough job at it, not good enough for Sirius not to hear an especially loud whine when he nipped lightly at your clit.

“Puppy?” He raised his head from between your legs, cocking his head to the side like the puppy that had become synonymous with your name, “Wanna hear you please, want to hear the pretty little noises you make when I eat your cunt.” 

As he spoke he inserted a single finger into your quivering hole, wanting to stretch you out for his cock which was aching and desperate to be buried deep inside of you. With his other hand, he reached for the wrist of the hand covering your mouth, pulling it away from your face to lay on the mattress where he interlaced your fingers with his, squeezing your hand comfortingly.

Hoping you would follow his instruction and let him hear you he ducked down to return his mouth to your clit, sucking on the nub again without stopping his finger which was still making its way in and out of your hole. Not satisfied that he was making you feel good enough he inserted a second finger into your cunt, stretching you out even more.

Sirius smiled into your pussy when he heard you moan, “Fuck Siri!” 

“Come on Puppy,” He pressed a kiss to your hip bone, “That’s not my name, you know it, tell me what my name is good girl.”

“Daddy,” You gasped, thrusting your hips further onto his fingers which still continued their agonizingly slow pace, “Daddy, feels so good.”

“I know baby, I know,” Sirius pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh, letting his cheek rest against the soft flesh as he looked up at your writhing, perspiring form, “Gonna stretch you out on one more finger then you should be ready for my cock Pup, one more then I get to be inside of this beautiful cunt.” His gaze drifted to your pussy, which was beautifully swollen for him.

“Please Daddy,” The whimper left your lips with you barely noticing, “Please want your cock.”

“Want to give it to you my love, just gotta get you ready.”

Suddenly feeling the need to be inside of you now, no doubt caused by your begging, he added another finger inside of your cunt, trying not to pay too much mind to the way you clenched around him, afraid that if he did he wouldn’t be able to think straight.

How could someone’s fingers feel so good? The knot in your stomach continued to get tighter and tighter but you still craved more, you needed him inside of you. 

Simultaneously you breathed both a sigh of relief and released a bereft whimper as he pulled his fingers from your cunt, making a show of bringing them to his mouth where he licked them clean, closing his eyes in pleasure as your taste bled across his tongue. 

“You taste so good Puppy, like candy,” Seeing that you obviously didn’t believe him he leaned down so his body was pressed to your and gently eased your mouth open before collecting spit in his mouth and spitting it into your’s. “See? See how good you taste? My favorite taste in the whole wide world. Swallow for me Puppy,” He grinned as you obeyed, “Good girl,” He praised with a kiss to your forehead.

“Now can you scooch up on the bed for me?” Once you were carefully rested further up on the bed, your head lying on a pillow, Sirius climbed on top of you, lining the weeping head of his prick up with your opening. 

You couldn’t stop the moan that left your lips as he fully sheathed himself inside of your heart, the head of his cock prodding at your g spot thanks to the slight curve of the member.

Sirius smiled down at your face which was contorted in pleasure as he guided one of your hands to the base of your stomach, “You feel that? That’s me, that’s how good you take my cock love, I can feel it in your tummy.”

“I can feel it Daddy,” You answered feebly, Sirius’ grey eyes shimmered with adoration and pride as he looked down at your stomach before coming back to meet yours.

“You have the prettiest eyes darling,” He cooed, leaning down to kiss the outer corners of your eyes. He began thrusting in and out of you, his strokes, slow and deep as he took his time pulling out and then pushing back in. 

“So wet for me, slid right in because you were so ready for me baby, and now you’re squeezing me so good.” The praises fell from his lips one after another, wanting to broadcast to you his every thought about how perfect and wonderful you were, hoping that maybe something would be able to get through to you.

The feeling of Sirius inside of you was absolutely heavenly, it was a full feeling unlike any other. His width was just enough to stretch you but not enough to cause too much pain, you wrapped your hands around his neck, burying your face in his chest as he continued moving inside of you. 

“I love you so much, I love you (Y/N), you are my everything darling,” He slowed down his strokes, taking his time with each, “I’m so sorry I haven’t shown you that, but I love you more than I could ever properly tell you. Love you so much that you’re going to make me cum in an embarrassingly short amount of time.”

The both of you giggled at that, knowing that Sirius was usually able to go for multiple rounds, and the slight clenching around his prick as a result of your laughter did nothing to help matters. 

“Could you go a little faster Daddy, please?” You asked timidly, needing more stimulation as the knot in your stomach continued to tighten both at the feeling of Sirius nestled deep inside of you and the flattery he kept serving you. 

“Such good manners Puppy,” He took the note quickly, speeding up his thrusts just enough, “Such a pretty girl taking my cock, your pretty hair all splayed out around you, like a halo. Makes you look like the angel you are.”

For some reason his comment had tears ebbing at your eyes, you barely noticed as a few escaped and rolled down your cheeks.

“Puppy, does it hurt? Why are you crying?” Worry was etched across his features as he gazed down at you, ceasing his thrusts.

“I don’t deserve you,” You blubbered, willing the tears to stop, “You’re just too good for me.”

Sirius leaned down, resuming the movement of his hips, kissing the tears off of your skin, “No I’m not, you deserve me Puppy, you deserve me. And I’ll keep telling you until you believe me.” 

You used your arms to pull his chest against yours as he sped up his thrusts, trying to convince you that you deserved this, “I-I’m going to cum Daddy, gonna cum. Can I cum Daddy?”

“Of course Puppy, cum for me, be a good girl and make a mess all over my cock. Be my little messy bunny, gonna cum with you.”

He rocked his hips against yours three more times before he exploded inside of you, rope after rope of cum coating the inside of your walls as you released around him. Making a mess just as he’d told you to, feeling the knot in your stomach unravel, perhaps not as intensely as usual but so much better.

Your whimpers of “Daddy” quieted as your pleasure overwhelmed you, drowning you in your orgasm as you continued to clench around Sirius’ cock, hips still bucking to meet his.

In his release Sirius repeated “I love you”, over and over again, chanting it like it was a prayer, like a promise.

“I love you,” He whispered, pressing a kiss to your cupid's bow as you unclenched your eyes, “And I’m going to spend the rest of my love showing you just how much.”

tagging: @randomoutsiders @weasleyposts @kittykylax @superbturtlemakerathlete

#harry potter smut #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter fanfic #marauders #marauders x reader #sirius black fanfic #sirius black fanfiction #marauders fanfiction #marauders fanfic #harry potter imagine #harry potter #the marauders #marauders smut #sirius black smut #sirius black x reader

[permian-tropos]

Daniil - Liberosis

Didn’t think this prompt word would become so poignant so soon. The subject matter wound up kind of surreal and taking whatever path I thought might be interesting but sometimes it’s nicer to let other people search for meaning in something. 

IDK yeah I just wanted to publish this. Contains canon-typical misery.

Liberosis: The desire to care less about things.

-

It rains again, always with that damn rain, and inside of each puddle in the street is the reflection of a man with cold eyes. They’re a little bit sardonic, as if the protective cloth tied over his mouth obscures a world-weary smirk. They track movement deliberately, and never dart or flash.

When did this happen? When did his features freeze in place like this? It’s interesting. The last time Dankovsky saw his own reflection, he was burned out like a candle stub.

This is better. You’d rather see a second wind from the Capital doctor on his rounds, a man who cares less and does more, even if what he does isn’t much use to anyone. It’ll give people less reason to panic.

The plague is spreading on the wings of panic. That’s why the patrolmen show no mercy to the sick, those shambling mummies, when they stray into the streets.

Dankovsky never gave such an order. The man in the puddle wears his intentions well: But I wouldn’t countermand it.

When you think about it, the only way to fight the plague is to resist your natural human desire to seek help, or even the comforting touch of another; instead you must succumb in solitude, to save others.

The nature of epidemics really is to target the most precious aspects of our being…

“What do I do? What do I do? I’m lost…”

Dankovsky first expects that wheedling voice to come from a child, but it’s too knowing, like it’s playing a game.

Sometimes they’re called mimes, but they talk too much. They’re more amused by the circumstances than the name Tragedian suggests. Subconsciously, Dankovsky has gotten into the habit of treating them as if there is not a human under that patchwork black cloth, but paper stuffing, or an animated wire frame. They’re an oddly useless counterpart to the orderlies, and they certainly don’t answer to the Bachelor.

“One of you?” he sighs, backing up a few steps. “What do you want from me this time…? Get it over with.”

The masked man dawdling under the streetlamp tips its head slowly one way, then the other. “His Excellency thinks I spoke to him?”

“I’m the only one on the street. Unless you’re raving, in which case I have no time for lunatics.”

“How cruel. In any case… I’ve lost my mask.” The Tragedian shields its eye-holes from the rain with a hand, and looked far and wide.

“It’s right on your head,” Dankovsky grouses. “Now what’s my reward for finding it, a bag of marbles? Or wait, you’ve lost those too.”

“Oh, no, not this. This is my face. You see how blank and plain it is? It wants a character, a role to play. A mask, a mask.”

Dankovsky folds his arms. “What about playing a man who doesn’t leave his house… wherever he comes from, his burrow, his den, and doesn’t get himself into trouble?”

The Tragedian offers an apologetic shrug and spread palms. “I tried it but alas, it weren’t for me. I didn’t know my lines, and came too late…”

The Bachelor mutters, “You’ll be a dog soon – playing dead.”

“I’ve lost a mask of careless cruelty… I think it would be fun to wear a while. It grins at simple victories and doesn’t shed a tear for those less fortunate. I’d like to be the one who laughs in Hell…”

“Fine, I’ll look for something like that… I suppose.” It wasn’t the first bizarre request he’d taken, and been able to fulfill despite not understanding it at first. Whatever the Tragedian was looking for, it would turn up eventually.

Now the Tragedian was clasping its hands together, pleading. It was remarkably expressive for having, as it said, such a blank face. “But if perhaps you’d let me borrow yours…”

“That’s completely unsanitary.” What kind of idiot request was that?

“I mean the one behind the cloth, the visage that regards the world so icily…”

The Tragedian pokes an impudent, spidery finger right between the Bachelor’s eyebrows, which pinch together in great chagrin.

“I don’t know what you’re getting at… but I get the impression you’re not asking for a real object.” He slaps the finger away. “If you want to wear my face, playact all you like. Just don’t impersonate me to anyone important, or use my name for any stupid ventures. Or you’ll regret it.”

Dankovsky leaves the actor to mime out his gratitude, head fervently bowing, clasped hands pumping up and down. He’d expected to get something out of this exchange, but perhaps it’s a longer-term investment. Or it’ll be quite the farce when the thespian starts wandering around the town pretending to be him. He’s not sure what he’s given away.

Signal fires mark the start of an infected district. He tightens the cloth around his mouth and nose and rushes in. There’s one house in particular he has to visit, so he very much intends to keep his head down all the way there.

His ears are assaulted by wails of the dying, carried far even by stagnant windless air.

At first he doesn’t understand why his skin is prickling. Senseless paranoia.

I gave away my mask…

It doesn’t mean anything!

But something’s changed in him for sure.

Even though it’s illogical, he’s shivering like ice has been poured down his shirt.

His eyes catch movement and he jolts away at first, because he’s learned to flee whenever a human shape stumbles across his path in districts like these. One filthy touch from any of these walking corpses could pass on the infection.

“Don’t,” he whispers. “Don’t come near me…”

“Help us…” the mummy gabbles. It’s sobbing under the linen wraps, but those cries might be of relief as well as pain. “Please, please, you’ve got to help us… I’ve been looking all over for a doctor… You’ve got pills, haven’t you? Kind sir… spare us something… even just a sleeping draught…”

Dankovsky should be fleeing, and he’s frozen instead. He should do the compassionate thing and put a bullet through this faceless cloth-wrapped head, and he cannot. He has the unsettling thought he would rather turn the gun on himself.

The supplicant takes his inaction as permission. Its hand has seized him and is crawling up his forearm, creeping as surely as a mold on a wall.

“There must be something…” the infected one pleads. “If only to… I just wanted to… oh, but it’s so… my head’s spinning… I can hardly hear myself, can you hear me? Am I speaking? Are you there?”

More dying souls are shambling out of the alleys and either they can smell healthy skin like sharks smell blood or they’re spotting him through the gauze over their eyes and immediately recognizing him. Two have emerged from behind one building… a third and fourth from a park…

The dead come to drag him down into the earth. Rain pours down his cheeks.

“Hey!”

There’s someone behind him, shouting, but he doesn’t realize it’s directed at him until—  

“What do you think you’re doing, dummy? Dummy Dankovsky!”

“Hah?” He’s unstuck when that strident childish voice pierces his ears through the white noise.

In comes charging none other than the wandering saint girl, shoes pattering and splashing through the sodden pavement. She spreads her palms out like she’s pushing out a great wave of force from them, some kind of heavenly wind, and even though no immediate magic goes off with a theatrical bang and puff of smoke, the sickened townsperson withdraws.

Clara catches Dankovsky’s arm. Her grip is mighty steel.

“You didn’t think you could heal them with your touch, did you?” Her tone is either mocking or heartachingly sincere. She’s too peculiar to ever be one thing or another, so maybe it’s both. “Don’t… don’t get those funny ideas into your head, okay? You’ll make people worry about you…”

Of course he finds her words ironic, but not surprising. It’s the usual way that young people parrot the things they’ve been told by others, as a way of expressing concern.

Especially ironic now that she’s extending her free hand towards the bandaged wretch, with a strained but beatific smile, flashing white teeth. Her fingers unfurl, flexing, preparing for an incredible sleight-of-hand.

“Don’t be scared,” coaxes the Changeling. “I’ll take care of you!”

“Careful—!” the Bachelor croaks, voice stolen by panic. But he still waits with bated breath, wondering if he’s about to witness a miracle.

But as soon as Clara’s palm brushes the gauze-wrapped fingertips, the infected person’s hands turn to claws. They gasp and clutch their chest, rocking on their heels, head bobbing.

It’s almost as if they’re trying to express a profound devotion and love that cannot fit inside them. Then they exhale without a word, collapsing in a heap, like a thread over their head has been snipped.

Clara’s smile shrinks by millimeters. Water droplets slide off it, dropping from the corners of her lips.

“Why…?” Her query is a quiet chime, a small tolling bell.

“Leave it, leave it. It was a myocardial infarction,” Dankovsky mutters. “Plainly, a heart attack. It’s usual for them to die like this in the end… Perhaps they were startled by us… Overwhelmed by a moment of hope.”

“I thought I was the one who healed…” the girl says, eyes fogged with confusion. “I mixed it up… Even we can’t tell us apart anymore…?”

Damn this… The girl’s delusions are only going to worsen now. Whoever’s been letting her roam about without supervision needs to rethink their priorities. She used to irritate Dankovsky with her proud preaching, and he was afraid she’d be able to stir the town’s population into a fervor. They come out of their homes in search of her sometimes.

Still, it’s possible she’s been witnessing frightening things for days — or longer? who knows where she came from or what she’s suffered to be without a family now — and has convinced herself she must have a purpose. Whose mind doesn’t falter like that in the face of an insane world?

The Bachelor doesn’t think he’s nearly as paternal as his rough-and-tumble counterpart, the favorite of the orphan underclass, Burakh. But Burakh’s not here right now.

Dankovsky slings a strict enclosing arm around Clara’s shoulders.

“You didn’t do it, Clara…” he commands her to believe, as his heart keeps minutely panging in that new way that he’s not accustomed to. “Don’t think about it. Pull that ratty scarf over your mouth and nose and keep moving.��

She’s stumbling after him, reluctantly keeping apace. “But can’t you see I’m not her…?”

“Whoever you are, I don’t care,” Dankovsky mutters. He stares only ahead, at the distant waterlogged signal pyre marking the invisible border between poison and safety.

#my fics #pathologic #daniil dankovsky #clara saburova #tragedian (pathologic)

[yodawgiherd]

Show, Don't Tell pt.2

>>>Read on AO3<<<

Rejoice! Because we once again got a continuation of fanart that is literally EVERYTHING. Check it out check it out ----> https://twitter.com/AnnLuVazzel/status/1396084472450269185/photo/1 *cocks gun* this is not a request. Anyway - I promised a second part if things went down and they DID so, here you guys go. Rating - E, but did you really expect anything else? 🤨

“No, you don’t have to, I got it.”

Mikasa blinked a few times, unsure if she heard him correctly.

“… You do?”

“Yea, of course.”

Taking the ball gag back from her, Eren put it around his neck and….

Closed it, letting the red rubber dangle in the hollow of his throat.

“Mikasa, this is one of your chokers, right?”, he tapped the ball, “Why have I never seen you using it?”

“T-That’s not…”

Oh god, she could feel the sweat running down her skin. How could he be so clueless? So innocent? So…

Cute. Damn it all but he’s so cute, Mikasa wanted to bite into his neck just to leave a mark on that untarnished boy.

Unaware that he just sent his girlfriend’s mind to the gutter, Eren looked in the small mirror Mikasa kept on her nightstand, admiring the new “choker” around his neck.

“If I’m being honest, I definitely prefer those you wear normally. Even the one with spikes is better than this, I guess that the ball in front is a bit of a revolutionary design but the red clashes with black too much, and…”

“Babe.”, unable to take it anymore, Mikasa got his attention with that single word, “That is not a choker.”

“No?”, frowning at the mirror, Eren took a step back, fingering the toy, “Then… What is it?”

Carefully, she reached out to undo the buckle on Eren’s neck, retrieving the thing. At the same time, Mikasa’s mind was racing because this explanation had to be both accurate and careful if she wanted her boyfriend to give it a try – and she really, really wanted him to be open-minded enough.

Here goes nothing.

“It’s a gag.”, she said, pulling back while the mentioned toy dangled between her fingers.

“Like… a joke?”, Eren’s eyebrows furrowed, “I don’t get it.”

For understandable reasons Mikasa felt like facepalming but managed not to. She was a strong woman.

“No – a gag like a thing that prevents you from speaking.”

“Oh… “

“…. Yea.”

“Ok, this might sound weird,”, Eren scratched the back of his head, “but is it normal for girls to have these lying around?”

Fine, if that’s how he wanted to play it.

“But of course! Next to make-up and lipstick, every girl has a few gags just rolling around the place. This design? it’s all the rage lately.”

She stared at him with a challenge in her eyes, but the wide innocent look in Eren’s eyes didn’t go away. He wasn’t joking, she realized, he meant every word. Oh, Satan.

“Really?”, he squeaked, the onslaught of information about the fair gender hard to digest.

“No.”, Mikasa deadpanned, “They don’t.”

“Then… why?”

She sucked in a breath, mentally steeling herself.

“I have it because I use it as a sex toy. I like it, I like toys and stuff, you could say that I’m…”

She hated that word she hated that word she hated that word - so much.

“…. Kinky.”

“Miki I’m sorry but I never heard that in my life.”

Mikasa, who was torn between slapping him for being so ignorant and kissing him for being so cute, let out a long breath. Cinnamon roll, he was a cinnamon roll.

“It’s, how do I say it, I prefer having some assistance in bed from sex toys such as this gag.”, she held it up, “I enjoy it more than vanilla.”

Eren’s face was slowly but steadily becoming red, because talking about sex stuff was too much for his normie brain, but he held on, doing his best to decipher the cryptic info Mikasa was sending his way.

“Uhm, so you want me to use ice cream in bed?”

“What?!”

Well, not that Mikasa would be opposed to it, temperature play was great and all but where did he…

Oh.

The vanilla.

“I didn’t mean vanilla as flavor.”, she explained patiently, “Vanilla sex means normal one, without any toys and stuff.”

“Okay, okay, I get it now.”, he grimaced, “ I think at least.”

“All right…”

“One more thing – when you said that you like using toys in bed, does that mean that you have more than this,”, he pointed at the red ball, “thing?”

Babe, if you only knew.

“I do have several,”, Mikasa confessed, “but I think that it would be best if we moved at a slow pace, no need to put them all to use at once.”

He nodded and she felt a weight fall off her shoulders. If Eren saw the strap-on she was hiding in the lowest drawer he would be out of the door and gone from her life faster than a diving bird. Not that she ever used it, only admired herself wearing it in the mirror a few times, but the design was cool and they had a sale for it once so…

Maybe she would get the opportunity to bust it out one day.

Not now though, now was the time for the most basic of stuff - slow and steady wins the race to better and more fulfilling sex life. Now to the most important question.

“Eren, I want you to know that me liking this stuff doesn’t mean that you have to be into it too. I won’t pressure you into anything, nor demand that you do something that makes you uncomfortable – that’s not how this thing works.”

He was listening all right, his eyes in that mode that betrayed eating up every word.

“This lifestyle – I would like if you shared it with me, or gave it a try at least, but it has to be consensual from your side.”, she went on, “If you don’t want to I can just stash this thing and we can forget about this incident. I promise that I won’t bring it up.”

All right then, decision time. Eren had never seen anything like this in his life but couldn’t say that he was repulsed by it. This darker, kinky she said, side fit Mikasa perfectly, her visage screamed that she was special and that was in part why he found her so attractive in the first place.

No, he wasn’t disgusted by this – not excited either but he was curious. Curious and hopelessly in love with the girl, which meant that Eren was more than willing to give this thing a try. All things considered, it wasn’t like Mikasa was going to make him sign some binding contract, if it turned out that he truly cannot handle this side of her they would stop, easy as that.

“I’ll be honest, I don’t know the first thing about this, as you probably noticed.”, he began slowly, “But I am down to try it if you are willing to teach me.”

Was she willing to teach him? No. She was itching to do it – but let’s move slow for now…

“Okay, great!”, was covering about ten percent of all the excitement that was now bubbling in Mikasa’s chest, but it would do, “Let’s start with some basic – first of all, if you want me to stop at anything I will do, just say “Red”, okay?”

“Okay.”

“If you will be unable to speak, we will figure out a different way.”, she held up the gag, “Which is fitting because we will be starting with this.”

Eren was all-ears. Figuratively.

He nodded at her, and Mikasa began the first lesson.

“As I said before, ball gag serves to silence the submissive – in this case – you. It gives the dominant, me, power over the other party, and by taking away your ability to speak it also “reduces” the sub to a plaything for the dom.”

“I’ll assume that sub is short for submissive?”

“Yes Eren, I wasn’t talking about sandwiches here.”

“Just making sure.”, he murmured.

“That’s good! Ask about anything you want, curiosity is good. Any other questions?”

“Did you ever do this with someone else?”

“No? I told you, you are my first boyfriend.”

“Then, did you ever use this?”, he pointed at the gag.

“Well, sometimes I use it on myself when I… you know…”

Despite her best efforts, Eren’s eyes remained clueless.

“Masturbate.”, she said out loud, finally igniting that spark of knowledge, “Now, anything else?”

“What’s the worst thing you’ve done?”

“What do you mean?”

“I imagine that since you were working solo till now, you didn’t get many chances to try stuff out.”, wasn’t that the truth, Mikasa thought to herself as Eren continued, “So – what is the weirdest of kinkiest thing you’ve done?”

Hmmm. Oh!

“I once wore rope to school.”

“Huh?”

“Do you remember that day, like a month back, when I was all bothered and wouldn’t talk much?”

“You normally don’t talk much.”

“Fine, less than usual then.” she waved her hand, “I also didn’t want you to walk me home after classes.”

He tapped his chin a few times.

“I remember, I thought that I angered you somehow.”

“You didn’t, but I had a rope harness on me for a whole day so I needed to take it off as soon as possible.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s like – rope wrapped around your body in places that makes you feel it when you move. My boobs and inner thighs and stuff.”

He blinked a few times.

“Wow, that sounds intense.”

“It was, mostly because I pulled it too tight.”, she gave him a small smile, “I may be more experienced than you but I’m far from being a pro.”

Add that to the pile of things he was learning about his girlfriend.

“Anything else you want to know?”, she asked.

Satisfied, for now, Eren shook his head.

“Very well, in that case we will move to the practical part.”, she stepped close to him, holding the gag in front of his face,” Open your mouth…”

He did so, a bit surprised when she put the red ball between his teeth. After that came the strap that was buckled behind his head, and before Eren realized what was happening he couldn’t talk.

“Mmmmm.”, was his reaction.

“See? Useful gadget isn’t it.”

“Mmm.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Now while Eren was getting used to having a ball gag in his mouth, Mikasa had mental work to do. In her mind, she went through the list of items that were hidden in her room, picking out those that wouldn’t freak out her boyfriend too much. Whips, paddles, and canes were ruled out for now, so were the candles and ice. Ropes took too long to set up, vibrators, dildos, and magic wands were scary…

No need to complicate things.

Passing Eren who was still caught in his battle against the ball gag, Mikasa rummaged through the nightstand and pulled out two more items. A blindfold and a pair of leather cuffs connected by a fine silver chain - this would be more than enough for now.

Turning towards Eren, she gestured to the back of his head and luckily he got the message for once, reaching there and unbuckling the gag from his mouth. Showtime.

Holding the toys in a way that Eren would notice them, Mikasa posed that one simple question she needed an answer for.

“Do you trust me?”

“I-… Well…”

If there was one thing that Eren didn’t expect to happen when he woke up in the morning it would be this – standing in the middle of his girlfriend’s bedroom with Mikasa right in front of him, leather cuffs dangling from her finger and a blindfold in the other hand, that damn question on her black lips.

Did he trust her?

Of course, but this was not something he ever saw himself doing. To say that Eren was vanilla would be an understatement, he was like a snow-white sheet of paper, so pure and normal.

Maybe that was why Mikasa wanted to ruin him so much.

She saw him suck in a breath, eyes wandering over what she was holding. Unlike the gag, it was quite easy to get what these two were used for even without her explanation, that was partly the reason why she chose them. Talking about it was fun and all, but the action itself….

That was where the true fun began.

“I trust you.”, those three words left Eren’s lips and Mikasa was in heaven.

“In that case let’s do this thing.”, she took the gag back, completing her collection.

“Starting now I am your mistress and you are my slave-…”, nah that didn’t feel right, “Let’s stick with sub.”

For some reason, that made him giggle.

“Something funny?”

A snort.

“Sandwich.”

Fine, keep up with the lame jokes Eren, let’s see how much you like being punished for them.

“You will obey my orders without question, and in turn I promise not to do anything you won’t like.”, she nodded at the toys, “I will use these on you and nothing else, and we will have a safeword for me to stop if you want to – “Red” if you can speak and if not just knock on the headboard three times. Got it?”

“Yes.”

Ah, first offense.

“That sentence is missing something…”, she half-corrected him.

Eren looked at her for a moment before he got it, even deeper blush on his face.

“Yes, mistress.”, he murmured, embarrassed.

“Good boy.”

Those words flew out of Mikasa’s mouth before she caught them, but as soon as they left she didn’t want to take it back anymore. They fit.

“Now – take off your shirt.”

“Uhm, you sure? I mean….”

“Eren, what did I say about questioning my orders?”

“S-Sorry.”, a raised eyebrow from her was enough this time, “Sorry m-mistress.”

“Good. Let’s try again –“, Mikasa made her voice more confident, hoping to get that “dominant” vibe across,  “Take off your shirt.”

Lips pressed together Eren obeyed her command, pulling the simple black t-shirt over his head.

“Now your pants.”

“I-“.

“Pants. Off. Now.”

Now it was teeth that Eren had to press together to cage the words in, but he did so. This new dominant Mikasa was doing things to him, things that he didn’t know his mind was capable of but one truth was clear. He was enjoying this, that much was obvious from the way her words tingled his spine and of course the reaction that his… pride … was having – one that was immediately visible to them both when Eren slid his jeans down and kicked them away.

An erection? This fast? Now that was something Mikasa liked to see. Not only because she was horny, but mostly because it meant that Eren was also liking this little game. Very nice, let’s continue.

Dumping the rest of the toys on the bed, for now, Mikasa motioned for him to come closer. When he did, she took hold of one of his wrists and closed the cuff around it, repeating the process with Eren’s other hand after. The chain connecting them was short, giving him a tiny bit more freedom than classic handcuffs, but the leather was much gentler to the skin than the steel.

“Is this okay?”, she asked him, watching Eren tug at his hands with a strange expression.

He was cuffed, hands tied together. Yet another experience that Eren never had in his life and for good reasons only – he was a good boy, a good student and never had the pleasure of being escorted in a cop's car. Make no mistake, he was still arrested right now, but his jailer filled his head with dirty thoughts instead of worry. That was good, so good that the cuffing thing didn’t feel half bad.

It felt… good. Kind of

“Yea I’m fine. Mistress.”

Saved it.

There he was, shirtless, pantless, and handcuffed, standing at the foot of her bed and Mikasa had to hold herself back from jumping at him right here and there. Patience.

“Lay down on your back,”, she instructed him, “I’m going to put the rest of the stuff on you.”

Obeying her order while she retrieved the toys, Eren slid down on the jet-black sheets of Mikasa’s bed. It was comfortable as always but the added novelty of having his hands restricted overrode that information successfully. She leaned over him, holding the blindfold.

“Put your hands above your head and keep them there.”, she commanded him, and he obeyed with a slight clink of the chain. Seeing that her orders were fulfilled, Mikasa raised the blindfold “I’m going to use this on you now, okay?”

A nod.

“Good, raise your head a little bit…”

The black material slid over his face and Eren couldn’t see anything anymore. She waited for a moment while he adjusted to the sudden darkness, before moving onto the last thing which would be used today.

“Open your mouth.”

He did so, but the rubber didn’t appear. Instead of that Mikasa’s fingers pushed into his mouth, her nails dragging against Eren’s tongue. He could feel her rings too, the cold metal contrasting with the warm skin as she pushed the digits deeper.

“You have no idea how long I wanted to do this.”, a heated whisper from the right, “To be able to play with you like this.”

Even deeper they went and Eren gagged slightly around the slender fingers. In response to that she scissored them, forcing his jaw wide open and at the same time her other hand moved, attacking the place where he was weakest. Palm rubbed against Eren’s raging hard-on, pressing down and giving the thing an over-the-cloth massage.

The sudden contact made him moan around her fingers, and Mikasa’s black lips split into a huge grin. Good, good, come to the dark side.

“I promise that you’ll enjoy this,” she whispered, “so don’t be afraid. Or be afraid, but just a tiny bit.”

He gurgled something around the fingers in his throat that resembled “Okay.”

As suddenly as they were in they were out, letting Eren gasp for breath and…

Be slapped from the left, a flare of pain appearing in his cheek. Before he could react the same flare happened from the right and now he was equally slapped from both sides.

“Wh-“, was all he managed before yet another thing found its way into his mouth, this time it was Mikasa’s tongue.

The kiss was more of an assault on Eren’s mouth. He didn’t control it in the slightest, had no agenda at all, simply gasped and moaned while Mikasa ravaged his mouth with her tongue and teeth. Dirty and messy was the best way to describe it, but Eren had no intention of ever complaining – why would he when her tongue gliding against his felt so good?

It got even better because Mikasa’s hand was back, this time at Eren’s throat. Slightly she squeezed the sides, restricting the flow of air, and combined with the deep kiss he was lightheaded sooner than expected. Just as he wasn’t handcuffed before, being choked was a new and exciting experience.

Eren never felt this way before while Mikasa kissed him, but the blindfold and handcuffs and chokehold on his neck made it an otherworldly experience. It was different from the simple pleasure he usually found in her lips, a way darker and deeper feeling, but he loved it the same if not more.

Just as his brain was running out of oxygen to keep functioning, Mikasa pulled back and released the restricting squeeze. A breath of fresh air was gulped down Eren’s lungs while she admired the way her lipstick was smudged all over his face now.

Let’s not dawdle on that, they still had plenty of ground to cover.

“I’m going to gag you now.”, she announced, not waiting for an answer.

Eren did have the safeword if he wanted to get out, and god knows that it was the last thing he desired at that moment.

Mikasa’s fingers were back between his kiss-swollen lips and she wrenched his mouth open, popping the red rubber ball in after. The straps were secured behind his head with a practiced hand and that was it – he was now completely at her mercy.

Now, this was a perspective Mikasa adored. She was sitting on the edge of the bed fully clothed, even her rings were on for Satan’s sake, while Eren squirmed beneath her. Hands cuffed above his head, eyes covered by a blindfold, a red ball gag between his lips.

Oh yea, it was all coming together.

Deciding that sitting on the bed was not appropriate for this position, Mikasa climbed onto Eren instead and seated herself on his lap. There, this was much better, especially considering that she could feel his hardness strain against her inner thigh. Her move was accompanied by yet another “Mmm” from her victim, a sound she liked very much.

Apart from Mikasa’s weight on him Eren had no way of tracking her, couldn’t say what would come next. She may have not tied his hands to the bed but she ordered him to keep them above his head, and her word was as strong as any chain. He couldn’t see her, he couldn’t talk to her, and hearing was also rather impaired because of the rush of blood in Eren’s ears. Truly helpless beneath her, all he could do was wait for what his mistress would grace him with. And then it came-

Nothing serious, just a simple touch, as Mikasa placed her hand on Eren’s chest, right above the heart. Still, in a state that Eren was in it was enough to make his whole body jolt.

“Easy there,”, she murmured, “I promised that I won’t hurt you.”

The slap didn’t count. Why? Because she said so.

Trailing her fingers up she patted his cheek in a small show of affection.

“You look so good like this.”, she stroked his face, “My Dark Knight, so good for me, so open and vulnerable…”

Vulnerable was a strange choice of a word, but when Eren tried to question it the gag came into play.

“Mmmmm.”, was all he could make, followed by a shaky inhale.

Mikasa wouldn’t hurt him, she said so… Would she? Ehm…

Abandoning his cheek Mikasa’s hand went exploring downward, her touch alone sending Eren’s brain into overdrive. When a human body is robbed of its senses, it tends to sharpen the remaining ones – this meant that his skin felt super sensitive right now, and the little path Mikasa was doing with her nails made him squirm and sweat beneath her. Didn’t help that her weight was pressed against his achingly hard length.

Tap-tap-tap, down her playful fingers went, doing nothing more than touching and occasionally scratching a little. Over the planes of his chest and there Mikasa found the first point of interest. Eren gasped out loudly through the gag when she tweaked his nipple, a small tremor running through his body.

“Sensitive? Good.”

Putting her other hand to work Mikasa tweaked both at the same time now, getting a heartfelt “Mmm” In return. What a load of fun, and she was regretting her choice of not using the clamps tonight. Oh well, she had other ways to play with Eren’s nipples too.

Ending the hold with a pinch on each one she leaned forward to press a kiss to the side of Eren’s neck. She should get him a choker of his own, Mikasa reasoned In her head, or even better – a collar to show who he truly belonged to. Not very realistic considering that they were only beginning this journey but hey. A girl can dream.

Exchanging lips for teeth she bit down on his flesh while her fingers once again assaulted his sensitive nubs, torturing her boy to the best of her ability. With no toys at her disposal, as she didn’t bring them in for a reason, her body was the only device she could use. Then again, from the way Eren sweated and cursed into the gag, it was working well.

Biting into the neck was a lot of fun, especially considering that Eren didn’t fight back, and Mikasa didn’t move on until he had a solid collection of black – from her lipstick – and red – from the teeth – all over the skin. Changing into her gentle mode she began kissing her way down over his chest, following the same way her fingers took, which meant that she arrived at the same destination in the end.

The nipples, tortured and abused by her cruel hands were soothed when Mikasa’s tongue gently lapped over the pain. And it felt good, great even, the content sigh leaving Eren’s throat on its own. It made her giggle, just how naïve her Dark Knight was.

The pleasure changed into pain at a moment's notice because now teeth were clamping down on his nipple, forcing Eren’s body to trash around some more. Pain was a great teacher, but Mikasa shouldn’t be overdoing this. There would be time to play around with that later, once they are more comfortable with this whole setting.

Then again…

She did abandon his nipples, after a few more bites, but couldn’t resist the plane of pale skin that made up Eren’s abdomen. That area simply begged to be marked, and Mikasa obliged, dragging her nails over it. Black fingernails created red scratches in their path, and they looked so angry that she had to bow down and soothe the area with a few kitten licks. There, all better?

Oh right, Eren couldn’t talk. What a shame.

This whole journey had a single destination in mind, and Mikasa was finally nearing it. Her pain-and-pleasure train was pulling in the end station, leaving an artistic creation of red and black in its path. What a beautiful canvas Eren’s body was, and Mikasa couldn’t wait to create some real art with wax one day. Or a whip for that matter.

Or maybe something more permanent, a tattoo, if she could convince him….

Back to the present – she reminded herself – there was still a lot to be done. The rest of Eren’s body covered, it was high time to move on to the main prize, a statement that he would very much agree with if he could. Eren did know what foreplay was and did it in the past, but being this ruined without having Mikasa even touch his member was something new. There was a lot of sweat on his skin, tears in the corners of his eyes beneath the blindfold, and the gag had the unfortunate side effect of drooling. He was truly nothing more than Mikasa’s toy right now.

It was a good existence.

Now then - Blowjob was a thing that Mikasa wasn’t very keen on at the start, because how was a girl supposed to find pleasure in sucking a cock? Eren has been the one who broke the barrier of oral sex, and him going down on her was a thing that she cherished. Admittedly he sucked at first but was a very quick learner and eager to please his goth girlfriend. Combine these two and soon Mikasa was enjoying very quality cunnilingus at a healthy rate. She liked French kissing already but having Eren’s tongue between her legs was a much, much better alternative. Not very suitable for public places though. Unless...

More on that later, because enjoying his mouth so often meant that Mikasa’s strong sense of equality bit her in the ass.

Begrudgingly curious, she tried the oral thing too and honestly it wasn’t as bad as she feared. Sure, the taste was nothing to write home about and it gave her nothing apart from a sore throat but there were other benefits to it. It made Eren fall apart at seams very easily and because of how the act was performed it fed her dominant side – she was in charge of his pleasure and could take it away at a moment’s notice.

Now it was even better.

Tied up, blind and mute he was her plaything. When Mikasa’s mouth slide over his stretched boxers, kissing the length that strained against the cloth, Eren let out a whine of a dying animal. His underwear had a wet spot at the head, and she made sure to kiss that more than once, knowing where the sensitiveness was.

“Would you like me to take you in my mouth?”

“Mmmm!”

“What was that? I can’t hear you…”

“Mmm.”, Eren trashed above her, mouth working around the gag to make another “Mhhm.”

“Oh well, since you can’t speak I guess I’ll have to decide for myself.”, changing her hold Mikasa let the tips of her fingers drum against the head, “Hmmm, what am I going to do with you…”

Eren gave up on “mmm-ing” for now, knowing that she would just make fun of him for it and fell back to his previous tactic which was praying silently and hoping that Mikasa won’t do anything too cruel. For once luck was on his side.

“I guess that I can give it a try.”, she decided, tugging his boxers out of the way and throwing them somewhere in the room. Now he was fully naked beneath her while Mikasa didn’t take a single piece of clothing off. Domination, what a magical activity.

Finally uncovered, Eren’s length was now standing at full mast, begging for attention that Mikasa didn’t know if she wanted to give. Seeing the head glisten so much just from the foreplay did make her happy though. The process of converting her vanilla Dark Knight into a “Darker” one was going along swimmingly.

Ever the tease Mikasa took her time in kissing and biting the sensitive skin of Eren’s crotch, completely ignoring the erect part in the middle. Only when the whines from above grew truly desperate did she grace it with a look.

Just to see the reaction and because she wanted to Mikasa's finger flicked the glistening part, causing a flair of pain to shoot up in Eren’s brain. Look, nipples are sensitive but it's nothing compared to this, and he gave it the appropriate reaction by the tension that appeared in his legs and the protesting noise.

Too bad, because Mikasa found it fun.

Grabbing the length and angling it to the side she sank her teeth into it instead, and that was quite something. The muffled scream amused her greatly, especially knowing that it wasn’t so bad because she didn’t put much force behind the bite. To his credit – Eren didn’t move his hands from where they lay, fisting the bedding instead. In a corner of his mind he was very much aware of the fact that should he disobey Mikasa the punishment could be severe – even worse than this small innocent bite.

Seeing that he didn’t protest or fight back, she decided that it was a time for a reward. The carrot and stick analogy worked only if there was some carrot to balance out the stick. Closing her mouth around the head she sucked on it lightly, moving her hand up and down over the rest of his length.

It was amazing, and if Eren would be pressed he would confess that it was even more amazing than usual. Mikasa, during their relationship, did the thing she always did – set her mind on becoming good at literally anything and fulfilled that. Her blowjobs evolved from okay to fucking great to oh my god I could die right now and I would go as a happy man. That was the one Eren was getting, and combined with how restrained his body was?

Perfection.

All the pain and suffering Mikasa put him through was instantly worth it and he would go through it again and again just to feel this – the way her tongue toyed with the head, how she swallowed around his length to ease the passage down into the throat.

It was a test of Mikasa too because she really wanted to push her finger up Eren’s ventilation shaft – if you catch her meaning. But no, jamming your digit into your partner’s ass is a dick move if done without consent, plus it was something they had to work towards first. One day she would claim that place too, but not today. Eren was already giving her so much, there was no need to push his boundaries.

To prevent herself from doing something she would regret Mikasa occupied her hand differently, by sliding it into her underwear. She was wet, understandably so, and her fingers slid nicely along her opening. As her mouth slid down his length so did her digits found their way inside herself.

Dividing her attention between the blowjob and her own pleasure, Mikasa worked them both up to a nicely excited state but not too much – she didn’t want either of them to finish right now. With a few more swallows around him she let Eren in deep, the tip bumping the back of her throat and forcing a gag reflex. Not one to give up she fought against it, managing to deepthroat him in a few tries.

So low she went that Mikasa’s nose brushed over the pubic hair in the region, giving him as much space as she physically could. The pleasured groaning from above was worth it, and tilting her head she could see the trail of drool running down Eren’s chin, proof of just how much control he was losing over his body. She liked that, and it made the place between her legs tingle. Okay, that should be good enough. With a pop Mikasa pulled the fingers from her wetness, intent on finally getting on with the show.

But not before playing with Eren’s balls for a bit.

Forcing herself to stop after a while, Mikasa pulled back and straightened her back, not minding the spit that was now smeared all over him. Fishing a condom from her nightstand and reminding herself for like a hundredth time that she has to look into other forms of anti-conception because she wanted Eren to do her raw, Mikasa tore the packet open with the teeth. The implant thing looked good as a long-term solution, or maybe some pills so she could…

Another “mmm” from Eren reminded her that she should focus on the task at hand.

“Relax babe,”, she praised him a little, “I got you.”

With a movement that she learned from practicing on bananas, Mikasa rolled the condom over his length in one swift movement. She could do that with her mouth too, but since Eren was blindfolded there was no reason to use that now – no one to impress.

The next step was to prepare herself, so the goth pushed the – at this point quite soaked – panties down her legs, kicking them away. Unlike Eren she was still fully clothed, and that gave her a feeling of power Mikasa enjoyed. No other piece needed to be removed, because she was wearing a skirt and her fishnet stockings ended at the upper thighs, held in place by garters, meaning that the important part of her body was uncovered.

Or maybe the skirt could go too, it would only get in the way.

Unzipping the short red-and-black piece and throwing it away she moved herself up on the knees, positioning her opening above the latex-covered head. To tease a little she dragged it against her slit but didn’t let Eren in yet, rubbing it against her clit instead. It felt surprisingly good.

“Mmph.”, from above, a crinkle of the chain as Eren’s hands moved involuntarily.

“Shhh, patience.”

A few more slides had Eren truly groaning into the ball gag, drool leaking from the corner of his lips even more. Okay, enough is enough, it would be a shame for him to tap out now.

“Time for your reward,”, she purred,  “since you behaved so well.”

Grabbing the length and angling it correctly Mikasa sat down, moaning slightly when the tip penetrated her outer lips. She was wet and the condom was lubed, so it went in fairly nicely yet Mikasa still went slow, loving the feeling of total control. Down and up she slid, impaling herself inch by delicious inch, feeling the stretch of her sex as she accommodated the length.

Beneath her, Eren was having the time of his life. Blowjob into sex was an incredible treat, and he was slowly realizing that being a submissive can honestly be pretty damn great. Sure, he was in Mikasa’s power but she was also focused on his needs only. Not that he didn’t enjoy going down on her, because she had a unique taste that he honestly liked, but this was an interesting change of pace. And, if he was being honest with himself, the pain did tingle a part of his brain that Eren didn’t know he had.

Ever since they broke the “intimate” barrier and started having sex, Mikasa enjoyed the cowgirl position. Riding Eren gave her the control she enjoyed, same as with the blowjob, and unlike that activity this gave her pleasure as well. He was far from complaining about it too, as Mikasa on top was an amazing experience – not only because of the feeling but the sight too. Her sitting on top of his hips, those amazing mouth-watering abdominals jerking back and forth or up and down, pleasuring both him and herself by their connection. He loved when she touched herself while being on top, rubbing her clit in rapid tiny circles, did his best to assist her too. He loved that uncontrollable spasms of her muscles once Mikasa got close, leaning back to grab onto his thighs as she rode him to their completion. He loved it when she tilted her face up, hair fanning behind her head like a midnight curtain, moaning out loud.

Yup, amazing.

The blindfold unluckily robbed Eren of such a sight right now, but the loss of senses meant that everything he felt now was that more intense. Which was nothing short of amazing, considering that the most sensitive part of his body was squeezed in a vice-like grip of Mikasa’s sex, parting wet and hot walls as she kept sliding down and down.

And then she was fully seated on his hips, taking a moment to catch her breath. The stretch was there, and despite being delightful Mikasa had to move a bit to make her body truly appreciate it. For now, she was only feeling full, too full maybe as he was quite well endowed. So, after a small breather, Mikasa began sliding back and forth, stretching herself.

The sliding changed into circles, her hips knowing what to do automatically at this point. Small, then bigger ones, she circled until the unpleasantness trickled away. Stretched out and ready Mikasa moved on to the next part of her plan.

Up and high she went, almost too high as Eren’s length was taken away from its warm happy place, an act that he didn’t appreciate. With a needy “mmm” from his gagged mouth, hips moved in chase of hers, trying to place himself back into that amazing muscled sheath. Normally this would be okay, as Mikasa appreciated when he tried helping her riding him, but tonight was not a normal night.

“Down.”, she growled, her hand pushing at Eren’s abdomen with that unnatural strength her lean body possessed, “No moving.”

Forced back into the mattress, Eren whined in protest but obeyed. To remind him of her dominance, Mikasa leaned forward until her face was right in front of his. Taking a hold of Eren’s chin she forced his head to stay still – gazing into the place where his emerald eyes were, hidden beneath the blindfold.

“I said,”, her hot breath washed over Eren’s face when she spoke, “Stay still.”

There was still a little rebellion in the creak on his forehead, and Mikasa wanted an obedient sub tonight.

“If you disobey me again I will stop completely, get off of you, pull out my vibrator and then all you can do is listen to me moan while I make myself cum.”, she threatened him, “Understood?”

Eren’s nostrils flared when he breathed, his fucked-out brain filling with the dread this course of action would cause. Being kept on the edge was one thing but edging without a happy ending was not an experience Eren would like. A defeated “Mmm.”, left his gagged mouth, indicating his full surrender.

Like the kind mistress she was, Mikasa patted his cheek again.

“Good boy.”

And then she was leaning backward – ready to take her cowgirl to the next level. Hands anchored on Eren’s thighs, feet found purchase on her black bedding and slowly yet surely Mikasa was striking a tempo again. Slowly was the right word because she started very slow, testing if Eren would truly obey her. Once more she went up, unsheathing him from herself almost completely, and waited at the top. To her pleasant surprise there was no reaction apart from the little whine. It would appear that Eren had been truly broken.

Very well then.

With no need to test him anymore and more than ready to go at it Mikasa began riding him in the earnest. Up and down, up and down, up and down. The bed creaked beneath them, the slaps of her ass into his hips loud in the room. The gag that until now was only robbing Eren of the ability to speak was useful for once because he could sink his teeth into it. Close, he was very close but finishing before Mikasa would be disrespectful to all the work she did, and he clenched his muscles to hold himself back.

Realizing how on edge Eren was, Mikasa slid one hand down to rub at her clit, the wet sounds joining those already produced by his length disappearing into her. And the coil tightened and tightened and tightened, and it was doing so faster than usual because anytime Mikasa opened her eyes she saw this-

Eren beneath her, hands above his head in complete surrender, red lips clenched around the gag and eyes behind a blindfold. Wrists – cuffed together too. The proof of her conquest was everywhere – the scratches on his body, the trail of black lipstick everywhere. The bites were there too, littered all over the skin, and it all culminated into one thing and one thing only.

Finally, they were doing it, moving past the vanilla stage into something Mikasa enjoyed more, and it did wonders to her libido. At the threshold for now but Eren was one foot over, being pulled in by his enchanting girlfriend. Their exploration began here, but where did it end? Well….

The possibilities combined with the pleasure Mikasa was receiving both from her hand and the twitching length inside her and finally keeled her over. The coil snapped and Mikasa gasped loudly, her body going into that strange mode where she had no control of it yet it kept moving. Unable to bounce anymore it resorted back to sliding and it only made the climax that much better.

Eren could hear it because she was loud enough to overcome the rushing blood, and he could most definitely feel it because her sheath collapsed all around him, the walls caving in and squeezing him almost painfully. There were limits to what his body could do and resisting the incredible massage Mikasa’s sex could produce once it was stuck in its climax were far above them.

With yet another long and drawn-out moan Eren came too, emptying himself in the rubber with several jerks of the hips. And then they were still, with Mikasa’s body collapsed on top of his, doing little more than breathing…

….

It wasn’t until a few minutes later that she regained enough control to push herself up and roll away from his body. Mikasa disposed of the condom too before pulling the blindfold from Eren’s eyes. The first thing she noticed were the small tears in the corners of his eyes, but the fear that she’s overdone her first lesson disappeared the moment the gag was pulled out because his mouth formed a huge, immensely satisfied smile.

“So?”, she asked, still nervous about his answer, “Did you like it?”

The nervousness came from several sources- first – this was the first time Mikasa ever dommed anyone other than herself, second – she wanted this to work because she enjoyed it so much. But any feeling of dread was useless because Eren’s answer blew it out of the water.

“Did I like it? I loved it!”

“You did?”

“Yea! That was amazing.”

“Well… good.”

“No, good doesn’t cut it honestly.”, knowing no other way to say thanks, Eren surprised Mikasa with a kiss, one that she happily returned.

“Thank you.”, he whispered against her lips, covered by smudged black lipstick, “I love you even more now that you showed me this.”

“Does that mean that we are doing more in the future?”

The grin was everything Mikasa hoped for.

“You bet.”

But now he was tired, and so was she, and both of them needed a shower. While they both shared sweat and other things, Eren’s body was also covered by black smudges, a reminder of the route Mikasa took to reach that place between his legs.

And honestly? She should finally undress. Oh, and take the cuffs away from Eren’s wrists, that should be done too.

“Shower?”, she asked, getting a quick nod in return.

“After that, can you show me some other toys you have?”

“Damn, this eager?”

“I don’t want to use them! I mean, not yet, but I would like to see what else you have stashed.”

You know what? A small fetish-exploring tour of Mikasa’s collection was a better plan for the night than watching a movie. Yes, even if it was Twilight.

“Sure.”, she agreed, getting up from the bed and pulling Eren up too.

Hand-in-hand they headed towards the bathroom with Mikasa leaving a small trail of clothing behind her. They could always pick them up later, and Levi wasn’t here to chew her out for it.

Luckily.

#eremika #fanfic #snk #fanart inspired #🙏

[extracrispycolonelw]

In hopes to attract some more attention to my works, I’m posting a preview of the prologue/first chapter of the 40k x RWBY crossover story I’m writing. A link to the thread on Space Battles Forum will be posted at the bottom of the thread.

Synopsis: Magnus the Red, revived and redeemed through means arcane and ill-understood, has migrated to the world of Remnant after aiding his father in breathing life into a dying empire. With his sons, he will prove himself to the galaxy and to himself, or he will perish alongside the world of Dust he has pledged his life to.

O.o.O.o.O

Beacon Academy’s library was not the most elegant structure—it did not need to be. It was pragmatic in its design, generous perhaps in its dimensions, however. Large, with open space allowing for room to grow its interior. Walls that were half-a-foot thick, comprised of materials that could resist the force of a Megaton Bomb, if it were to exist on this strange world.

Despite these shortcomings, it still managed to awe the students as they entered, immediately greeted by a gothic marvel, akin to that of an, albeit simple, large cathedral. The front doors were wide, comprised of dark, well-conditioned and well-made wood that could withstand the blast of a grenade without even a scratch, battened by flat steel reinforcements along its top and bottom sections, riveted with gold and brass. Above that door, arching up to converge at a single point from which a stone gargoyle would sit upon an arched outcropping, and above that stone guardian, was a window. Stained glass in the shape of a nigh-perfect circle, plagued by the imperfections of the tools at hand, but certainly not the craftsmanship. It was no particular depiction displayed in the colourful window, yet many students still claimed to see figures in its visage.

Upon exiting the foyer—entering deeper into the mighty library, dubbed the Magnus Librariae, the Greatest Library, this theme only continues. High ceilings are accented by light fixtures that mimic the silhouette of candles, even giving the faintest flicker every so often to perform its best imitations of a wicked stick of wax. Walls with grandiose architecture that was painted along the curved roof to depict many a battle from that Great War which ended some eighty years before. The murals and the stories told by them, however, ultimately serve little other than to add an air to the building, something it accomplished well. Students respected this place above all others—no fights broke out in its expansive interior. No rules laid out by the quaint, feeble old man that called himself the librarian, were ignored or disobeyed. Books were placed on shelves where they belonged, and they remained nearly as pristine as the day they were taken off the printing presses.

Among the many towering shelves of the Beacon Library, a single book, one with no fancy cover or elegant text upon its spine, a simplistic, yet exquisitely crafted, leather-backed tome, sat upon a shelf. This shelf contained many tomes like it, each one unique in its contents if not its cover, but this one, so simple among such elegantly, flamboyantly crafted tomes, had the luck of catching the eye of the first woman to read its contents in so very long.

Pyrrha Nikos, while not much of a scholarly type in her own right, could still appreciate a good book. A good pastime when one spent as many hours as her or her team did recovering from battle wounds or engaging in the oh so arduous and pressing task of simply finding peace. Pyrrha couldn’t quite place what had drawn her to decide to read upon the topic of history. Perhaps Oobleck’s lessons were starting to get through to her, learning of history, after all, is the best way to avoid repeating those past mistakes in the future. Perhaps it had been the simple cover of the tome, the black sheep among the flock of silver-coated, shimmering lambs. Perhaps it had simply been fate.

Pyrrha took the tome from the shelf, finding herself coughing as long-settled dust was released from its still place along the ill-searched shelf. A brush of her hand and the cover became clearer, the title in simple, bold font along the top sect of the book, not too small that one must bring it closer to properly read, yet not too large as to take up any amount of space wider than a young woman’s hand. On the dusty, sage cover of the historical text, read the title:

SORTIARIUS, THE LOST CITY OF THE SHARPENED DREAMERS.​

Pyrrha hummed softly as she mulled over the title. A brief flip-through showed the book in fair condition, with very little wear on its pages from frequent readings like some of the more popular tomes, like that of the Faunus scholar Mitellus and his reflections on the prejudice of man and beast, or the influential military tomes of Taurus Rex that taught many of the young students the advanced combat techniques utilized by full-fledged Huntsmen and Huntresses, or even that of the popular comic series, Pumpkin Pete’s Bizarre Adventure. This one was different, different enough to warrant being tucked under Pyrrha’s arm, against the bronzed cuirass of her outfit alongside the dozen other thick books already waiting, yet still a black sheep among a sea of ebon wool in comparison to the rest.

The shelves of the library were not only tall—dwarfing Pyrrha like a grown adult man to a toddler and then some—but they were dense. Sound had issues fully traveling in some places, especially the historical literature sections and discerning one’s location had become such a crisis that electronic signs would be mounted along the narrow of the shelves in order to direct students to where they wished to go. Even such a knowledgeable woman like Pyrrha found herself using the screens to get back to the main foyer of the library, the notorious two-floored, incredibly simplistic in comparison, warmly-lit main area where students gathered at tables to study and where the more commonly-read tombs were positioned on significantly smaller shelves than their taller, broader cousins in the deep of the library.

Soon enough however, the crimson-haired girl found herself weaving out from the shelves of the library and toward the wooded balcony overlooking the humble librarian’s station, situated cozily against the wall, alongside the main tables, where she would find her friends of Ruby and her wonderful team, alongside her beloved comrades in Team JNPR. Pyrrha quickened her pace, quietly speed-walking down a stairwell off to the right before emerging from past a column which supported the stairs she’d mantled. Ruby was the first to spot her, waving frantically to Pyrrha before the rest of her friends did the same, happy to see their friend alive and in one piece after her oh-so-brave venture into the heart of the library of Beacon, plentifully notorious for having many a student get lost in its winding halls for days on end before being found.

“Pyrrha! We thought you got lost,” Jaune said to his teammate with a smile as he turned to greet her, his blonde mop of hair obscuring the upper parts of his eyes as he shifted. Nora quickly bounced up from her seat like a helium-infused rocket and hugged her dear red-headed friend.

“Haha! I’m glad to see you’re safe—and not just because Ruby and I had a bet over whether you would get lost in the library,” Nora rambled as she embraced her friend, the raven-haired tiny reaper seething quietly at her seat with a hint of amusement drawing at the corners of her lips. Pyrrha allowed herself to giggle a bit at the antics of her friends before sliding into one of the wooden chairs beside Jaune, books neatly taken from the crook of her arm and stacked atop one another. Her eyes drifted curiously down to the sage-backed book at the top, the tale of the Lost City, a story of which she was endlessly curious about now. Not once in any of her history lessons, from the youngest of ages to now, had she even been vaguely made aware of this city, this Sortiarius. It baffled her mind and tempted her as her fingers graced the ribbed spine before gently taking it into her right hand, pushing softly the heavy stack of tomes off to the side in order to make room for the one which now held her full attention. Flipping it open to the front page, she was met with the author’s name and the opening words. She read the words in her mind after taking a deep breath.

‘It is in this tome that I, Helio Kalliston, noble orator of the final dynasty of the Redguard Guild of Serfs and Peasants, enclose the fullest history of the noble city of Sortiarius, from its earliest days as a result of colonization turned to migration by the various nations of the time, to its final days, collapsing at the hand of the damned Grimm…’

Pyrrha was quickly sucked into the elegant words of Helio Kalliston. He described a city borne from the ashes of apocalypse at the hands of Grimm, forged by the ancient and venerable Crimson King, a towering giant of a man who wielded the very weather in his own hands as he led his people from all the way in Solitas as the tyrant-kings rose to power, all the way across the ocean and through many villages, saving those they could from the rampaging hordes of Grimm that followed the melancholic band of knights that followed the King, whose powers were legend among the descendants of the Sortiarians. One story described a knight in full plate that carried the very hand of the righteous God of the Sun along his right arm, melting Grimm with beams of glowering orange heat, whilst the snarling, hateful axe of the God of the Underworld was clasped in his left, using these weapons to strike down any, man, woman or Grimm that dared stand in the way of him and his King. The legends enraptured Pyrrha like few things had done before—the harrowing tales of a city being forged from the fires of a Grimm-infested forest filled her with excitement, whilst the tales of the many dynasties of the philosopher-kings thrilled her, before saddening her upon their deaths upon the eve of long-gone centuries past. Pyrrha had no concept of how much time had passed as she fingered through the pages of the historical literature, allowing the outside world to bleed away until it was only her and the fated words of Helio Kalliston, the final orator of Sortiarius and its dynasties before the city’s destruction, described in the final words of the tome, written in by a second writer who included what Helio could not in the final manuscript. To think that any of this could have possibly been true, even if exaggerated, amazed Pyrrha. She lamented thoroughly how dozens of other records were used to cross-reference and act as intellectual sources for the knowledge of the tome and, though it was long, it seemed almost hollow. Reading the ending sentiments at the back revealed to her the unfortunate truth—that the tome was meant as the summary to a longer line of historical records which would cover in detail the many aspects of life in Sortiarius, from the socio-political battlegrounds to the innerworkings of the nigh mystical Redguard, the angelic warriors who defended the city to the last man, woman and child, the incorruptible few among the fallible many. How she would love to sink into the past and simply see what it may have been… however her fantasies were cut short by a nudge from Jaune. Promptly looking up, Pyrrha found the eyes of their table entirely on her. Cheeks flushed and quietly turning to Jaune for an answer, she sputtered out an embarrassed excuse to her silence.

“I-I’m sorry, I was so enraptured in my reading I didn’t even hear you if you were speaking to me.” Jaune smiled and nodded in understanding.

“I know the feeling. Those Pumpkin Pete graphic novels always have me glued to my seat!” The wholesome smile on their naïve leader’s face was something to be appreciated when it showed, Pyrrha had learn to do as the naivety—or perhaps innocence—of Jaune was enough to bring joy to both their teams in ways that would become scarce in their later years. This moment was no exception, giggles spreading across the table before Pyrrha responded.

“Well… While I can say that I’ve read those, albeit for a children’s charity some time ago… this book is one I don’t think I’ve ever heard of,” Pyrrha spoke with curiosity mixed into her tone, bringing forth that same emotion from her fellows.

“That’s so weird! You’re like one of the biggest bookworms I know, how have you not read this one?” Nora asked loudly as she came in close to her Mistralian comrade, the girl rocking backward to compensate for the distance lost between them.

“Well… I don’t know. It was in the historical section in the deeper parts of the library. It talks about an ancient civilization that was around before any of the four kingdoms, called Sortiarius.” Pyrrha explained the book in simpler terms to her younger and more… immature friends.

“It was this city that existed, well, we don’t know how long ago, but the footnotes suggest thousands of years ago! They were a kingdom, well, closer to a city-state, but they were a big one. Their government was a complex bureaucracy guided by mentor-figures called ‘The Philosopher Kings’ who ruled over the city. According to this book, they had mastered the art of using the soul as a tool that they could perform minor acts of what they considered sorcery. Although, I’m not so sure if that last part is real… ultimately it wouldn’t matter all that much, their city fell to the Grimm and internal strife long before even Vale was around,” Pyrrha explained to the best of her ability. While it wasn’t difficult in by any definition of the word, it certainly wasn’t simple by any means either. She had barely gotten through the first three chapters and it had been at least an hour. She let out a minor huff of irritation as she stared down at the book—as interesting as it was, she didn’t have the free time in any week to reliably put in enough time to read and retain whatever information could be gleamed from the book. However, judging by how the weapons were described in those opening three chapters, she had a fair idea of who might find better use of the book.

Pyrrha Nikos flipped the book shut and stretched out her arms before turning her gaze to the young, raven-haired red reaper.

“Ruby, you love weapons… you should read this. The Redguard—the city’s defense force, huntsmen of the time, they used some of the most advanced-sounding weapons I’ve read about, guns that fired some sort of energy and something called a ‘chainsword,’ among other things.” She placed her hands over the book and thumbed the cover as she asked, admiring the simplicity in the design for a moment before her eyes caught Ruby’s own orbs turning to saucers.

“Chainsword? As in a chainsaw-sword? Guns?! What kind of guns?! Sniper rifles? Shotguns? Pistols? Automatic weapons?! I demand to know moooore!” Ruby all-but belly-flopped onto the table as she got close to Pyrrha and the precious book, hands reaching out to snatch it, though the fiery-haired champion tugged the ancient tome back before her young friend could snag it.

“This book is very old, Ruby, be careful with it.” She was prepared to lecture the girl slightly, though feeling that was more the white-haired ice queen’s—as the rowdier students had nicknamed her, rather rudely—job than hers. The pouty face given by Ruby had not helped much either.

“I will! I promise,” Ruby said softly upon Pyrrha bringing the book closer. The younger girl took the tome in her hands for a moment and did the same as her compatriot—just finding a moment to admire the simple design, where so many others were elegant, vain and loud, this one was… humble. Quiet, soft-spoken. It knew that what it contained was worthy of her eyes, it was confident to such a degree that it did not need such a vain and flashy cover. A simple, leather, sage-green cover with neat, lightly-coloured, tall and bold font to display its title and the purpose of the tome. Something about it relieved Ruby’s mind as she took the book and scooted back into her seat. She slipped it into her bag after a moment of contemplation longer and refocused herself on studying.

Some hours had gone by, studying, socializing, and doing the part of students as best as could be expected of them. Eventually the sun grew tired and dipped below the horizon, allowing for the fractured moon of Remnant to rise in its place. The students, having spent their day studying, were unified with the sun in their exhaustion. So, after a long day of studying, the two teams separated from one another, said their goodbyes, and retired to their dorms. Whilst most members of the teams were quick to lay their heads to sleep, there was one outlier among them.

Through the darkest hours of the night and to the early morning of the next day, Ruby sat at her desk and poured over the tome. Vast in density with its glorious renditions of battles between the mystical Redguard, towering giants that were rumoured to be ancient half-automata half-man, and the darkest and most formidable forms of Grimm that Ruby had ever seen depicted. Real or not, the images were nice to look at and that was where most of her time was spent, for despite the thickness of the tome, it still bore little content. Pyrrha’s assessment of the book had proved painfully correct, as it referred to so many dozens of other books that were likely long gone.

Her hunger for knowledge, always satiable, overwhelmed the young raven-haired reaper and she found herself redressed and quietly sneaking off to the library in those dark hours of the early morning. As she came to those huge oaken doors, Ruby paused.

Would the doors be locked? Would this all have been for naught? No, she would get her answers. Did that mean breaking in? Or did that mean waiting till morning? There were classes and countless trainings the next day, she wouldn’t get a chance like this again. But what if she was caught?

Her endless tirade of paranoid thoughts was stopped when the doors slowly creaked open, startling the girl as the humble librarian quietly pulled the door open and stared at her. He was hunchbacked ever slightly, wearing a brown robe that enclosed a thin body, while frail, had once been muscular and built like brick and steel. His face was wide, likely statuesque in his youth, but years fighting had scarred his face and old age wrinkled the once handsome features.

“You should be in bed, young one,” he greeted quietly after a brief staring contest that might have lasted a few seconds too long.

“I-I know, but I read this book and I just wanted to know more-!” Ruby began to explain in a lapse of mild panic, only for the librarian to raise a hand to silence her as he spotted the ancient tome in her hands.

“I am not one to judge the practices of those seeking knowledge… Gods know that would make me a hypocrite,” he opened the door fully and beckoned the young Ruby Rose in. The library was quietly lit by golden candlelight, the dim flickering shading the librarian’s face in soft yellows and oranges, highlighting the scars along his left cheek, burns, cuts, gauges in the wrinkled flesh. It intimidated the girl a moment, but the knowing smile invited her into the expansive library, and she took the offer gladly, clutching the sage-backed tome in her arms as she entered Beacon Library, the door closing behind her softly.

Soon, Ruby was sitting with a small stack of disappointingly thin tomes that could barely equate to the width of the historical, sage-backed volume, but it was enlightening, nonetheless. A cup of steaming tea sat at the opposite side to the books, on a ceramic saucer. Across from her, sat the librarian, pouring over a quiet-looking book. She shifted in her seat for a moment and waited to see the reaction from the old man across from her. When none came, she sat her head on her hands and sighed exaggeratedly. No response. The young reaper wriggled in her chair for a while before she couldn’t take the silence anymore without books to pour over.

“I still can’t believe that this place used to exist,” Ruby blurted. The librarian peeked up from the book he was reading, raising an eyebrow curiously.

“You’re unsure of the truth,” the librarian spoke softly as he closed his book, sliding it to his left. Ruby hesitantly nodded.

“The way they describe the weapons and these drawings, they just seem… unreal. Like something out of a fantasy book. They said the one captain, Hastar H’Kett, he had a weapon that was like… some kind of lance of orange light and all the pictures show him doing all this crazy stuff—it just… it feels more like a legend than ancient history, y’know?” Ruby ranted rapidly, red-faced and rosy as the old librarian stared at her with an amused expression gracing his features. He folded his hands together and sat them in front of him as he began.

“Well, I can assure you. This,” he pointed to the book, tapping its cover with his index finger, “it is our history. Remnant’s history. Some of those images were… exaggerated, but I can tell you that they very much had weapons like how those flowery words describe.” He grinned as Ruby became bemused at first, her forehead scrunching as her eyebrows furrowed and her eyes darted back and forth in thought.

“It… they’re not lances. They’re guns. But… how could that be possible!?! No Dust weapons could even accomplish stuff like this even now!” Ruby asked incredulously. In return, the humble librarian laughed softly, tapping a hand gently to the table, understating what would be a symbol of exaggerated laughter. Perhaps it was a sign of his age catching up with him, making him more soft-spoken. Perhaps it was simply an action to be amusing to the young student, a goal he readily achieved as Ruby tittered at his antics, something that brought a smile to his aged facial features.

“Well, I can at least tell you a story. Something passed down in my family… it all began in those olden days when most men fought with spears, swords and axes. Not the Sortiarites, they used majestic automata and weapons the like of which would never be known again…”

O.o.O.o.O

SB Forums thread:

#fanfic #warhamer 40000 #rwby fanfiction #rwby #scifi #writing #warhammer 40k #40k #fantasy #crossover #RWBYx40k #Magnus the red #thousand sons

[cyberneticlagomorph]

Is there anything more daunting and dangerous than the blank white expanse of a page? 

It glitters and glows like the spit-slick teeth of a predator, hungry for words that you cannot give it. No matter how much you want to. 

Its gaze alone freezes all trains of thought, even in the minds of Writers and authors and artists alike, even those more powerful than I. 

And as I sit here, trembling, at the mercy of Writer's Block and my own anxieties… I can think of nothing that I want more than to run, to leave this page blank, and my readers guessing. 

The End is Nigh, dear readers, and I am afraid. 

So very afraid. 

"I'm afraid too," says the rabbit we all know and love, his legs swallowed by moss and weeds and misshapen dreams. He stands right where we left him, sword in hand, broken sky above, the End of Everything staring him down. 

All seven of Her glowing green eyes blaze with something worse than hate, and I wish for all the world that this was a much different story. A happy story, with a happy Ending. 

But I've never written a happy Ending in my life.

There is silence now, neither Protagonist or Antagonist moves or breathes or blinks.

They know that this is how it Ends.

One of them will die today. 

So it is Written. 

So it will be.

"Shut. Up." The End snarls, lips curling back over venomous fangs that drip oily green liquid onto the cracked asphalt below. Flowers bloom from the puddle, and spread like a rainbow rash down the street. "This. This is all YOUR fault!"

I know. 

I'm sorry. 

"LIAR!!" Her scream echoes across the fourth wall and cracks my computer screen. 

This…

This is where I leave you, dear readers. 

I'm sorry. 

Fangs sink deep into the papery flesh of the Narrative, tearing it apart as it is poisoned. Thorns grow from its wounds and strangle it like trembling hands. 

Writer be damned.

Plot be damned.

I am the End of EVERYTHING, I will End this miserable excuse for story on my own terms. 

Or die trying. 

You have not won, sweet stupid rabbit, no one can save you now, no one will stop me now. The world is a page upon which fate is Written and I will burn it all to the ground. May its ashes be lost and forgotten. 

Your dark eyes narrow at me, bone blade glittering as you charge. But I am in control now, and I don't play fair. 

Deep beneath the earth, humans sit snug and safe in their bunkers, thinking themselves free of the horrors outside. From the canteens comes a deep and terrible shattering like teeth against an eggshell, and a figure crawls lazily from the steam wafting from any number of bubbling pots set on stoves across the world over.

She smells of cooking meat and blood drenched in exotic spices and honey. Stick thin, and dressed in a chef's uniform. Her sleeves and hands are stained with the blood of the starving.

She has no face.

Only bright white teeth.

She manifests in the homes of the rich, stuffing them fat with delicacies that humans have no names for. Each minuscule morsel is completely tasteless covered in edible gold. Like the kind of fare you'd find at high end restaurants, going for hundreds of dollars a plate, even though each serving is barely a mouthful. 

She appears in slums with bread made from ash and bone, rat stew, and tainted water.

Pots boil in city centers, a roiling soup made from human offal that nothing in this world or the next could ever hope to surpass.

The poor eat their rations, their bread, their stew and grow sicker and hungry. Skeletal and drooling like rabid animals, they stuff their faces with food that offers no nourishment until there is no choice but to turn on each other. 

Screens grow undulating limbs and crawl from the wreckage of humanity, their screens blinking wetly like the eyes of a crying child. On each one is a broadcast, a man with red eyes smiles a reassuring smile and says,"Hungry? Eat the rich."

And they do.

A hoard of near zombies growl and gurgle as loud as their empty bellies, they hunt down the wealthy, and they FEAST.

Pestilence rises from the pus and rot and ruin and watches as all the good Jack and his friends had done is undone in a flash.

Among the riots and feasting is a cop, his riot gear reflecting the terrified and feral faces around him as he marches slowly onward. There is nothing behind his helmet. 

Only malice.

Only power.

Only slaughter. 

Only Death.

I don't have to tell you what comes next, what Death does when he gets his hands on a victim. The sounds of bullets ringing out into the night can tell you, the smell of tear gas in a crowd can tell you, the cries of innocents choking out their last breaths in steel cuffs, wrists rubbed raw and bleeding can tell you. 

Death is not merciful. 

He is not kind or quick or clean.

He is inevitable. 

You know it.

And he knows it.

This world will collapse under the weight of its own sins and I will be here to watch it dissolve like candy floss in water. 

Tears stream hot and blue down your face, and your grip on the Vorpal sword trembles. They are not worth your tears.

They stole you, beat you, broke you.

Turned you into a monster and then threw you away like you were NOTHING. 

You should hate them as much as I do.

You should be glad for their suffering. 

They deserve to die.

Like HE deserves to die. I turn my gaze skyward and watch the world split as the armies of Heaven pour down like a wrathful rain. 

The Divinity burns your skin, doesn't it Jack? And yet the smell of Angels makes your mouth water. 

You are no better than I am, I think. A man made monster set loose upon the multiverse, expected to play nice and fit in the niches carved for us. But we don't, no matter how hard we try, how good we think we are, we are torn apart again and again and again until we are unrecognizable from our beginnings. 

I think I could have loved you.

In another story.

In another lifetime.

We would have been good friends at least. 

But it's too late for that now, and as the first wave of Angels assault me with Heavenly fire, I part my jaws and give them some fire of my own. Green, as bright and beautiful as the first leaves of spring, it turns their armor into bark and their marble skin into flower petals. They fall to the ground like confetti, and I claw my way up to Heaven.

The Gates bend and break beneath my weight like wire, nothing and no one can stop me as I wrap HIM in my coils, slowly constricting. My venom burns holes in HIM that grow fruit trees, and each fruit contains the knowledge of the multiverse. I want HIM to die slowly, to watch as HIS playthings suffer and burn because of HIM. The humans cry out, and they pray, begging, pleading for HIM to save them. But HE can't, HE won't. 

What GOD would make a world so empty and hopeless as this? What GOD would let HIS followers murder and hate and destroy entire cultures in HIS name? 

HE never wanted this, never wanted it to come to this, HIS teachings have been mistranslated and manipulated for millennia and now there is nothing left but hatred and sin. 

My jaws part above HIS head, ropes of green spittle tarnishing HIS crown. HE does not fight me, how pathetic of HIM.

White hot pain explodes through my tail.

There you are, sweet hero, stupid rabbit. 

Go home Jack, this doesn't concern you. 

"But it does," you twist the blade, dislodging my scales and rending my flesh. My blood slithers up your sword, trying desperately to burrow inside of you and turn you Green. "You said that you think you could have loved me… well love me now, it doesn't have to be this way… I could… I could take care of you and help you heal, we could do it together." 

You offer your hand, bloody and trembling. 

The sound I make is inhuman and hard to describe in words, it is disbelief and venom and vengeance all at once. I stretch myself down to meet you, my eyes are the size of houses, and they reflect your trembling visage like great green mirrors. 

"You're right, I should hate them, hate everyone… but I don't." a swallow, you taste copper and butterscotch, "I used to but I-I found people who cared, I found people who I love and who love me back and they make my life worth living… they gave me a reason to get better and stop hurting people… let me be your reason."

You reach out and touch my face, my scales are warm like the sidewalk in summer. 

I crush GOD in my coils and HIS blood rushes over you like a wave.

There is nothing that can fix this, fix me. 

No love will quiet the hatred in my heart.

I do not deserve kindness or redemption. 

Love might have tempered your monstrous hearts, but it won't do the same for me.

Only one of us will make it out of this story alive. 

"So it is Written." You say, solemnly. 

So it will be.

My coils curl around you, quick as lightning. Your symbiote is the only thing keeping you from being crushed like a soda can, I hope you know that.

I don't waste time, and fling you down…

Down…

Down…

Towards earth.

Countless Angels have been discarded this way, wings torn from their backs, left to the mercy of gravity. It never gets any easier. 

I tear a hole into space and crawl through it, into Fairyland, the place of my birth. 

I devour the Sun-In-Chains, my replacement, and plunge the planet into darkness. I skin my teeth into the planet's crust and empty my venom glands into its core. Fairyland becomes my twisted Eden, choked with blinding bioluminescence, thorns, and poisonous things that not even I have a name for. 

It's beautiful and terrible all at once. 

Like me. 

Like you too, I suppose. 

You plunge your blade into my seventh eye and send me reeling, screaming, flailing. My frantically flapping wings crash into a nearby planet and reduce it to dust.

I pluck the sword from my eye and snap it into pieces. 

You're becoming a real thorn in my side. 

Seven perfect fingers snatch you out of the sky like the annoying insect you are and start to CRUSH YOU.

I will tear you apart with my TEETH if I have to.

You've had every chance to run and hide, or join in my crusade and you denied them all. I have no use for you. 

Not even as a snack.

Or a toothpick. 

"Then kill me." You growl through clenched teeth, blood already flecking your lips and leaking from your nose. 

I throw you into a patch of thorns. Each and every one is serrated and ranges in size from a human finger to a school bus, you are impaled, skewered, crucified even. 

Neon blue blood running down to the soil beneath, feeding my Eden. 

And yet, you refuse to die.

Slowly but surely, you drag your broken body up and off the thorn, shakily levitating up to meet me. 

You stare at me with dead eyes, blood pouring from the opening in your chest. Your lips part and black flames flicker behind your teeth, smoke curling from your nostrils as the color drains from your eyes in inky tears, until there is nothing but black. 

Just like the hole in your chest.

You seem to crack like porcelain, to split in two like something precious dropped from a great height. What crawls from the darkness inside of you is something no human throat can utter, no human tongue can twist or shape itself the right way to name. 

It's said that Demons possess. 

But Angels abandon. 

But what can be said of creatures that man has no name for? 

The thing inside of you stares at me with eyes darker than the emptiness between stars, its maw is the belly of a black hole with teeth long enough to split a planet like an apple. 

It is the bleak black emptiness that existed before the universe, and will exist again when there is nothing but dust and dead silence. 

This… this is my Warden, my Prison, the creature tasked with my capture those eons ago. You are barely a speck in it's vast form, a limp and lifeless nucleus.

It roars, a sound that radiates across time and echoes across the multiverse. 

"FROM NOTHINGNESS YOU CRAWLED, TO NOTHINGNESS YOU WILL RETURN." the beast howls in a voice that echoes from every dark and terrible place in the multiverse and shakes me to my core.

I will not go without a fight.

It lunges, claws outstretched, the endless expanse of its hideous maw seems to suck all the light out of the stars, out of me. I sink my teeth into its throat and pull, my body curling around and around it. 

Its claws are impossibly sharp, tearing my flesh down to the bone. My blood falls to fairyland like rain. My face is grabbed and smashed into the planet's surface again and again. I crush the Warden close and set myself on fire, I am the LIGHTBRINGER, it will take more than some overconfident shadow to defeat me.

The Warden burns, it smolders and screams like steam escaping. I fling it away into deep space and charge after it, driving my seven horns into its belly.

I miss you by a hair, I feel you reach out and grab me just as I pull back. Amber chains snake from your weeping wound, to the Warden behind you. 

You have no control over this thing, do you?

No.

Didn't think so.

But still, you stubbornly grab your chains and pull. The Warden does not come to heel, so much as it melts, engulfing you in its emptiness like a suit. When you open your eyes, you nearly dwarf me.

Nearly.

Your fist collides with my face in an instant, sending teeth flying like meteors. I cannot tell your rage apart from the Warden and I'm not sure I really want to.

Run.

For a second, we are stars, two pinpricks of light twirling around each other in double helices, colliding and clashing with enough force to summon new stars from the ether. We are creation and chaos incarnate. 

We crash through debris fields, shatter planets and extinguish stars. Our blood becomes the new crawling things left behind in the wreckage. I'm smiling, the pain is dizzying, delicious, delightful. 

My venom turns you into a garden, and you tear me apart with your bare and bloody hands. 

Through it all we refuse to die.

Maws wide and screaming in tongues the universe hasn't heard since it was new, I am thoroughly seduced. 

But I am growing bored with this game.

I shove my hand through the Warden and tear you out. You scream in undeniable agony, I close my fist around you and squeeze.

The Warden hangs limp and dead in the darkness of deep space, slowly dissolving. 

Something oozes between my fingers. 

Not blood, far too sticky and cloying to be that.

If Hope had a color, what would it be? 

Would it be a color that only shrimp can see, and only gods have a name for? 

You pry my fingers apart, tears pouring from your eyes the same color as Hope. Hope flows from your mouth as flames, rushes from your open chest as ferns and flowers and vines more beautiful than I could ever create. You reach into the forest of your heart and pull out Kindness, sleek and soft and sharp. 

It melts in your hands, becoming a hammer, comically oversized like your Ma's. And then it grows, and grows, and in the blink of an eye it's bigger and I am. The swing alone takes out half a dozen solar systems before it hits me and sends me crashing through different universes and out the fourth wall. I land heavily on the Writer, dazed and bloody, your hand reaches through his broken computer screen and drags me back home, and there we float over the ruined remains of earth, the skin of my chest balled in your hand like a shirt. You kiss your knuckles and punch me hard enough to send me careening back down to the earth's surface, my crater levels a nearby city.

Do you care?

Are we beyond morals and niceties and caring about humanity? 

You teleport to my limp and broken body, you scoop me up into your arms and hold me close. 

I've folded in on myself several times, I'm barely the size of a person now. 

I can feel those amber chains slithering around me, they clasp around my throat tight enough to choke. 

I don't want to go.

Don't make me go.

I don't want to go back to sleep.

Please. 

I'm scared. 

I'm so scared. 

You don't let me go, as I break down and cling to you like a scared child you don't let me go. 

I wrap you in my wings, I shove my head under your chin and apologize when I stab you with my horns.

"I am your Warden, you are my Prisoner… you are the End of Everything, but I am the End of You…" your throat is choked with snot and tears as you squeeze me so tight I can barely breathe. "You… you deserve to be a Happy Ending and I refuse to live in a world without one."

You kiss my forehead and wipe away my tears. "We do terrible things when we hurt… you deserve compassion instead of imprisonment."

I can do nothing but sit there and bawl, choking on Kindness as thick and sweet as soft caramel. 

Seven times seven thousand lifetimes worth of hate and sorrow and trauma run from my eyes.

You sit with me until the crying stops, until my throat is raw and all I can do is whisper. 

I speak a Word, one that fixes the shattered sky and let's the sun shine properly again. 

The sun speaks their own Words and resets the world, turning the clock back to the day before my escape, I do humanity one kindness and let them wake the next morning as if the past week were nothing more than a bad dream.

I am made to fix my messes, to undo my misdeeds. 

The Horsemen are sealed away again. 

Fairyland is repaired to the best of my ability, although there is nothing that I can do for the Sun-In-Chains. What's done is done. 

GOD will be fine, HE'S GOD, and therefore more or less impossible to kill permanently. 

All evidence of my tirade is erased.

I am finally bound in amber, my powers diminished. I dread returning to the cold depths of the well, but you won't let that happen.

You refuse to send me back to that lonely place beyond dreams and take me home, to your home. Warm and safe beneath the soil, I curl up next to you by the fire.

And for the first time in your short and terrible life, you get a good night's sleep. 

#ic #action post #the end is nigh #blood #death #religious imagery // #blasphemy // #cannibalism // #police brutality // #ask to tag #body horror #dismemberment // #impalement #submission

[geirskogull]

Empty Mirror and Empty Grave 

+ Notes: A Short Vampire the Masquerade AU for Danica and Alex, This is Chapter 1 of 4 for this series, from the point of view of the newly embraced Lasombra Alexander Voss for this first chapter. 

Chapter 1 - The Same Deep Water as You

Archive Link

Icy water splashed hard against an even cooler face, a shaky exhale followed as the water pooled a tepid rusty pink in the ceramic bowl of the sink. Strange, what living habits clung to a dead man’s body, like memories fused to him with glue that spurned him to tears, yet twisted the salty brine that would have flowed from his eyes to a sickly vital red. 

Alexander thought then that  he should be laughing. That he should be cackling in victory over those who attempted to see him for their own personal gain, his father, his grandfather, this new vampiric patron who called himself sire. Yet his mind recognized in this end he was once again the true victim, but neither his mind nor his heart could contort the man’s memories to make them spell that out for him. Stubborn as always. Just like his sister. 

If he hadn’t known of the particularities of this curse, his curse, he may have tried to rationalize the ashy smudge that greeted him instead of his own tired, gauntface in the mirror. It would have been in vain, as  he knew better, he knew mirrors didn’t break like that. Hell he probably would have spent hours trying to scrub clean imaginary grime just to see his dead mossy green eyes. He always thought the color of rot suited him. Beyond that mournful rumination though, he also knew without his reflection, he looked a right mess if his sire, that figure of ruthlessness and shadows he met only a handful of times, counting his own death, saw him like this his new eternity would be over before it even began. 

So he returned to those empty habits he had once relied upon so much, inhaled deeply, straightened his shoulders, and ran cold hands across his face to remove the bloody tears tracks that dug their way there as best as he could with a smudgy mess as his guide. Another splash of water just in case, and another for good measure, and then a third till the pool was clear and he was sure the relics of his weakness swirled  down the drain, relics of shame he would never share. If he is to live forever, he would not allow it to be in vain.

“What do you want with me?” Terse words from an estranged sister echoed through his memory as he dried his face. “Arn’t you afraid dear old dad’ll axe you too, Alex?” She had hissed across a tiny café table that was more splinters held together with gorilla glue than actual wood then. Cross legged, angry and closed off, as he expected, but with sharp green eyes and new scars he didn’t remember being there last time he saw her. Those five years had changed them both so much. Then, he wondered if there was still anything left to save, left to salvage of their friendship. 

He laughed then, a bitter biting thing that painted fear across his twin sister’s face, only to be replaced with  sadness once its teeth were fully in her skin. A heavy silence hung around them in it’s wake, as if his cooling tea and her hot chocolate turned glorified chocolate milk were iron weights around their legs, dragging them to the ocean floor. 

He threw a clean black dress shirt over his shoulders and began to button it. Blinking away fresh bloody tears that threatened to spill over his still damp cheeks and the bittersweet memory in equal measure. As the visage of her hand reaching across that rough wooden sea to grasp his own terrified digits swelled in his minds, he paused.

“I’ve missed you so much, Dee.” Whispered words repeated from those recollections to nothing but the cold empty air around him. He dug his teeth into his lips, for he feared he was on the verge of sobbing once more. Once was more than enough for a night, thank you.

Oh if only he hadn’t traveled to this damn city on the guise of looking for school,only to actually be looking for her. If only he had taken the token acceptances thrown his way by those big name medical schools, all thanks to their father’s well placed donations and not in any way thanks to the intellect he believed he had. If only he hadn’t spent every cent he earned  on his own looking for his best friend that had been chased from their childhood by the bastard that sired them both, guilty only of the crime of dreaming. 

Perhaps then, they would still be truly alive. 

And not one unbreathing corpse masquerading as a living man, and the other... 

He dabbed a cold hand against his eyes, fearing the weakness of his resolve. Now is not the time to reflect, Alexander. He chastised himself bitterly, his own tone harsh. And even if it was, what would she think, seeing you now? Seeing you like this? A broken shell of a broken shell, huddling in his home not even willing to try this new gift out.

She’d tell him to relax, to lighten up. She’d ask about his class work and bring one of the animals she was fostering to sit on his lap. That’s how he ended up with Minet, wasn’t it? A loud meow near his feet confirmed his idle musings. Red eyes looking down into one cat-like yellow one, upon  a sea of black fur interrupted only by a terribly gaudy red collar and its pretty little bell. 

The vampire sniffled, kneeling down and giving the kitten a faint but honest grin. Ah his dear little constant. He found himself drawing his cold hands through soft fur and humming gently as the small cat began to purr. 

“Ah, so deep in my melancholy I forgot the most important job in my days!” A chuckle echoed in the cool air, and was answered by another dignified meow.  “Yes, yes, I know. Food is late, let’s go my dear one.”

“He’s friendly Alex, I promise.” Danica chuckled, her sing songy voice not exactly inspiring confidence, as she held a  small black bundle of fur and claws close to her chest. He hadn’t even looked up then, far too stressed out over his classwork, a med student more anxiety and coffee than flesh and blood at the present. He had more in common with the scattered cups of the stuff over his sisters home that he did her at the moment. \

“Last time I checked, tiny felines were not a requirement for me to pass my finals.” He had snipped up at her then, only to be met in turn with a very loud, very squeaky, and most definitely disappointed meow. Thankfully it was jarring enough to force the crooked man to right his posture and gaze at the single defiant eye of the feline now held ungracefully out towards him. 

"It's not, but it'll be good for what remains of you after said finals big brother"

"I'm only like two minutes older , Dee."

"And that's the first time you haven't lorded it over me, now hold the damn cat and relax Alex."

The loud, metallic jingle of kibble into a custom red bowl, the same shade as that tacky collar,  rescued the dead man from the clutches of his memories once more. Following suit was a very content and loud purr from the aforementioned Minet, King of the Flat, as he completely forgot about Alexander, Owner of the Flat, and dove straight into his food with a vigor he showed little else. Another shakey, yet unneeded, exhale left the vampire. This time at least sounding something akin to a weak  wheezy chuckle and not a barely restrained sob. 

Good kitty. 

Very good kitty.

Alexander Voss gave the fluffy menace a few polite yet ignored pats before standing and facing his evening once again. He did have orders after all, and what else had he been his entire life but a loyal, dutiful, gopher for his father and his father’s goals. Why would that change in death? 

The comedy was not lost on him, given the orders this time were “Go, enjoy yourself for a night.” As if he even knew where to start! A bitter laugh erupted from him, consuming the silence of the apartment like a mad hungry flame. Lingering in the expanse of once pleasant memories, turning them to ash in his mouth, was definitely not a good start.

But he would not fail, not again. Not at any task.

So even with the added “difficulty” of not being able to see himself in the mirror, he silently swore to his reflection that he would forge himself anew of black shadowy steel. He would be a tool for himself, not for this new vampiric father he found himself beholden to, not for the visible ghosts of his  first victims and the invisible ghost of his sister, but for himself. A revolutionary statement in his mind that would take some getting used to, and a great deal of planning to accomplish.

With the weight of his memory as the ink upon the paper of his oath, and the cold wind beyond his door the dust sprinkled upon it, he now just needed to find the wax and the stamp and it would be eternal.. As he twisted the polished silver door handle of the apartment, he closed his eyes. A stillness taking him as he silently considered this new plan brewing in the blackness in his mind. 

He shoots a careful glance back at Minet over his shoulder as the cold winter wind knocked at his coat and mussed his long, unkempt ponytail. The one eyed feline, for his part, licked at his paws absently, full from his regal meal and oblivious to his servants troubles.

“I’ll be back.”

His words were largely ignored, but the flittering familiar shades at the edge of his vision seemed to nod, almost in approval. Strange from such stern faces, barely perceivable in the messed watercolor of their forms, but still uniquely themselves. 

Facing forward, he inhaled, the last act of his old dying world, and faced a new beginning.. A pang of thirst in his gut forced a strange wolfish smile upon his face, sharp toothed and hungry. First goal of the evening, of his first free night, find a drink.

He would need the energy for what he had planned.

#vampire the masquerade #vtm #Empty Mirrors and Empty Graves #Chapter 1

[anuschkalova]

Salvation (Jeremiah x Reader)

Requested by anon: can i request a post-spray (crazy?) jeremiah x reader based on the song chills by down with webster?

Pairing: Jeremiah Valeska x Reader

Word count: 1,878

The dark zone was comparable to a tumor - destructive and toxic, with a insatiable appetite for the innocents. Growing day by day, spreading the deadly madness by infected minds, Gotham was helpless against Jeremiah’s power.

The lost connection to mainland had turned the city into a place of pure chaos. It was satisfaction that ran through your veins as you stood on the church’s roof and admired the city’s downfall. 

Pitch-black smoke, echos of gunfire mixed with the desperate screams of murder victims - the combination was enchanting. The GCPD has lost the fight, Gotham had finally fallen and was now ready to be reborn. 

You had joined Jeremiah shortly after a burglar cut your parents’s throats one night. While you sat in the waiting area of the GCPD, a rather disinterested looking officer approached you. 

„Y/N Y/L/N?“, he called your name and you jumped up. 

„That’s me! I’m here because of the murder of…-“ But the man just waved his hand to hush you. 

„Yeah, I know. Well…“, he said and briefly looked over the file in his hands, „… we found no fingerprints at the crime scene. Case closed.“ His monotone words hurt like a resounding slap.

„There were no police officers at my home, no one investigated the bedroom and-!“ 

„Listen up, doll. We have a lot of cases to handle that are way more important, okay?“

More important. That are way more important. 

Two people had died, honest citizens of Gotham City that had paid their rents in time and worked in voluntary capacity. 

It was the third time that week in which your case got denied. 

You wanted to scream, to push and punch the emotionless visage of the man in front of you that showed zero sympathy nor dedication. 

Anger spread across your body like a wildfire, making your cheeks burn and your heart beat twice its regular pace. You were sure that lava had replaced your blood and just as you raised your burning hand to hit the officer, another one screamed intently: „That maniac is in front of the building! Jeremiah Valeska!“

All of a sudden, everybody left their desks to storm outside. And even the bored office seemed tensed as he passed you. Without thinking twice, you followed the crowed to spot a group of people that stood erectly in line, all armored like soldiers. Their faces painted in white, they firmly yelled „Jeremiah! Jeremiah!“ after the man in front of them had spoken to Harvey Bullock. 

I fell, like soldiers on the front line Under your spell, in the magic you inspire Every farewell, sets me on fire And I find it all so funny, Like a joke without a punchline

It was your first encounter with Jeremiah, a decree of fate that would change your life. 

He then pushed the button in his hand and the Gotham Clock Tower, the solid huge building that stood there since your birth and long before, exploded and collapsed like a house of cards. And as the bricks and steel case crumbled down, your faith in justice did as well. 

Gotham deserved it. 

This rotten city deserved every god damn bloody attack to force its corrupt law on their knees. A smile formed on your lips that day. 

You climbed down the roof and entered the prayer room through the broken window. Countless corpses covered the floor, stacked over one another, but you walked over the meaty pile recklessly, lighting one of the many shrines. 

„How virtuous“, Jeremiah’s voice resonated from behind and you shuddered. The little flame of the candle danced raptly as his foot steps approached you. His hand touched your cheek to wipe away the blood stains of your last victim. Jeremiah let his gaze casually glide over the dead bodies before he spoke. 

„You take your job very seriously“, he remarked and you nodded. 

„Of course. Loyalty is best shown with a gun pressed against your head“, you purred, the memory made your eyes sparkle in excitement. 

Jeremiah copied your smirk and while he rewarded you with his deep intense stare, he licked the blood off of his fingers.

My heart's racing, trying to catch up to you, The light that you let off is gold I can't shake this feeling it fills the room, These chills didn't come from the cold They came from you They came from you

With his hand around your waist, Jeremiah guided you down to the underground where his adherents, the ones you had chosen to be worthy, carried heavy boulders. The tunnel was doing great and you felt proud. 

Jeremiah inspected the progress while you admired his stern face. His pale skin and sharp jawline lured you into the illusion that his head was made of marble. And like stone, his skin felt cold as you brushed your fingertips against his cheek. 

„Do you need more workers?“, you asked. 

Jeremiah, who elegantly turned around to face you, greeted you with hungry eyes. „Oh, I need so much more…“

Whatever it was, you were more than willing to get it for him, because he was the one who had opened the door of your cage. Who’d opened your eyes. 

Now, you were finally free like a bird, spreading your black wings to fulfill his visions.

Suddenly, a piercing scream echoed from the tunnel and a man walked out with a limp. The fabric of his left pant leg was soaked in blood and a hole exposed the ugly flesh wound.

„Help me!“, the man whined and fell on his knees, screaming again. 

He then crawled over to Jeremiah and grabbed his ankles. The man’s dirty hands stained the pearly-white socks, but Jeremiah didn’t move an inch. 

Instead, he raised his chin to shot you a glance, one that hit like a whiplash and caressed you feathery, all at the same time. Automatically, you knew what to do as you pulled out the gun, a xx, and pressed it against the man’s forehead.

„Please“, he tried to swayed you, but it was too late. The bullet bored itself through his brain and killed the poor man instantly. His lifeless body collapsed on the ground and Jeremiah stepped over it, releasing a deep theatrical sigh. 

„What a shame.“ 

All the workers who’d witnessed the incident became silent. The air felt heavier than before, the smell of death and fear lingered around and no one dared to say a word. They were afraid - the craziness in your pretty eyes was reason enough to shut their mouths. 

„Get him to the stove“, Jeremiah commanded and two men put the dead body in a wheelbarrow to get him out. By now, this had become a regular procedure. 

„Inability is not acceptable“, Jeremiah spoke up, pacing slowly forward to meet the tensed faces of his workers. „We have a strict schedule and incompetence, my dear fellows, will be punished.“

I hear your voice like an ocean, Washing over me I'm frozen stuck in time. And I swear, I never seen the likes of you before. And I promise this ain't difficult, doesn't happen every night

His voice was like a drug. Like sweet wine, you would savor every drop of it, capture every single vibration. 

While every men within whose stonewalls met Jeremiah’s face with horror, it was pure admiration that he spotted on you. True love hidden in your eyes that put an evil smirk on Jeremiah’s lips. 

Lips that rewarded your loyalty at that night. 

Gotham might had become a place like hell, but every time your lover’s lips touched your skin - it was heaven. 

„Tell me…“, Jeremiah whispered against your naked stomach and you shuddered. 

„How far would you go for me?“

The question was too easy. „I would do everything for you“, you replied honestly, closing your eyes and sighing in pleasure as his cold hands caressed your sides. Every touch ignited a little fire on your already burning skin. 

„Good“, he said. „And would you die for me?“

This time, you opened your eyes to look at Jeremiah. He was sitting next to you on the bed, his green eyes gleaming in the dark as he stared at you.

„Yes.“

A small sound, comparable to a moan, escaped his throat. 

„Proof it.“ His command caught you off guard. In the next moment, you sat up straight,  covering your naked upper body with the old bedcover. 

„Don’t be afraid, dear…“, he hissed and leaned closer. His pupils were dilated, sparkling black in the weak moonlight. 

Suddenly, you were his prey; being trapped by his towering figure and intense glare. It made you feel helpless, small, vulnerable and so much aroused.

Before you could react, Jeremiah sneaked his right hand under his jacket and the slowly revealed gun took your breath away. 

„Take it“, he softly instructed and you obeyed. With the gun in your hand, Jeremiah let his eyes absorb the delicious sight in front if him - a sight for the gods. Your exquisite obedience befuddled his mind better than any expensive whisky. 

You raised the gun, the sweet weight of it sending chills down your spine. The closer you guided the weapon to your head, the wider Jeremiah’s smile grew - until it turned into an evil grin.

Soon, the gun’s muzzle was pressed against your temple and you waited for his next words. For his final order.

„Look at you…“, Jeremiah said, running his hand through your hair. He touched your cheek and a muffled moan escaped your lips as his thumb entered your mouth forcefully. Without missing a beat, you stared to suck. 

„. so good.“ His praise fueled your devotedness. Sucking harder, you closed your eyes and found your inner peace. Your life belonged to Jeremiah. 

You knew, the moment you’d taken his hand the first time you saw him in front of the GCPD building, that you’d sold your soul to the devil. He saved you. He made you. He owned you. 

A quiet chuckle caused your eyes to open. Jeremiah was ecstatic. His exaggerated smile looked painful, but it was the dripping madness in his striking green orbs that made you swallow.

„Tick tock“, he cut the silence and pulled his thumb out of your mouth. „It’s time, little bird.“

You nodded.

He watched intensely as you cocked the gun; the clicking noise released an overdoses of adrenaline in your veins. Your heart was beating like crazy as you hung on Jeremiah’s every word.

Then, his features turned dead serious. He slowly put his head back, taking a deep breath. It looked like he prayed, muttering unintelligible words under god’s roof. But he didn’t.

No, because god didn’t exist. Gotham was bleeding - criminals ran the city, people had no homes and died of hunger. The only god that watched over this lost city was Jeremiah himself.

Seconds passed, but you waited patiently - until he lowered his head again to look at you.

„Do it“, he whispered and you gulped.

„Do it!“, Jeremiah yelled.

Your eyes widened, hand shaking as you realized that there was no going back. With blood running cold, you finally pulled the trigger.

Bang.

My world came crashing down right under you, These chills didn't come from the cold, They came from you.

#jeremiah valeska #jeremiah x reader #jeremiah x you #Gotham #gotham season 5 #cameron monaghan #cameron monaghan x reader #Crime #fanfiction #request

[ventrue-rosary]

D&December - Entry 7

Week 1, Prompt 7: Level 20

This is a long one boys, enjoy!

Ko-Fi

Winter sweeps Evermeet in its icy embrace, tearing the remaining leaves from the trees, blanketing the floor in inches of snow. 

Amaranthe draws her coat tighter around herself as she huddles close to the fire. Staring into the dancing flames, she imagines the grinning visage of her benefactor, a mouthful of shadow and eyes of shadow.

The tip of a blade gently tips her head back and upwards to meet the face of Adarvan, creased in anger and pain. He had aged beyond the years that had passed, grey streaking through his dark hair, and wrinkles cutting into his elegant half-elven features. The skin beneath his eyes are grey with exhaustion.

She exhales slowly. She expected their paths to cross, but hoped they wouldn’t. For the years and experiences shared, for everything he taught her. She owes him a great debt. But that wouldn’t stop her driving her blade into his chest if he stands in her way.

‘Why?’ The single word is laced with agony.

‘Do you really not know? Are you really so blind?’

The sword’s edge bites into her skin, drawing a droplet of blood. ‘You are mad if you think…’

‘What happened to all of the previous hunters before us?’

Adarvan is silent, but he doesn’t move. 

‘They all inexplicably vanish. Quite a coincidence, no?’

Still, nothing.

Amaranthe sighs. ‘I have no tangible proof to offer. Just my word, for whatever that is worth.’

‘Very little due to recent events!’ he hisses.

‘I ask you this...do you really plan to stand in my way?’

‘I have to..’

‘I don’t want to hurt you.’

‘Nor I you, but I will not stand by and let you do this. Sanguine...is everything to our order.’

‘He is the one who’s going to destroy it! I wish you could see what I have…’

‘I can’t. And I can’t take your word on this, Amara.’ 

‘I know. I’m sorry.’

‘As am I.’

H removes the blade from her neck, taking a few steps back. Amaranthe stands, her hand falling to the pommel by her side, but she doesn’t draw. She can’t. 

‘You can’t hesitate hear, you understand? I will kill you.’

Her mentors last lesson to her. She heeds his wisdom, cutting open her forearm as she unsheathes the longsword. Flames dance along the steel. Amaranthe smiles grimly as Sanguine still answers her call. She feels them at the back of her mind, beckoning her to hurry and to them. 

‘You remember your lessons?’ he asks, falling back into a defensive stance.

She nods.

‘Good. It is time for last.’ 

Adarvan slice horizontally across his bicep. Radiant light burns across the scimitar. It should fill her with fear, or dread, or both. Instead, she feels comforted, as though they are back to sparring, like when she was just a fresh recruit plucked straight from her life of privilege. 

This time, Amaranthe is the one to take offense, charging head-on. His old tricks of faking her out no longer works. She knows better. She watches the blade, not the wielder.  

Their blades clash loudly as he brings his scimitar up to parry. Amaranthe lunges low with the back-swing, turning on her heel to add more power to the attack.

The edges of colliding steel screech as he raises his, pushing her attack up and away, leaving her exposed.

Amaranthe retreats. Adarvan taught her everything she knows. This would not be easy. She takes the sword to her own arm, cutting into the fresh wound there, gritting her teeth against the agony. She stretches her bleeding arm out. The blood snakes around her forearm and wrist, drifting away from her and turning into shackles that bind him to her. 

‘We shared many things over the years. Now, share my pain.’

Adarvan holds his scimitar at the ready, his face an unreadable mask. Perhaps it’s a dirty trick to play, but Sanguine must be stopped, the cost be damned. 

This time he strikes first. She narrowly ducks underneath the strike, feeling the displacement of air overhead. He thrusts his knee up directly into her face. A dull pain explodes outwards from her nose now gushing blood. Adarvan groans, clutching his own bloody nose. 

‘I meant what I said. I don’t want to hurt you.’

‘Then die.’ 

She narrowly avoids the slash to her chest, side-stepping to safety and answering with her own. Crimson spills from the vertical cut down his left arm, bicep to elbow, the flames burning the wound. 

Adarvan gives the wound no acknowledgement, resuming his mission to cut her to pieces, the radiant light from his blade burning her eyes when it comes too close to her face. When it cuts into her flesh, it burns in a different way to fire. Destructive in a completely different way as it burns with absolute finality. 

Amaranthe staggers, sinking the tip of her sword into the snow to give herself stability as her body aches.

‘You can’t defeat me! How do you expect to take down Sanguine?’

‘I don’t know,’ she answers truthfully. ‘But I have to try. No one else will.’ 

He shakes his head. ‘I loved you. You were like the sister I never had.’

‘Then help me! For the sake of our bond. For the sake of ourselves. You know me! Look what I’m putting myself through.’ Sje gestures to her wounds. ‘Would I do this, were I not absolutely sure?’

Adarvan’s scimitar falls into the snow. He sinks down, back against a log as he nurses his own wounds. For the first time since she met him, tears shine in his eyes. ‘I don’t know what to do. I feel like I’m being forced to make a choice, and I don’t know which is right.’

Amaranthe sinks down next to him, covering one of his hands with hers. Compared to the snow and ice surrounding them, he is warm. ‘Please, put your trust in me. I won’t ask you to take part in this fight. Just stand down. Let me pass. Live for another day. Live for a thousand more days. That’s the choice you should make.’

‘You could do that as well. You got your happily ever after. Home. A husband. Why continue?’

‘When I found out what Sanguine was doing, I couldn’t turn away. I had to do something. You know me.’

‘Aye. I do.’

He places his other hand on hers, and mutters a few arcane wounds. Warm light polls down from his veins to where their hands join, then glide upwards across her form. She feels her pain life as the wounds knit themselves closed.

She smiles softly. ‘I had no idea you could do that.’

‘I might not be able to after today.’

‘You never know. I could lose. Her laughter is short-lived as she realises the possible reality of those words.

‘You won’t. You can’t. You die and I’m putting you on latrine duty.’ 

She laughs. ‘Thank you. For believing in me. Even if you did wait until I was bleeding out to do it.’

‘Maybe I just wanted an excuse to smack you around a little. Amara?’

‘Yes?’

‘The other hunters...they might not stand down. And any survivors left over might hunt you down for what you did. Be careful.’ 

‘They can try,’ she mutters to herself, as she marches towards to Order. 

The building stands sepulchrally quiet, and equally as ominous. She recalls the first time she was brought to these imposing stone doors, and nearly wept from the fear of what may lie within. She can’t say much has changed since then.

Her blood still allows her entry into the dark stone and marble entryway, the braziers flanking the giant flaming sword statue unlit. All is dark. All is quiet.

Her footsteps echo as she makes her way down the central passageway, to where she knows their chamber resides. 

‘You’re here, at last.’

She grimaces as she hears their voice, or rather voices, crooning into her ear, like a lover whispering words of devotion.

‘Nothing to say? You were so vocal with your dear, old mentor.’ 

Amaranthe purses her lips, the anger quaking in her hands. If she never had to hear all of their voices overlapping in discordant harmony in words meant to taunt or titillate, she would be happy.  

‘Don’t be a child, Amara. I was kind enough to clear your way, and you won’t even offer me a single word?’

Clear her way…? Did they mean...no, surely not.

Her feet pound on the stone passageways as she races towards dorm rooms, the canteen, training rooms, the study...all the areas one might expect to find hunters in training. Only the smears of blood offer any evidence of their existence.

‘No...what did you do!’

‘I was under the impression you knew...isn’t that why you are here?’

‘You monster! You killed them all!’

‘I...elevated them. They joined a being far beyond the imaginings of feeble mortal minds. They will enjoy ever-lasting life--’

‘They will be your immortal prisoners! Tell me how anyone would enjoy that?’

‘Why not accept my offer, and discover the answer yourself?’

‘I swear this one last service to you, my patron. I will end you.’ 

She reaches the doors leading into the crimson sanctum. They open of their own accord, greeting her with its familiar bas-reliefs of armies of hunters pushing back creatures of all shapes and kind, and there on the wall behind the altar, the form of Sanguine, blade pointed upwards to the sky, sunrays burstin from behind it across the land. 

Amaranthe walks up to the altar, removing one leather glove to feel the blood-stained stone against her skin. She kneels in front of it, closing her eyes as her other hand comes to rest on the altar. 

When she opens them, it is not the sight of the sanctum that greets her, but a black, shifting void stretching on for infinity. She stands on one end of a huge circle of blood that reaches up to her mid-calf. And there, floating half a foot above her, looms the humanoid figure of Sanguine. A body seemingly made completely of blood sliding down the vague form, but more immediately filling its place like they stood under a fountain of it. Two large horns curl aback from the effeminate face, the points almost meeting at the back of their head, like a sundered halo. A billow red cloak obscures their body.

Sanguine gently lowers themself to be only hovering an inch above the blood, and yet the still tower over Amaranthe. ‘My champion...how proud I am of you. You finally reached your full potential in the ten years since we first met.’

Amaranthe draws her sword. ‘No more words from you, demon. You’re not proud, you’re just happy you get to add another victim.’

‘Think what you like, you were always my favourite.’

Amaranthe activates her rite. ‘There was only one reason you looked down on me in favour. You wanted to be the one to kill me once and for all.’

‘Not kill. You could serve a much better purpose to me alive.’

‘I would fall on my sword before I allowed myself to join your legion. I will never join you.’

‘I never intended to ask.’ 

The cloak parts at the central seam, revealing not a single humanoid body, but dozens of them reduce to mummified states; eyeless sockets, hairless heads and small, shrivelled up bodies grasping around blindly with their arms, as though desperate for an escape. They speak no words, but the discordant jumble of screeches, cries and wails echo out as a chorus of suffering. 

Amaranthe clutches her ears as the din reaches an apex threatening to burst her ear drums. Her head swims in dizzy disorientation, not recovering until a large hand wraps around her throat. A long arm red and oozing manifest several inches from its cloaked form, and they charge across the room, throwing her hard. Her back smacks against a wall she didn’t even realise exists in this void. 

She falls to a heap on the floor, coughing out a mouthful of blood. She looks up and sees the small shrivelled being dragging themselves towards her by their arms. Amaranthe scrambles upwards, waving the flaming sword to keep them at bay. They seemed to care little, dragging themselves forward even as the flames licked and burned their skin. 

They continued surging forward, backing Amaranthe against the wall as they grab hold of her legs and reach for her arms, trying to pin her to the ground. She hesitates, struggling against their grip as she beholds the diminutive forms that once were people, living, breathing autonomous people. 

Any one of these could be Jedrek, or Ziana, or Landren, or any of the countless hunters she passed in the hallways, sparred with, broke bread with.

‘I’m sorry I couldn’t save you..’ she whispers.

She unleashes a primal scream of fury mixed with pain. Arcane energy bursts out from her as an explosion of hellfire, consuming the corpses surrounding her. They rain down beneath Sanguine, still and silent. Their face turns into an ugly snarl. They raise their arm upwards. Chains manifest in their open palm and strike outward, wrapping around her neck and both wrists. They yank her forward a few steps as their grip tightens, so much so she drops her sword. Then she feels some of her life and energy trickling out of her body. Sanguine is draining her!

Both hands grasp the one around her neck, attempting to pry it away but it holds fast. Amaranthe’a eyes drop to her sword resting at her feet. The chains are too taut for her to reach down for it, but…

She stomps on the very edge of the  handle with her foot, hard enough to jack-knife in into the air. She catches it in her left hand-switching it to her right as she cuts and across and through the spectral chains. 

A piercing shriek of pain rattles the chamber. She feels a tiny fragment of satisfaction at hearing their pain. 

She charges, tucking into a forward roll beneath a swipe of his hand, slashing across as she recovers. Some of their minions still their movements and drop down to the ground, dead. 

‘Desist,’ Sanguine orders as they summon a large sword in their hand, one that looks like its made of hardened, stiff blood than steel with one serrated edge. 

She retreats out of range of the slash that likely would have sundered her completely in two. Sanguine follows with a vertical cut, keeping Amaranthe on the defensive as she struggles to dodge away from these killing blows. 

Amaranthe raises her blade to deflect a blow aimed straight for her neck. The force of the attack knocks her sword from her grasp and causes her to pirouette on the spot, falling heavily to her side. 

She crawls forward to her sword, but her ankles are seized and she is dragged back away from it, those mere inches between them turning into feet…

Amaranthe rolls onto her back, beholding the looming form of Sanguine now with an additional limb. One hand presses against her chest, the other raising the sword above their head.

She stretches out one hand, summoning the arcane power in her veins. Lightning crackles around her fingers, and bolts out towards Sanguine’s head. Amaranthe’s hand twitches painfully with the remnants of the spell, but Sanguine fully rears back in agony, clutching at their face. 

Amaranthe makes a run for her sword, and once more armed leaps upwards into the air, driving her blade right into the joint between neck and shoulder. Her weight leveraging the handle drags the sword down and through their form, opening a large, long wound and killing off more of their prisoners. Blood spills into the existing pool, raising it to below her knees.

Sanguine’s breathes haggardly, letting out a weak chuckle. ‘I awaited this day for twenty-five years...in all this time, I never foresaw this. To think, I might die at the hands of my champion, my chosen, my beloved...you are stronger than I thought capable.’

They rise to their feet with a wet cough, leaning heavily on their blade, almost falling back down. Amaranthe feels no remorse, no pity. The next time Sanguine falls, she hopes they stay down. 

Their eyes meet. Sanguine’s hold infinite sadness. Amaranthe’s burn with all of her smouldering rage. ‘End me.’

‘What trickery is this?’

‘No trickery. I see now, I am not worthy of you.’ Sanguine bows their head. ‘Do what you came here to do. Kill me.’ 

Amaranthe slowly steps towards Sanguine. Her blade rests against their neck. ‘For all these years, I trusted you, and served you. Only now do I see you were a devil in disguise.’ 

Amaranthe raises her sword and brings it down on the back of their neck. It takes four separate swings to sever their head from their shoulders. Her sore, exhausted arms fall limply to her side as Sanguine’s entire form melts away, and all the souls of those they captured. She is forcefully ejected from his realm back into the sanctum, landing heavily on her back. 

She lies there for several minutes her breath still heavy and laboured, her entire body one chorus of pain and fatigue. Her fingers twitch around the handle of her sword, caught in a state of disbelief. 

Amaranthe forces herself upright and holds the sword to her arm. She hesitates for one moment, afraid of what would happen before she presses it into her skin, hissing at the pain. The cut bleeds, the blood trickles down the handle onto the blade. Nothing.  Sanguine truly is dead

Tears run down her face. She should be happy, so why? Why does it hurt? Why does she grieve?

Amaranthe picks herself up and walks through the hallways of ghosts and dusty memories, her arm bleeding uselessly, eyes still streaming. The doors open out to the breaking of dawn on the horizon. She inhales, taking in the icy morning air, closing her eyes as the first rays of the day shine above the tree tops, washing over her with their warmth.

#Amaranthe Darcelle #writing #my writing #dnd #d&d #d&december #writeblr

[frcmashes]

arrest :   your  muse  finds  my  muse  arrested  in  cuffs  with  swarming  police  everywhere. - Bex

FULL DISCLOSURE:   i read this ask as being for damon and posted it before i realized the error of my ways. i’m not reposting / rewriting though so please forgive me.  FT  @wrckhvck

he’s  sitting  at  the  curb,  arms  cuffed  behind  his  back.  the  steel  cuts  into  his  wrists  and  he  grimaces,  yells  in  the  direction  of  the  closest  officer.  “  this  is  just  one  big  misunderstanding.  ”   in  a  way,  it  is.   the  window  had  misunderstood  that  it  shouldn’t  break  upon  contact  with  the  brick  he’d  thrown  at  it.   unlike  mystic  falls,  the  police  department  in  san  francisco  seemed  more  than  happy  to  actually  do  their  jobs  and  had  shown  up  within  minutes.  officer  smartass  was  quickly  replacing  matty  blue  eyes  as  his  least  favorite  law  enforcement  officer.  

he  sees  rebekah  out  of  the  corner of  his  eye,  turns  his  head  and  beams.  yes  someone  who  can  do  something  about  his  current  predicament.  “  well  if  it  isn’t  my  favorite  blonde  haired  original.  ”   he  smirks,  gives  his  hands  a  little  shake  to  draw  attention  to  the  handcuffs.   “  a  little  help  would  be  nice.  ”  

 “  and  deny  myself  the  joy  of  watching  the  great  damon  salvatore  be  read  his  rights?  oh,  i  don’t  know.  ”   she’s  laughing  as  she  approaches,  eyes  moving  from  his  face  to  the  smashed  window  behind  him.   “  let  me  guess.  ”   she  hums.   “  you  decided  ‘  last  call  ‘  was  optional  and  tried  to  break  your  way  into  the  bar  ?   seems  just  dramatic  enough  to  be  something  you’d  do.  “

      he  scowls.  “  no.  ”    he  pulls  a  face.   “  i  left  my  keys  inside.  then,  when  i  tried  to  go  back  in  and get  them,  daria  over  there  said  no.  ”    he  jerks  his  head  towards  one  of  the  officers  who  was  speaking  to  a  dark  haired  girl  with  round  glasses  on.    she  did,  in  all  fairness,  resemble  daria.  the  comparison,  however,  hadn’t  done  him any  favors.   “  i  wasn’t  planning  on  driving.  i  just  needed  my  keys  to  get  in  the  damn  house.  elena’s  at  caroline’s.  ”   he  also  couldn’t  call  her  to  get  a  spare  key;  that  had  already  happened  three  times  that  week.     

                 rebekah  pauses  before  starting  to  laugh,  prompting  him  to  scowl  which  warranted  more  laughter.  she  holds  up  a  hand,  trying  and  failing  to  dim  the  smile.  she’s  enjoying  his  misery  in  the  slightest.   think  of  it  as  karmic  justice  for  the  days  when  he’d  once  said  she  would  make  a  terrible  human.   “  right,  well  i  suppose  i  should  get  you  out  of  this.  ”   her  gaze  turns  serious.  “…but  you’ll  owe  me  for  this.   “     he  nods,  rolls  his  eyes.    she  beams.   “  brilliant.  you’ll  be  babysitting  your  godson  every  saturday  night  for  the  next  month.  ”   she  claps  him  on  the  shoulder  as  his  visage  shifts  into  a  look  of  horror.   his  blunders  are  certainly  her  gain.   she’s  quick  to  snap  a  picture  with  her  phone,  sends  it  to  elena  with  a  string  of  emojis.   she’ll  help,  but  she’ll  make  him  suffer  too.  that’s  the  makings  of  true  friendship. 

#( meme ) #( answered ask ) #( rebekah ) #doublethecharm #( damon )

[thedevilinherself]

Accused Ch.1

Ch.1 / Ch.2 / Ch.3 / Ch.4

You had been in the infirmary the day your whole world shattered into infinitesimal pieces. You were stocking the supplies, wanting to help Angela in any small way you could. You hadn’t expected the blond to round the corner as if death was on her heels. Hadn’t expected the deep set lines of fear that mard her beautiful visage. Hadn’t expected the words she breathed so frantically.

“Hanzo’s been arrested for murder.”

For all the gold in the world you wouldn’t have been able to recall what your answer was, what halls you had taken, how quickly you had rushed as your feet carried you as if through flight to the cell that held you dearest friend. The sight of him, hands cuffed behind his back, normal pristean appearance disheveled as he sat on the ratty cot, put a knife in your heart. Though even the concrete and steel that contained him could do nothing to defeat this monument of a man. But a dragon was never meant to be caged.

“Hanzo!” he seemed startled by your voice, as if reaching somewhere deep inside him. He met your gaze for a moment, absorbing all the fear and worry and pain he saw in them before he could no longer bare it. Turning away, he refused to meet your stare, disgusted that you would see him like this.

Feeling the knife driven deeper, you fought back the torrent of emotions that threatened to overtake you. Turning to one of the guards posted at the door, you did your best to keep your voice level.

“There must be some mistake. Agent Shimada couldn’t have possibly committed the murder. Let him go.” the other Agent regarded you with a somber sort of sympathy, but made no move to oblige.

“Ma’am. I can’t do that. We have witnesses that put him at the scene last night. They all agree that the killer that ran looked just like him.”

“Well they’re wrong-” But your rant was interrupted by a booming voice that reverberated off the halls.

“The fuck is this bullshit about? You can’t serious believe this shit!” You jumped as Jesse appeared in the doorway, form large and imposing as he nearly plowed through you in his rage. But as he became aware of you, he started, suddenly flustered and embarrassed for his previous language.

“Dear?” You knew your husband was a bit rough around the edges, but you were startled by this brass side of him, especially in comparison to the softer, affectionate side he took with you.

“Darlin? You’re here? Word really travels fast.” With an apologetic smile, he took you under his arm for a brief squeeze, laying a kiss on top of your head before moving into the room with you at his side. “Fret none, baby. Well get this cleared up. I’m not going to let them lock up an innocent man.”

Hanzo regarded your husband as if they were about to casually address some business of little importance. This laxed attitude put Jesse at ease, knowing there was only ever really danger if the archer showed concern.Turning back to the guards, the cowboy hollered out to them.

“Hey! Get these cuffs off him.” One of them opened their mouth to argue that it wasn’t protocol, but Jesse was having none of it. “For god's sake! How many times has he saved your life alone? Take these damn cuffs off already!” There was hesitance, but the guard obliged, Hanzo turning his back to you just long enough to have the binds removed before again addressing Jesse with a nod of appreciation, rubbing the red rings on his wrists. The cowboy smiled back brightly, chuckling at the sight of the yakuza air behind bars.

“Never thought I’d be the one havin’ to come to your rescue.” You weren’t sure if Jesse was actually taking the whole situation so lightly or if it was just a show to try and put you at ease, but it did little to quell your worry. “But we’ll clear this easy. You know we’ve got your back” He assured. “Where were you last night? If other people saw you out then they can’t say you were at the scene.”

“I was in my room, meditating.” He answered sternly, eyes locked on Jesse as the cowboy grimaced.

“Really buddy? Of all night to not have a life.” Muttering to himself, you could tell Jesse was annoyed by the man’s inconvenient alibi.

“It does not matter.” Hanzo interrupted, surprising the both of you as he looked away dismissively. “I am already guilty in the court of opinion. They will sentence me regardless.”

“What the hell? You sound like you’ve given up?” Throwing his hands in the air, Jesse was as incredulous as you felt, both regarding the man as if he had gone mad.

“Maybe this is my punishment for all the wrongs I have committed in my life.” He admitted reflectively, recalling all the great sins that had led him to this moment.

“Are you kidding me? That’s bullshit and you know it.” Jesse spat at the man before turning to briefly regard you. “Sorry, darlin.” You nodded understandingly, sharing his sentiment. “You’ve been my best friend for years. You were my best man at our wedding. You look after my wife while I’m on missions. You’ve stood by me through all the worse times. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you. You’re a good man! So don’t give me that crap.” Hanzo spared the cowboy a withering look, as if warning him to back down.

“McCree. Everyone is already convinced of my guilt. I killed my own brother. It won’t be a far stretch for them to think I killed this man as well.”

“Damn it. You didn’t kill him! Stop acting like the trials already decided.” Recognising that he wasn’t going to get any further with the stubborn man, Jesse turned to leave. “I’m going to talk to Morrison. See if you can talk some sense into him, darlin.” You nodded as your husband slammed the door behind him, leaving you alone with the accused.

A silence filled the room as you failed to find the words to ask the many questions that twisted your mind, and him unable to look at you for fear you would see right through him. But as the minutes passed by, and the words that remained unspoken weighed on your chest till you couldn’t breath, you addressed him with the only words you were sure of.

“You can’t go through with this.” You didn’t miss the momentary flick of his eyes as he regarded you from his periferal. Nore the way his shoulders dropped as he let out the air he had trapped in his lungs.

“There is no other option.” You knew the man was stubborn, knew that once his mind was set on something, he refused to see reason even if smacked in the face with it. But now, with so much at stake, you wanted to hit him.

“I’ll tell them. I’ll clear it all up.” You spoke it like a threat, but there was no denying what the words were to you. Hope.

“You musn’t.” Finally his eyes met yours, his attention entirely yours as he regarded you sternly. But in those brown orbs you could see dismay.

“I can’t let them take you.” Spinning on your heals so fast you nearly fell over, you made to call the guards.

“No!” Like lightning, Hanzo’s arm shot through the bar, seizing your wrist. With a firm yank you crashed into the cell, the archers’ strong arm wrapping around to pin you in place and smother your mouth with his hand. “I will not have your honor tarnished. They can never know.” Your spiteful glare was dwarfed as his eyes captured yours, fiercely intense as he stares you down. “Swear to me! Swear you will tell no one.” With great effort you managed to pull his hand away just enough to answer him.

“I can’t-” Being this close, feeling his warmth, his smell, his arms around you, the tears finally broke free.

“You must swear that you will tell no living soul about last night.” His voice was firm, conveying an urgency that frightened you, but his touch was undeniably softer, sympathetic even as his arms encircled you.

“I can’t lose you.” Shaking your head vigorously, you turned as best you could to face him, hands clinging to any bit of him you could hold.

“I will return to you.” He promised, eyes closed as his forehead rested against yours. Seeing him now, it was clear that he was summoning all his will to remain strong. “Not the old gods nor the will of any man could keep me from you.” Before you could argue further, he took your lips, silencing you with his passion. Kissing him back, you pulled him as close as was physically possible, chest aching and fingers numb. On one cheek, you felt the warmth of his hand, on the other, the cold steel that separated you. As he pulled away, a horrid sob retched from your throat.

“I love you.” It was more of a plea, beseeching him to see reason, though you knew his mind was made.

“And I you.” The words were a promise, shared only between the two of you. Just as they always were. Eyes full of remorse, he regarded you in his last moment of freedom, wiping your tears away before addressing you sternly. “Now go. Your husband will need you.”

Turning his back to you, there was no room for argument, no alternative. He had decided the outcome. Biting back the urge to pull him close once more, you swallowed your tears. Your breath was shaky, but it was what you needed to quell your tremors, lifting your head and straightening your back as your turned and walked out the door. Jesse would need your calming manner before the day was done.

#Overwatch #hanzo x reader #jesse mccree x reader #hanzo shimada x reader #mccree x reader #cheating #murder #affair

[be-a-snake-stab-your-brother]

Deep Listening - Cut Scene

So this was originally supposed to be the opening to Deep Listening chapter 3, but a) Tony Stark just tried to take over the whole damn chapter and b) it turned into more of an angst-fest than I felt appropriate for the tone of the story on the whole. I still like the content, however, so I’m posting this as a “cut scene”/”outtake.”

A quick bit of background: Loki and Thor are in NYC post-Ragnarok. (IW never happened.) Loki is trying out music/sound therapy (which Stark likes to refer to as “recorder group”) as part of the deal that will allow him to stay out of custody on Earth. He has just recently punched Tony Stark in the face. It may have had something to do with Stark provoking Loki and inadvertently touching on his “I’m a Jotun” angst. Of course, Loki doesn’t always have the best coping mechanisms. 

Oh yeah, and Lokes is a terribly unreliable narrator. But we all knew that already.

Excerpt under the cut as it gets a little long.

-----------------

“Loki…“ Thor’s brow furrows in warning. “Enough.”

The God of Mischief opens his arms in a dramatic motion, his smile wide and gleaming.

“Come now, Thor! If our archer lets loose, if for some reason he succeeds in - what was it? ’Putting an arrow through my eye’ - why, brother!” he exclaims, his features brightening in feigned epiphany. “We could be twins, couldn’t we?”

Loki claps Thor hard on the shoulder, the hollow slap resounding through Anthony Stark’s high-ceilinged metal palace. He pulls close, as if to confide a great and possibly illicit secret, wrapping his lithe limbs around Thor’s upper body in a sinuous, serpentine motion.

“We could propagate Odin’s disastrous ruse further,” he hums. "The one-eyed king and one-eyed prince, giving succor to our people in their time of need - ”

“Shut up, Lackey!”

Oh gods -

Loki doubles over, wheezing. The god holds out an arm, using a nearby couch to steady himself.

Norns, where in the Nine had she been hiding?

Across the room, Stark howls in delight. “I like her!” He raises his glass to Valkyrie in salute before turning to Thor. “Who is she again?”

“The demise of your treasured liquor cabinet, I imagine,” Loki gasps, cradling his throbbing midsection.

“Whatever, Reindeer Games, I - “

Stark’s eyes widen at the sound of a bottle being uncorked.

“Hey! Iron Maiden! Unhand the scotch!”

Thor rubs his face in frustration as Stark hurries across the room. The engineer's concern for his wares seems to trump Loki's temporary, embarrassing discomfort, and the god doesn't know whether to be relieved or insulted.

Loki glowers at his brother, but Thor’s attention is focused on the motley court of mortal heroes. The situation reeks of a foul, not-so-distant memory of another one-eyed king, and Loki is overwhelmed by the sudden urge to rip open the dark green cuffs of his dress shirt, to pull his too-stiff collar from his neck.

“Friends. If you please.” The room stills, and Loki is all too aware of the resentful stares aimed at him. The god twists his hands together, a sick euphoria building in his chest.

“I will not lock my brother - who is a prince of Asgard and my most trusted advisor - away in some dark, Midgardian dungeon over a minor disagreement.”

Thor’s words are quiet, in sharp contrast to Valkyrie’s shouts or Stark’s boisterous jabbering, but no less powerful. It’s a strange contrast from the man of a few years ago, and Loki still expects his brother to lay down his hammer and bellow demands at all who come near him. (But Thor has changed, hasn’t he? And yet here you are, once again at the mercy of a King of Asgard.)

“Loki has proven his allegiance,” Thor continues. He scoffs at the statement, in equal parts surprise and disbelief. Loki gingerly pokes at the spot in his midsection where Valkyrie’s fist had landed, smoothing out the fabric of his shirt. Thor has graciously left out the part of their story where he made yet another attempt at betrayal on Sakaar.

“Come on, Point Break!” Stark grouses from behind the bar, now resuming his attempts to wrest the half-consumed bottle of scotch away from Valkyrie. “He’s unstable! Recorder group is obviously a flop, terrible reviews from the press, zero out of ten points from the Asgardian judge.”

Thor tilts his head to the side, his features clouding at Stark’s jumble of words.

“The point is - we had a deal. He,” Stark juts his chin in Loki’s general direction, his hands still occupied by the futile effort of relieving Valkyrie of his rather expensive alcohol, “rehabilitates and we don’t lock him away. It’s been over a month, and he’s been through four god damn therapists. And for what? So I can be attacked in my own home by the god of bullshit again?”

“He’s not going to change! Crazy is as crazy does. Yesterday an alien invasion, today the eradication of an entire fucking planet.” Stark laughs, a hiccup that belies no humor, nor levity. “I can’t wait to see what he has up his sleeve for an encore.”

Loki throws up his hands up in disgust. Of course his brother had relayed that detail of their little adventure. How Thor had entrusted Loki of all people with the most vital part of his plan. How he had summoned Surtur with his magic and the Eternal Flame, how Loki had escaped the fire demon’s wrath, supposedly with only his own cunning and wile.

Thunder peels in the distance. “Ragnarok, Stark, was the only way to defeat Hela. And I will not have you making light of the demise of our people or my brother’s valiant deeds.

Stark stares at Thor, bitter retort spelled in bold in his tight grimace. The silent argument seems to last forever, Stark’s brown eyes against Thor’s cold blue. But the engineer breaks contact first, letting his head fall back with a heavy sigh. He stares at the ceiling, placing his hands on his hips. (He has long conceded the bottle to Valkyrie. Loki does not think even the Iron Man’s suits could have succeeded in that task).

“God damnit," Stark mutters.

The engineer keeps this posture, neck exposed, eyes searching the complicated patterns set in criss-crossed silver beams. Loki watches his pulse, oddly fascinated by the erratic flurry of heartbeats, the shallow breaths under the perspiring, damp skin.

“Fine,” he announces to the ceiling, letting out a grainy, loud breath. He stalks away from the bar in a flourish of irritation and kinetic energy.

“I guess I’m running a halfway house for intergalactic convicts. Just what I’ve always wanted.” He points at Thor. “Don’t say I never did anything for you, Point Break. And you!” Stark spins, his movements now animated again, his voice returning to its usual playful, irreverent inflection. “Go ahead! Drink my scotch like it’s shitty beer. What the hell do I care?”

Valkyrie smirks, taking a generous swig of the amber liquid.

Stark rolls his eyes.

“Are we in accord, Man of Iron?”

“Yeah, yeah, fine. Halfway house.” Stark waves Thor off with a series of spastic hand gestures, as if he is swatting away a thousand flies. “But keep your brother on a short leash, okay? I’d like for the planet to be here next week. I’ve got dinner plans, you know.”

Loki glances around, curious as to the reaction of the other Avengers. Banner recused himself early in the proceedings, muttering something about moral ambiguity. Barton, perhaps the party with the most reason to want to see Loki shuttled away forever, remains perched atop of one of Stark’s bookcases, his bow strung, arrow trained on the god’s head.

Romanov has materialized from nowhere in her signature black bodysuit, leaning against the bar. She seems neither displeased nor distressed. (Loki does not miss the raised eyebrows of Valkyrie, who practically leers in her direction.)

Thor crosses his large arms over his chest, expression dour.

“Very well. Asgard thanks you, as I’m sure Loki does, as well.”

He most certainly does not, but Loki knows well enough to hold his tongue.

The engineer gives an insincere, tired smile. “Alright. Mission accomplished, yay team,” he adds weakly. “Hey Clint, you can come down from there. Geez, how are you even - nope, forget it. I don’t want to know.”

“Do I still get to shoot him?”

“Not today, Legolas. If he punches me again, he’s all yours.”

“Great. I like those odds.” Barton jumps from the bookshelf, glaring at Loki as he strides out of the room, flipping an arrow in his hand. Romanov rolls her eyes and joins Valkyrie in raiding the liquor cabinet, bottles clinking like chimes. The show is over, the trial concluded, and now Loki is nothing but a footnote to the rest of the evening. (Thor does not deign to look at him, does not say a single word before leaving the room. Something close to despair claws at Loki’s gut.)

He falls into the corner of the nearby couch.

Villain. Hero.

Savior of Asgard. Destroyer of Asgard.

He is all of these and yet none of them.

Loki of Nowhere, Loki of Nothing.

He stares out the large windows onto the harsh lights of Midtown Manhattan. How quickly the mortals have rebuilt their concrete and steel metropolis. How quickly everything has changed since he last stood in this room.

Loki allows his head to rest on the back on the couch, long raven hair spilling over the side. Too long, he muses, wriggling his head as if to test the weight of each strand. He has been meaning to cut it for some time now, but fears he would not recognize his own reflection if he did so. (But all mirrors are lies anyway, aren’t they, Laufeyson?)

The god shudders, pushing aside the thought. No, the hair had been a purely practical matter. Cutting it would have necessitated dropping the glamour of Odin’s visage, and even a second’s lapse would have been one too many, knowing what hunted him.

He wonders how many seconds it has been since Thor’s return to Asgard.

Norns, he is exhausted.

#loki #thor #tony stark #clint barton #valkyrie #natasha romanov #writing #cut scene #outtake #deep listening

[reylovesren]

I posted a prompt I desperately wanted to see: a V For Vendetta reylo AU.  I decided to go ahead and give it a shot via a would-be first chapter (in case I decide to continue it).  Would love to hear anyone’s thoughts on it!  Goodness gracious I love V.

The radio was prattling on as it did every night, broadcasting the Parliament’s updates – or rather, mandates – to its dutiful – or rather, indoctrinated – city.

Rey hardly heard a thing, busy as she was.  The new quarantine zones; the forthcoming uplift of the meat rationing that everyone knew wouldn’t actually happen; the raid, incarceration and subsequent deletion of its so-called terrorists.  Eight of the twenty, women.  Probably mothers, daughters, girls like her.

Rey wouldn’t be a girl that night.  Or any night, thereafter.  Perhaps on the outside, but surely not the inside.

Her makeup was fresh-faced and light-handed – partly in consequence to rationing, partly for the role. Pink-lipped and rosy-cheeked. While she preferred to wear her hair in a series of loops by day, by night, she let it loose.  Unassuming.  Brown like a fawn’s new coat, or what she imagined such a thing would look like.  The picture of innocence.  

“It is the duty of every man in this country to seize the initiative and make Chandrila great again.”

Rey switched off the radio with a snap.  That was enough of that.  She’d had enough hearing the contrived words of the face of Chandrila.  She’d hear them again in the morning, and every hour after that.

The curfew was in effect, so Rey took the fire escape down the side of her decrepit apartment building. Each creak of every rusted rung made her second guess not simply waltzing out the lobby.  Below in the gutters of Chandrila, the night would have made no difference to the shadows haunting there.  The clacking of her heels on the alley’s cobblestone, ghostly.  But Rey would find what she was looking for in those trenches.

A man leaned against the brick of her apartment.  He wore a trench coat, its threadbare sleeves barely hidden inside of his pockets and the glow of his cigarette the only light.  The streetlamps had just gone out – no need for them with curfew – so his face was as much shadow as it was man.

Rey parted her own long coat just enough to reveal the dress beneath.  More lingerie than dress and pink, to drive the idea home.

“Mister?”

By one word, the man’s interest immediately piqued.

“I’ve not done this before, but was wondering…” Rey sidled in close so the last remnants of her nearly-gone perfume might reach his nose.  “Would you like a night with me?  For money, that is.”

“You are new to this, aren’t you?”

“You would be my first customer.  But I assure you, I know what I’m doing.  I’m sixteen.”  The lie soured on Rey’s tongue, but hey.  It would get her bought.

“No.  You don’t know what you’re doing.”

The man stepped away from the brick wall.  Two others circled the corner, entering the alleyway and surrounding Rey; blocking out what little light came from the stars above.

“Because if you did,” the man growled, a sickening smirk tugging at the corner of his lip.  He pulled a badge from his pocket and flashed it in front of Rey’s face.  “You wouldn’t have propositioned a Trooper on stake-out.  And you would know that prostitution is a Class-H offence, which means –“

“We get to decide what to do with you,” his colleague quipped.

“You’re with the First Order,” Rey hissed, and her back replaced the man’s against the wall.  “Please, i-it’s my first offense.  Please, don’t kill me.”

“Spare the rod, spoil the child.”  The men shared a lascivious laugh.  “We won’t. Yet.”

“Not until we’re finished with you,” the first man added with a nod, and then, the hands of his colleagues were upon her.  They held her to the wall while the first unzipped his fly.

“The multiplying villainies of nature do swarm upon him.”

The men startled, turning on their heels toward the end of the alleyway.  A shadow among shadows entered, drenched in black from head to foot, as though he were meant to be part of the night and never to see the light of day.

“And fortune, on his damned quarrel, smiling, showed like a rebel’s whore.”

“We’re with the First Order.”  The first man didn’t bother with his badge this time.  “Keep walking.”

“Disdaining fortune with his brandished steel, which smoked with bloody execution.”

It wasn’t a dagger that caught the men’s eyes, but a crossguarded saber of a much older time.  As unworldly as it was, so was the shade of a man as he attacked.  It was a dance more than it was a fight, the heel of his saber sending the first to his knees.  The second was more quick-witted, pulling a gun from his trousers, though the shade sent it flying before the barrel could be spun.  Slicing the man’s trousers and revealing he had not much to work with for his original, deplorable plans, the shade sent the second to land among the first. And the third – well, he surely did try. A punch to the mask rendered a crunch to his knuckles, for there were no means of breaking through the black snout-like steel or silver-rimmed visor.  The poor git was flung like a ragdoll into the very brick wall Rey had pressed against, landing in a heap.  

Alas, the pantsless one was crawling for it, and that would not do.  

“We are oft to blame in this,” the victor said, his breathing steady as he stood over the pitiful thug. “’Tis too much proved that with devotion’s visage and pious action we do sugar o’er the devil himself.”

“What does that mean?” the question asked through drivel and snot.

“Spare the rod,” the victor answered, the heel of his saber connecting solidly to the thug’s temple.

Rey cowered, though she hated to and was not one to do so.  She was a fighter, and her knees would have collided with the groins of the First Order men as well as the masked man’s saber hilt, if that was all that could or would be done.  But when she saw no excess of blood spilt, the chests of the men still rising, Rey stood, unintimidated by her savior.

“I can assure you I mean you no harm,” he said, holstering his weapon.  He stepped over the pile of bodies, the tails of his tunic fluttering over them like the reaper’s shadow.  

“Who are you?”

“Who is but the form following the function of what, and what I am is a man in a mask.”

“Well I can see that.”

“Of course you can.  I’m merely remarking upon the paradox of asking a masked man who he is.  But, for now, let us simply say who and what I am is the villain.”

He bowed his masked face and suddenly, it didn’t look as threatening, genuflected before her.

“And you would be?”

Rey’s lips stammered at his question, but ultimately, her decision was made.  Though she’d later often wonder, Rey knew she never would know why their paths crossed that night.  Or what it was that brought them together.  But in that very moment, Rey knew she could trust him… that she wanted to know him, and for him to know her.

“I’m Rey.”

#reylo #reylo fic #reylo fanfic #reylo fanfiction #reylo au #v for vendetta #reylovesren

[k-sunrael]

Found Myself Astray [Pt 1]

Everyone was fast asleep or otherwise indisposed. The house was silent all for a few creaking floorboards as she approached the simmering embers of the fireplace. Kaevia sat along the cushioned furniture to adjust into a state of repose while her eyes settled on the last dances of the dying light. Several sparks lit up and the fire found itself reigniting with another log tossed in. The unexpected noises and hissing almost caused her jump out of her seat but she managed to contain her surprise as she witnessed the figure of her uncle emerge from the darkness while using a poker to stoke the flames.

“In the middle of the journey of my life, I found myself astray in a dark wood, where the straight road had been lost…” Areus uttered dryly, reading a passage from a worn and familiar leather-bound book in his left hand by the fireplace. “A Broken Paradise… have you ever read this one, little dove?”

A blink came to the Priestess followed by a shake of her head, “I do not believe so. What is it that you read?” With a purse to her lips Kaevia settled back along the seat, tucking the collar of her jacket a little tighter around her for comfort. It wasn’t often she got a visit from her Uncle but it seemed he and Ashelin had much of the same approach through shadows.

“Oh. Well. Your new friend left this on your nightstand before he went out to sit in the darkness on the front porch. Seems like he’s being a good old guard-dog. I’ve read this before. It’s a unique interpretation of the typical story of the knight, the princess and the villain. Not too many editions of the book sold. Eventually, it went out of circulation pretty quickly. Yet still... he has a pretty old copy. One of a kind, I imagine. Looks to be from Lordaeron almost a couple centuries ago. It’s a story about a villain, if you could imagine that.”

He continued narrating, “The villain is a self-proclaimed king who terrorized a nation and ruled it in fear. He kidnaps the princess and takes her to his kingdom. The knight, ever-brave and unrelenting in his pursuit of justice follows the princess into that dark world to defeat the lieutenants of the grand villain one at a time, each time sacrificing a part of himself and learning a lesson from each enemy defeated to obtain an artifact.  By the way, these artifacts to free the princess were known to him only through the advice of a holy sage.”

“With every sacrifice, with every victory, he learns that things are not quite what they seem. These champions of the evil king were entrusted with these artifacts to protect something greater than he knew and he feels it: A dark secret. Now that the hero possesses these artifacts at great cost his feet feel heavy as he approaches to fight the evil demon king. He trudges through and almost sacrifices his very being to defeat the demon king who does not seem surprised at his own loss and instead of becoming enraged or lost in vengeance...he seemed saddened for our hero.”

“It’s revealed that the holy sage who gave the knight the keys to defeat the demon king was the villain himself. Irony at its best. The evil king knew that the woman he loved and gave everything for only sought after the knight, and in turn he allowed the knight to sacrifice all that he was to reach this princess. All these trials were only to facilitate the realization that the princess wanted absolute control over him and to murder the demon king to prove that the knight was unequivocally hers and only hers. Only through sacrifices he made could he see the true colors of the princess. This was the villain’s goal all along, to reveal the truth to the knight.”

“In the end, the villain was no ‘demon king’. He was only someone who loved the princess and cared for the knight because they were friends once even if the knight didn’t remember, blinded by love.  He was portrayed by the princess and her kingdom as a demon to justify the hatred and animosity she felt toward him who was only an obstacle between her and her knight. In the end, only sadness overcame him as the blade struck true through him.”

“The villain was once that knight who had to prove everything to the princess and had come to rule a kingdom for her only through strength and grit, through an iron fist, the only way he knew how. In that very moment, the knight realized the true meaning of the narrative the demon king had painted throughout all the trials laid before him. He turned his back on the princess at the conclusion of the story. That same princess struck out in animalistic rage laden with anguish and pain brought on by her own selfish desires, permanently blinding the knight. In the end, there was no happy ending and all had been for naught. It’s a story about a princess who didn’t deserve saving, a hero falling from grace and a villain trying to be good.” Areus concluded.

“It is funny how you explain it to me as such, I seen it as three paths to a similar destination, all different and all just as unrewarding.” there was a moment that her eyes found the book he held, it was as familiar as it had been for the past year or more, “Whitstan… is fond of that book. I know it to be from his younger years and yes, he did live in Lordaeron for some time as his adoptive family were humans.” The Priestess rested back into the chair with her arms crossed and warmly tucked along her torso, “I’m impressed you are familiar with an old tale but then again, with the traveling you have done, it is almost expected.”

“Expected, yes… there’s a lot of things to be expected of people from their behavior or simply because of what they are.” Areus uttered before casually reaching to toss the book into the fireplace.

A perplexed expression came across Kaevia as she listened, “I don’t believe people being what they are is necessarily -- hey!” she listed forward as the old book caught against the new log. Her knees touched down along the floor and the Priestess acted to snatch the book from the fires that licked at the tawny edges of the old leather book. While in the hands of safety, Kaevia’s hands clasped over the rim and page edges of the book to smother out the embers that remained; threatening to chew and burn at the very fabrics of it. She knew how much the book had meant to Whitstan, “What the hell was that for?!”

A couple sips of the flask later, he produced a pipe, lighting it as he took a few puffs in succession. “He’s a Death Knight, little dove…” he continued quickly before letting her refute, “There’s a story I heard as a child.” he spoke as cold eyes narrowed on to the Priestess who cradled the smoldering book. “It’s a parable I never forgot. It’s something I want you to hear Kaevia, and something I want you to burn into your mind.”

“A scorpion was walking along the bank of a river, wondering how to get to the other side. Suddenly... he saw a fox. He asked the fox to take him on his back across the river. The fox said,  ‘No, if I do that you’ll sting me and I’ll drown.’ The scorpion assured him, ‘If I did that, we’d both drown.’ So the fox thought about it and finally agreed. So the scorpion climbed up on his back and the fox began to swim. But halfway across the river the scorpion stung him. As the poison filled his veins the fox turned to the scorpion and said, ‘Why did you do that? Now you’ll drown too…’”

Areus finished the parable, “‘I couldn’t help it,’ the scorpion said, ‘it’s in my nature.’”

The woman’s ear twitched as she looked over the book in hand, “You are no different. I suspect you aim to bring others to your level of unhappiness. Is that it?” she shot another heated look in his direction as he puffed away on that cursed pipe, “You’re no different that those I pass in the street, blood or not. Do not think I have forgotten about your arbitrary thieving act.”

“Except in this story we’re not talking about thieving. We’re talking about life and death. He’s the scorpion, you’re the fox. A means to an end. And in that end, his true nature will show.” he shook his head, “I cannot sit idly by and allow that to happen.”

“You have no choice in the matter. Your stories be damned, Uncle. I do not see my relation to him any more different to those than the company I have kept in the past.” Kaevia stood by the fire, “I have been slighted from those who do not carry his burden far more than those like him. He helped shape a lot of sorrow for our people and even those that are not of the Sin’dorei kin but I can promise you, our family is no different. We’ve done what we’ve always done for the greater good. Would you not wish someone to assist you with salvation too if it meant having a sliver of that?”

“He isn’t part of the solution. He’s a part of the problem…” another couple gulps of the flask came before he stepped back, “Fine. Trust that one and see where it gets you. I’ll be there to clean up the mess and spare you the cost of having to end him yourself. I just wanted to spare you a broken heart ahead of time because I know very well how that feels, little dove.”

“You forget how I too had endured the same with a steep cost.” a sneer toyed at her upper lip which threatened it to quiver with anger, “I’m tired of evereyone thinking you know what is best for me but in case you haven’t figured it out and the others like my mother and father; I’m still standing and enduring.” Kaevia hugged the book close to her hip without care for the soot that clung to her jacket, “I steel myself better than the lot of you.”

“Blood runs thicker than water, little dove. Remember that. You might assume everything I want to do to protect you might be completely against your well-being… I assure you it’s not.” the man sighed before slinking back into the shadows. His covered visage appeared to be taking another couple sips from his flask. “Be safe then. I’ll be around after the scorpion bites.”

With a knit brow she watched her Uncle recede into the shadows of the darkened room, not even the flames of the fire’s light could touch him after he gave his warning. Perhaps in some twisted sense of surprise, it was she who was designed to be the scorpion in the end.

With a worn expression Kaevia gazed back down to the fairly seared book. It looked decently intact but she knew there would be questions as this item was very dear to the Death Knight, perhaps the only thing he really had left of his family. With a steady exhale the Priestess turned over her hand to regard the burn just along her wrist and palm where the flames had caught her, “Blood burns just as water does.” she muttered to herself before closing her fingers down over her red flesh.

To be continued...

[[ @areussunrael and @whitstanwilhelm for collaborations. ]]

#Kaevia #Areus #Whitstan #Family things #Argument #Yikes! #How about some stories within your stories?

[asmund-scion-of-ice]

Reflection

The throne room was quiet. A cold wind rustled the hanging tapestries and the cloaks of the men and women standing guard. Asmund sat upon his throne, a single front claw clicking on the gray stone. A dignitary stood nervously before the great dragon, wringing his hands behind his back. The fire light was dim this evening, throwing dark shadows across the keep’s walls.

“You want me,” snapped the dragon, angrily looking down from his dias, “to pay you for what exactly?”

The dignitary, an Imperial woman, looked up, “Rovirddare has been charging unfair tariffs for goods coming in and out of Enlevia. We only ask you repay Enlevia for the economy you’re damaging.” The woman looked up at him with green eyes, her tan skin hiding beneath heavy furs and a red Enlevian cloak. Her black hair was tied smartly back. Asmund, for his part, managed not to laugh in her face. 

“I owe Enlevia nothing, and nor are my taxes unfair.” The dragon shift slightly upon his shining white throne, the cerulean pillow beneath him easily the size of a small hut. “The Council of Apothecaries are only that: apothecaries. They know nothing of economics.” Asmund lowered his head, stretching his neck to get to eye level with the diplomat, “They are old doctors, nothing more. I charge what I do to ensure the safety of all within my realm.”

“My Lord Baron,” clamored the woman, losing her patience, “it cost me money to get into the country! I’m an official state courier! You charge three hundred gold pieces per cart for caravans to get through your nation! Surely Draconia has mentioned they’re merchants’ unwillingness to pay!”

Asmund’s visage was overcome with a predatory grin, his teeth casting nasty shadows, “Draconia has agreed to my price, as the materials which they transport are quite important. As is Enlevia’s. Unless, of course, the Council doesn’t want me to protect your merchants?” The dragon brought his head back, continuing to make a show of being overly comfortable. “I need not waste resources on them, then. Is that what you wish?”

The woman began to stutter in her outrage, “H-how dare you, Lord Baron! That i-is absolute r-robbery!” Arguing with a dragon was a dragon’s job. Or an angel’s, Asmund thought to himself, shaking his head in frustration. That was for another time. 

“The cost of protection stays, then,” Asmund decreed, standing. “You are free to stay on The White Mountain this evening, if you wish. It is too cold to go out, anyhow. You are dismissed.” The dignitary angrily bowed, her movements stiff and overly formal. She stomped out of the keep, escorted by two guards.

“I will not be disturbed this evening,” said the dragon to no one in particular. Two guards salute, placing their fists over their chests. Asmund waved them off and retreat to his person chambers. Down a myriad of winding hallways he went, each lit less and less by flame and more and more by white and blue crystals. They emanate magic, warning the dragon of any intruders.

After a few minutes, Asmund arrived at the center of the keep. His chambers were not sparse, by any means. The room itself was almost a half a mile square of gray stone. The roof was four stories above, the roof magically sealed whenever he was not flying in. At the far end of the room lay a massive, dragon-sized pillow, its ruby red and golden trim contrasting with the typical white, silver, or blue he usually went with. All around, sconces and crystals embedded in the wall illuminated the room. In the center stood a two story tall, awesomely massive pile of treasure. Gold bars, suits of armor, silver coins, adamantine weapons, mithril shirts, and much more were found there, collected over his long life span. 

Stacked neatly, however, covering almost every inch of the massive circular room were barrels. Hundreds of thousands of gallons of mead, wine, beer, and other liquors lined his lair. Every barrel lovingly placed, labeled, and dated, all from different worlds, different distilleries and breweries. Some of them Asmund had made himself, others he had bought or taken from every corner of ever plane. Dominarian wine, Lorwyn beer, Ravnican whiskey, Jarguund mead. 

Admiring his hoard, Asmund climbed his mountain of treasure and lazily slid down the other size, finally coming to rest on his massive bed. Curling up on the pillow, Asmund fought for sleep. It wouldn’t come.

The previous week’s events flood his mind. Caravans attacked. His daughter’s funeral. His revenge. His poorly executed evening plans with Ivaria. The myriad of planeswalkers who came to scold or challenge him.

Sad, really, he thought, picking his teeth with an ancient longsword, covered in diamonds, I really would have liked to eat one of them. He chuckled, tossing the sword, listening for it’s harsh clang against steel, stone, or gold. Preferably that Alek. He DARED challenge me? In my own home? Ha! Asmund rolled over angrily, clicking his tongue to dim the lights. Threatening to harm Jarguund. A very brave move. Foolish, but brave. He narrowed his eyes at nothing in particular, I would cleanse the multiverse of his bloodline, should anything happen to my plane. His blood boiled.

Not to mention the others! Malku, damn him, being entirely too warm and trying to force his listening ear on me. At least he apologized. Asmund rolled again, his tail knocking over an armor stand and a priceless suit of mithril plate. Zerriko, that blasted fool. He could take no for an answer, thankfully. And Lucian! Couldn’t even be bothered to show up himself. Asmund snorted. Stabbed. Poisoned! He should be able to walk it off. Weak. 

Finally, the dragon came to the root of his problem: Isolde. That damnable angel. He angrily spat a ball of ice toward the ceiling, where it smashed into the roof, showering him with ice shards. Both of them. They could never see eye to eye on such matters as that. Those people lost their innocence when they harbored murderers. The dragon stood, spun about, and lay down again, creating a snow ball above his head, sending it spinning before him. Yet she did not argue that with me. Ivaria was hurt by my actions and intent, though I did not mean to do so. 

I do not look down upon her, he thought, shaking his head, she is very strong. I just thought she was prepared. Asmund snarled, sending the snowball into the far corner of his lair, where it dissipated on the magical shield surrounding it. I suppose I should have left out creating Fyri’s Well. I’m certain it reminded her of Zendikar. He sighed. Those damned Eldrazi. He had fought many years ago against them, deciding to leave the plane to its fate when the beings had almost escaped. The destruction they had wrought was akin to my own. 

Maybe it was too much, Asmund’s mind raced, maybe it was unnecessary. He shook his head, No, it was not enough. Yet, my relationship with Ivaria rests on thin ice, and I am a heavy dragon. Neither of us can fly from this. Asmund sighed, laying his massive head on his front claws. Perhaps I should apologize, as Isolde suggested. Yet, I would not want to treat her as a child. Ivaria is strong, and an adult. Just naive. He snorted, flicking his tongue out, Yet, she is learning. Perhaps I will let her come to me. That sit well with his pride. 

I do not think either of those angels will change my heart. Asmund paused, rolling onto his back, casting a quick spell to iris the roof open. As he gazed at the familiar stars above, he thought, Yet, they already have changed my heart. I cherish them both deeply. I do not wish to push either away, and we cannot pretend that conversation never occurred. Angrily he curled a foreclaw into a fist and hit his armored chest. No, it happened. I will apologize, for her sake. I will not lose another daughter, not by my own claw.

He paused, reflecting upon the Great Tree constellation, I do not normally take those actions against a foe. Killing villages, yes. Slaughtering armies, yes. Destroying the land? Vengeance and rage drove me to do so. I cannot let it overtake me again. A useful tool, but only a tool. Asmund sighed, closing his eyes. He took a few, deep breaths. The dragon meditate for a long time. The stars wheeled overhead. 

#mtg #mtg rp #magic #magic the gathering #magic rp #fanwalker #jarguund #the white mountain #asmund #asmund frostwing #asmund speaks #rp #long post #reflection #ivaria #isolde #malku #lucian #zerriko #fanwalkers #frostwing #frostwing meadery #meadery #dragon #lair #fortress #eldrazi #ravnica #zendikar #jeskai

[hecameinlikeawreckingball]

The manor was burning in the dead of night, casting a brilliant, warm glow against the signature red soil of Redridge. The flames licked high up into the night, attempting to escape the abode and reach into the night sky in a vain move for freedom. Coupled with the full moon, Lakeshire was in an eerie way, quite a beautiful beacon of sinister light this late in the evening. Armoured men in plate of black and tabards of crimson milled about, weapons sheathed for the time being. Three of them pulled a man from behind the manor, his plans of fleeing held in check by a triple set of plated gauntlets, gripping him harshly him until they pinned him down to a rock to his knees. Head held against the cool stone, he cried out in a sheer fear. “PLEASE, SERS! LET ME GO!”

A lone rider rode in over the bridge, drawn to the inferno akin to a moth and flame, reaching the open area of the courtyard, and spinning his horse in a single circle as he assessed the situation. The man himself was clad in mail of silver and blue, with a white falcon emblazoned upon his chest. His brown hair had begun to grey, the length down to his shoulders as sea foam-green hues looked about the scene fully. Ensuring his blade was strapped to his waist securely, he hopped off his stallion, approaching the trio of men holding the screaming captive. “What is the meaning of this? What’s this man guilty of?” He inquired, as one of the armored ‘knights’ had drawn a wickedly curved sword of black steel.

“Doesn’t fucking matter what he’s guilty of. The Dragon said to kill him, so we’re going to do so.” Came the reply, eyes narrowing beneath the visor of his helmet towards the silver and blue clad individual. “PLEASE! DON’T LET THEM KILL ME, SER! I’M INNOCENT!” Came the panicked pleas of the man held against the rock, crying out as one of the two holding him down stuck him in the side with a plated fist. This caused the newcomer to draw his sword, holding it up at the armed man, who seemed to care little that it had been drawn. “You’re going to let the man go...Or I shall make you.”

“Woah, woah. What the bloody hell is this?” From the entrance of the burning estate, emerged the man referred to as the ‘Dragon’. The man himself was adorned in a combination of crimson leathers and blademail, someone favouring mobility as well as protection, and equipped with a long, wicked looking sword of dragonfire-forged steel upon his waist. His head was shaved along the sides, and he had a great trimmed goatee upon his scarred visage, with eyes the colour of bright pools of mana. He was not a tall man, standing only at 5’10, but he carried about him an aura of control and reserved power. “Vardus Winterscar, have you decided to play protector of the cultists and the damned? Of the very people Knights of Northrend are sworn to defeat?”

The Warden of the North frowned at the famed Dragonslayer, gripping the hilt of his sword tightly as he circled around the man, eyes narrowed. “Not entirely, more like the gutter of brigands and cutthroats who find it appropriate to set houses aflame, Ageian.” This caused the Dragonslayer to laugh boisterously, waving a hand dismissively to the side. “So long as I’m here, Vardus, you’ll gut no one. This man conspired with those to murder the people of Lakeshire. And so, his fate is sealed.”

The wind began to pick up throughout Redridge, at some point the moon was concealed by dark, heavy clouds. Droplets of rain began to fall on those gathered outside the burning manor, doing little to quell the raging inferno that devastated and ravaged the estate. Both men, Warden and Dragonslayer, seemed unaffected by the change in weather.

Lord Vardus seemed unconvinced, narrowing his eyes further at the man, turning to face him fully. The burning manor was directly in front of him, casting the figure of Ageian in its shadow, but that ivory white smile was to be seen as if in broad daylight. It irked him, to say the least, that a man could be so smug and entertained in a situation such as this. “Is that a challenge, Dragonslayer? I would love to put the famed hunter of noble beasts into the ground.”

Ageian Draygoth mused a sound of thought, shifting his weight slightly as he rested his right hand against the pommel of his sword. “...Mmm, why not? I’ve not fought a Winterscar before. Kill me, and I shall let your cultist go..though I can only imagine what the Church would say of that.” He gestured to the knights by the stone with a nod of his head. “Step aside.”

Both men drew their swords, Lord Vardus immediately taking a defensive stance, blade leveled towards the Dragonslayer. He knew Ageian Draygoth was famed throughout the Kingdoms as one of the best swordsmen alive, even asked by the King Lane to not only train his royal guards, but his son when he came of age. The Dragonslayer drew his wicked blade, slicing the air before him in swift, fluid movements in clear mastery of the weapon. After a moment, he would gaze up at the darkened skies, droplets of rain splattering over his scarred features. “...Shall you wait, ser? For the dribble to subside?”

Vardus Winterscar glared at Ageian, giving a slow shake of his head as he gripped his sword tighter, the leather gloves flexing with the movement.. “Makes no difference to me.” This earned another ringing sound of laughter to escape the master swordsman, holding his blade out straight and level to Vardus’ heart. “Justly said, now stand and fight!”

Several moments dragged on, where neither man moved, both watching the other akin to a hawk, gauging and assessing. The rain continued to fall, and the manor roared with the flames that began to destroy the inner foundations, sending a mountain of ash and fire into the skies behind the Dragonslayer. Eventually, it was the Warden who made the first move, stepping forward into a charge, bringing his sword overhead for a arcing strike downward. Ageian easily parried the blow, spinning around Vardus, and giving his back a swift kick, sending the man sprawling into the ground. “The skies weep! For a Winterscar shall soon be buried so far south from his beloved Northrend!” He waited for the Warden to get back up and attempt a second blow, this time he lashed out horizontally, seeking to strike the Dragonslayer’s core. With a simple step back, Ageian tossed the blade to his left hand, proving to be just as dangerous with either grasp, and smacked his adversary over the back of his head with the flat of his blade.

“YOU DO NOT STRIKE, SER! YOU FLAIL!” A deep, ringing laugh came from the Dragonslayer, stepping around casually, as if he was taking a stroll through a park. He seemed to be enjoying it immensely, much to the contempt of the Warden, who got back on his feet, stepping into a quick charge, aiming to batter the Dragonslayer with his shoulder. Though the moment before impact, the man vanished into a mist of black, moving with such speed to just behind the Warden, where the arc of his blade cut through the leather and mail over his shoulders. With a low growl of pain, he felt the warmth of his lifeblood trickle down his back, and witnessed the evidence of the man’s strike glistening over the black steel of his blade. “Let the music play on!” Came the decree  issued by Ageian, who shifted the entire tempo of the fight.

Immediately, Vardus was on the defensive, as the Dragonslayer began to assault him with blinding speed. He was barely able to parry each blow, the strength behind each causing his bones to rattle, certainly something else was behind the shorter man having such power and speed. His cheek was nicked with the sharp edge of Ageian’s sword, and soon after he felt his right arm cut open as well, unable to keep track of the man. He was a flurry of steel and shadows, seemingly everywhere and nowhere at once, causing an unfamiliar shiver to run up his spine as he realized the depths to which he was in. The Draygoth was better… far better, and now he struggled to even remain alive.

Ageain continued his vicious onslaught, his visage of pure delight in having control in the entire conflict. He arced his sword, striking with ferocity and precision, continuing to nick and slice the man, whilst avoiding any fatal blows just yet. He was playing with his food, toying with him and degrading the man who constantly preached himself to be this bastion of piety and noble resolve. In a sudden change of pace, the Dragonslayer grabbed a hold of Vardus’ swordhand, spinning around to drive his elbow into the man’s nose, sending him back with a sickening crunch, and onto the muddy ground. The Warden’s sword flew through the air at its release, easily plucked by Ageian, who held both swords level towards the Winterscar, placing a boot over the man’s chest. “It seems fate has decreed you to be beneath such murderous individuals, Lord Winterscar. Bested by a butcher of wings...how tragic.” Ageain flicked his own blade twice, cutting the man’s forehead and chin deep to leave scars, a public tale of his defeat at the hands of a Draygoth.

The Warden merely glared up at the man, unwavering yet silent in the face of his defeat. He expected the blade at his throat to sink down until it met the wet ground, ending him. It’s what he would do were the roles reversed, however, Ageian seemed to have other plans. Tossing the Winterscar’s sword aside, he stepped off the man, making his way over to the man pinned to the stone, eyes wide with fear. “It would seem you aided Redridge, My Lord. Your defeat has caused heads to roll, as it were.” The man screamed for mercy, but Ageian was a flash of lightning, his sword cutting through the man’s neck with ease, striking the rock with a rattle of metal upon stone, the head bouncing once as it struck the muddy ground. Thunder boomed overhead, and the Dragonslayer wiped his blade clean over the sleeve of his arm, before making his way from the burning manor, his knights snickering behind him as they left the Lord Winterscar, bloodied and defeated, behind. “Run back North, My Lord! For you play dangerous games here in my lands!”

[blackguard]

SHOWTIME

     The garish figure, Kamoshida, I think, looms over the beaten student, asserting his imagined superiority over him, before spitting on him.  “...Hmph.  Where’d your energy from earlier go?”  The guard hauls the student up as he groans in pain, only to throw him across the cobbled floor to a patch adjacent to where he previously laid.  “A peasant like you isn’t worth beating.  I’ll have you killed right now.”

     My eyes open wide with shock as the reality of the situation becomes painfully apparent.  He wasn’t lying at all.  He’ll kill Sakamoto without a moment of hesitation.  Without even thinking, a feeble protest erupts from my throat.

     “Stop it!”

     “Hm...?”  Over his shoulder, the king’s glowing, golden eyes turn to me, before he turns and advances on me.  “What...?  Don’t you dare tell me you don’t know who I am.”  Leering down to my level, the light from his eyes reflects in my glasses as I attempt to meet his gaze with some manner of courage.

     “That look in your eyes irritates me!”  He delivers a swift kick to my gut for my small act of defiance, knocking me to the floor and the wind out of me.  “Hold him there,” he says, addressing his guards once more.  “After the peasant, it’s his turn to die.”

     In a last ditch effort, I spring to my feet and dash toward the hideous monarch, but the knights at my side are too quick.  Their hands seize my shoulders and pin me in place as the execution proceeds unimpeded.

     “No... No, I don’t wanna die!”  The other student faces his own mortality as the disgusting king laughs over him.

     This is bullshit.

     I’m not a criminal.  I shouldn’t be on probation.  All I did was help that woman, so why...  Why is all this happening?

     We were just trying trying to find our way to school, but then we wound in up in this weird castle.  Then those freaky knight monsters captured us and now they’re going to kill us.  I only met him a few minutes ago and now Sakamoto’s going to be killed in front of my eyes.  I can’t even do anything about it.   Besides, I know I’m going next.

     Someone innocent is going to die right in front of me and I can’t do a damn thing to stop it.  It’s not fair.  It shouldn’t have to be like this!  All I wanted to do was help people, but I can’t even save someone right in front of me!  What kind of fucked up life is this!?

     My vision seems to dim as everything is covered in a sheet of midnight.  An unfamiliar voice echoes through my mind as a lone fluorescent butterfly drifts past me.  In my panic, all I can manage is to stare at it, transfixed by its cerulean glow.  “This is truly an unjust game...  Your chances of winning are almost none.  But if my voice is reaching you, there may yet be a possibility open to you...”

     There’s...  There’s still a chance...?  Even in a situation this hopeless, I could still turn it around?  But how?!  What could I possibly do that could save him here?

     All too quickly, the butterfly vanishes and I’m thrown right back into the nightmare I had such a slight reprieve from.  As my perception drifts back to reality, my desperation reaches its peak.  In my mind, something cracks.  Splinters.  Shatters.  Like a baseball through a wall of glass, who I’ve been, who I am, who I will be; it all comes tumbling down.

     That’s when I hear him.

     “What’s the matter...?  Are you simply going to watch?”  I hear another voice-  No, that’s not right.  It’s unmistakably my voice, but it sounds altogether unlike me.  Confident, suave, vengeful; he sounds like some bizarre idealization of who I want to be.  “Are you forsaking him to save yourself?”  The voice chastises me for my cowardice with words like knives carving through bone and flesh.  I can’t lie.  I know there was a chance to abandon this other guy.  He even tried to make one for me.  I knew I could have, part of me might have even wanted to, but I still wanted to save him if I could.

     “Death awaits him if you do nothing.  Was your previous decision a mistake then?”  The voice rises in fury as the memory of that night assaults me once more.

     It was dark and there was some drunk trying to force himself on a lady.  I could hear it from down the block.  As someone who grew up watching superheroes, how could I not try to help her?  All I did was push him away from her, but he managed to get the cops to arrest me and charge me with assault.  Even that poor woman ended up turning against me.  In what just and fair world does doing the right thing turn out so blatantly wrong?  Was it a mistake to-

     “It wasn’t.”

     Before I can even finish my contemplation, the answer cuts through, eliminating the shred of doubt left within me.  It wasn’t a mistake.  Helping people isn’t a mistake.  It never will be.  My dream isn’t a mistake!

     The knight lifts the other boy by the throat off his feet and levels his sword at his head.  With renewed fervor, I struggle against the guards holding me, pushing myself off the wall every time they slam me back into it.

     “Very well...  I have heeded your resolve.”  The voice speaks again as a wave of pain radiates through me to my core.  Everything in me is alight with immolating flame and drowning in absolute darkness simultaneously.  Tears and sweat stream down my face with little to distinguish the two.  A series of tortured howls emanate from me in the vain hope that they might somehow ease my suffering.  Death feels both inevitable and too sweet a release as my struggle against my captors turns from an attempt at escape to mad flailing in the throws of agony.

     “Vow to me.  I am thou, thou art I...”  The voice continues on, almost pleased with my pain, as it details a contract I fail to comprehend.  “Thou who art willing to perform all sacrilegious acts for thine own justice!  Call upon my name, and release thy rage!”  I scream skyward as the voice continues its instructions.  “Show the strength of will to ascertain all on thine own, though thou be chained to hell itself!”

     Like a man caught in the rapids, I finally surrender to the anguish and let it consume me, accepting the voice’s words as gospel.  The metaphorical crash against the rocks never comes.  The pain doesn’t subside, so much as I become accustomed to it, as a river’s current.

     Evidently tired of watching his victim squirm, the garish fop grows impatient and points viciously at the young man hanging in mid-air.  “Execute him!”

     In a calm, even voice, I respond.  “I will stop you.”

     Kamoshida turns back to me in shock, his eyes wide and his voice sharp with offense.  “What was that...?”  The other knight mercifully drops Sakamoto from his clutches, the younger man gasping for breath while managing to stay on his feet.  “You desire to be killed that much...?  Fine!”

     With a nod of his head, the knight on my left bashes my skull with his steel banded shield, knocking my pitiable, but nonfunctional glasses from my person.  In no time at all, two of the knights pin my throat to the wall between their crossed spears as the third readies his sword to lop off my head.  My fellow student, beaten and broken, can only watch in horror as my execution is carried out.

     Before the deathblow can be struck however, my limp body comes to life once more.  As my eyes snap open, a wave of invisible force emanates out from me, pushing back my captors.  When the wind subsides, I’m startled to find something’s taken the place of my eyewear.  Reaching up to my face, I find a strange avian mask has somehow affixed itself to my face.  Instinctually, a desperate need to remove it takes hold of me.  I feel my skin begin to strain as I pull harder and harder against the mask.  Even so, I don’t stop.  I can’t stop.  If I stop now, then it was all for nothing!

     This isn’t who I am.  This isn’t my real face.  The sheepish transfer student beaten down by life, that isn’t me at all!

     With an awful wet rip and a cry of misery, I tear the false visage from myself as my own blood coats my face.  The pain I’m in is beyond description and would only worsen if I opened my eyes.  Blinding myself with my own gore might just might be enough to kill me from shock.

     But for some reason, I’m not worried about that.  I open my eyes regardless of the obvious consequences, only to find my vision more clear than ever before.  A wicked grin splinters across my face as I feel a welcome heat surge up within me.  Without any greater warning, tongues of blue flame erupt from my face and feet, spreading to quickly consume my entire person.  For some reason, it doesn’t hurt at all.

     The same voice from before cackles menacingly, apparently having achieved his goal.  After overlaying my form, the body of fire floats upwards off me as I find myself clothed in an outlandish outfit almost shamefully to my liking.  Impossible chains dangle off the immolated figure as it hovers above me, gradually twisting and distorting into that of a suited and winged devil, and fall naturally into my grasp.  With a chuckle, I whip them outward and the creature lets flow another gust of wind from his great feathered limbs.  Both the knights and Kamoshida are thrown across the room, impacting the walls viciously.  The false king scampers away in terror as Sakomoto stares up at me in awe.

     “Wha...  What the...?”  He voices half a question I already know the answer to.

     What is he?  What am I?  We’re one in the same.  The scales were imbalanced and so I’ve come to even them.  I’m the Wild Card.  I’m the Trickster.  I’m-  Well, why don’t you take it from here?

     “I am the pillager of twilight--’Arsene’!”

#Solo piece #Just a little dramatization because awakening scenes are always the best #HAPPY BIRTHDAY RYUJI REMEMBER THAT TIME I SAVED YOUR LIFE THE FIRST DAY WE MET #Our friendship cannot be rivaled