#and like fuck was i drawing all of the steel plate armour

[umbracirrus]

Excuse the handwriting, my hand was starting to cramp up when I started writing little notes! Probably should've stopped drawing sooner but my mind was set on doing this.... heh.....

I just wanted to draw a reference sheet for myself of my dragonborn Elyse at different points in her life, mostly from my fanfictions where she is the main character (and one from before too :3)

[mmvalentine]

What Cardan Knows | Jurdan

Canon compliant I suppose, just more post-QoN nonsense. Smut aplenty.

Cardan knows a secret about Jude.

Knows she likes to be kissed right between the shoulder blades.

Knows that if you move your lips on the vertebra that sticks out at the base of her neck, she melts like chocolate in the summer sun.

Jude has spent today, like many days, sitting on her throne like she was born there. There is something so natural in the way that she rules the fae that never came quite so easy to Cardan. He feels more comfortable next to her now than he ever thought he would. Still. He does not think he relishes the power like Jude does.

And of course Jude looks spectacular while she does it. Cardan reclines in his own throne, throwing one leg over an armrest and letting his head fall back against the back. He watches Jude, straight backed and imperious, as she hands down stern judgement for a faerie who stole a human child. She had outlawed changelings since she has been Queen, and although the folk do not like it, they abide by her word.

Cardan finds it sexy that the court is still a little afraid of Jude. Cardan finds it sexy that this sharp and unyielding ruler is his alone to unravel. Later.

Jude does not like anyone to know that she can be tender. Even now, years after she’s gained the loyalty of her court, she avoids being vulnerable. Puts on her armour every morning to meet her subjects, her advisors, and even her sisters. Oak might be an exception. And Cardan, when he knows where to fit his myriad keys.

These are not things Jude has ever told him out loud. Not even to her husband would she confess the chinks in her armour aloud. But Cardan knows anyway. Knows the secret places she keeps her softness, and delights in uncovering them when they are alone in the safety of the dark of their bedroom. Only when she is sure no one is looking does she bare her underbelly to him and let him press toothy kisses there. Cardan loves when Jude is ruthless. Cardan loves when Jude is soft.

Now Jude is sending the faerie away and the fae dislike her changing the rules. But she hands out cruelty like treats in the throne room and so they still adore her. A good public punishing is as good as trading babies. There is a hard glint in Jude’s eye as she watches him go, and then she flicks her wrist and the revelry begins once again. It’s all so simple. She looks out at the crowd with a cold boredom on her face, but Cardan knows she’s riding a high from watching her own orders executed. He also knows it turns her on like nothing else.

And so Cardan pushes himself up off his bramble throne, leans over to his wife with his back to the court, and murmurs, “take your leave my Queen, for I have business with you elsewhere.”

Jude’s lip curls when she answers, and her voice trickles like ice water over his skin. “I do not attend your bidding my Lord, I would stay to see the end of the revel.”

“Nevertheless,” Cardan says, and his fingers slide down her wrist to read her telltale pulse. “I have business with you elsewhere.”

And although Jude does delight in denying her husband, she rarely denies herself. So she rises smoothly while Cardan watches with one eyebrow raised, and allows him to take her hand and lead her into the alcove behind the throne room.

Cardan shuts the door and the noise outside suddenly chokes off. He turns and Jude is staring at him with her chin up in her regal golden gown, and she is resplendent.

“Well?” She demands. “What is it you wish to discuss so urgently?”

“First,” Cardan purrs, “I mean this to be an informal meeting, since you and I are wed and need not stand on ceremony. Let me remove your formal attire.” He walks behind her and Jude’s head turns, but she doesn’t otherwise move. Cardan’s movements are careful as he removes the heavy crown from Jude’s head; he has had his fingers bitten for this before.

But Jude does not react, so he goes for the heavy collar of gold plates she wears, unhooking the clasp and lifting it carefully from her shoulders. Next is the fastening in the back of her bodice, and even as she is undressed Jude’s spine remains as straight as the sword at her hip.

There have been times where she fucks him just like that. With steel in her eyes and Cardan’s throat between her fingers, when she holds him down with her thighs and draws his rapture from his lips like she can summon his very soul.

But today Cardan wants to pull at Jude’s threads and unspool her at his feet. So he stands behind her, and kisses her like feathers in that secret spot of hers. In between her scapulae. Traveling up toward the bones of her neck. And infinitesimally, Jude’s shoulders loosen beneath his touch.

Cardan smiles against her skin as his fingers skim the outside edge of her bare arms, and she leans her head back toward him so his lips can better reach her throat. When her eyes slide closed, Cardan pulls the tie of her skirt and it pools around her feet. He lifts her out of it and by the time her weight is in his arms, Jude is pliant against his chest.

Cardan lays Jude down on the low couch, and in the moment between kisses where his tongue lifts off her skin and his teeth touch down elsewhere, he whispers honeyed pet-names to her. "Ruthless," he calls her sweetly. He moves down her belly. "Unscrupulous. Uncompromising. Without mercy. Immovable."

At the last, he curls his tongue in the apex of her thighs, and Jude lifts her hips to his mouth with a soft cry. She is not immovable, and he knows it. His tail wraps around her ankle as her leg tries to jerk upward, and holds it in place. Cardan moves lazily, breathes steadily against the Queen and relishes in her slow undoing.

"Cardan," she whispers, and he hums with his lips on her pussy.

In fact, the real secret that Cardan knows is that Jude is not any of the things he calls her, and despite the way fae crave wickedness like opium, it is the very heart of Jude that he loves the most.

"Will you punish me, too?" Cardan asks her. His face moves up her body but one of his fingers replace his tongue inside her and Jude is not able to answer him. "If I confess my sins to you will you hand down my own judgement?"

"Did you steal any children away?" Jude manages to ask him, but her breathing is coming in short pants and her voice is strained.

"No," Cardan laments. "Although I think I would enjoy having a pet."

Jude's eyes flash, but Cardan makes one finger two and her words don't make it out.

"My sins," Cardan tells her, and then leans close to admit it in her ear while his hand speeds up between her legs. "are so numerous as to be unforgivable." He even sounds a little sad, and Jude's eyes open.

"There is always mercy," she breathes.

"Then forgive me, my saint," Cardan says, and then twists his fingers and presses down on her clit at the same time, so Jude climaxes suddenly and unexpectedly. Her lovely brown eyes widen in surprise and her lips part in bliss, and before she has come all the way down Cardan removes his fingers and slides his cock into her even as she shudders and spasms.

Cardan barely moves before Jude is coming again, and the waves of it around him are exquisitely divine. He moans his pleasure as he sinks into her again and again, and revels in the Queen laid bare. His hips kiss hers and it is in this space he finds his absolution daily. For as hard and uncaring as Jude is not, so is Cardan secretly not so unaffected or shameless as he makes out to be.

And as Jude wraps her legs around his waist, and her hands around the back of his neck pull his forehead down to hers, he wonders if this is what Jude knows, too.

Cardan moves his lips against Jude's neck and the increasingly irregular rhythm of his hips matches the erratic beating of his heart, and when Jude's teeth bite into his throat as if to suckle at his lifeblood, he comes hard buried deep inside her.

Minutes later, the King and Queen of Elfhame are still tangled together on the couch. Jude's head is on Cardan's chest and he has the sharp claw tip of a fingernail circling against her shoulder. A faint bruise is blooming on his throat, and the tip of his tail is brushing against her elbow.

"Shall we return you to the revel, my love?" Cardan asks her. Jude looks at him, then stands fluidly and holds her chin up and her arms out.

"Dress me, husband," she commands, and Cardan picks up her clothes off the floor and puts everything back on. Piece by piece, layer by layer, fingers meticulous. Pinning her hair and fastening the scabbard by her waist. Jude is still like a mannequin, and when he is done she lowers her arms and sweeps out of the room without a backward glance.

Cardan straightens his own clothes, plonks his crown back on his head and then saunters back out to the thrown room. Jude is already being offered a selection of the fattest, sweetest grapes and she spears them with a fine dagger before she puts them to her kiss-swollen lips. And when she drags the knife point back out of her mouth, he doesn't know whether he'd rather be the blade or the fruit.

Either way, he is more than content to spend the rest of the night watching Jude rule the fae with an iron fist, as his kisses fade on her skin.

****

Sorry that was so curly! When I started writing Jurdan I just thought I would write these snarly, snappy creatures but it turns out I'm just a sucker for them shedding their skins when they're alone. Also, I planned on writing hardcore smut and all that came out was... intense feels? What is happening?

MASTERLIST

TAGLIST: @asteria-of-mars @swankii-art-teacher @loosingdreams @feysand-loml @cityofbookish

*NOTE* I have two entirely separate masterlists/ taglists for my feysand and jurdan stuff!! Hope this makes it all easy to navigate!

[rosethornxs]

Between Beskar and a Hard Place

(gif by @ithinkwehitametaphor​)

Boba Fett x Fem!Reader

Here it is on AO3

Rating: Explicit 18+

Word Count: 6.1k+

Summary: You get bored in Mos Eisley Cantina while Boba talks business with his associates and decide to see if you can get a rise out of him. He takes you back to his palace and punishes you for it. Set after The Mandalorian season 2. 

Warnings: smut, George Lucas forgive me for my sins, masturbation (female), vaginal fingering, overstimulation, orgasm denial, multiple orgasms, blow job, rough sex, unprotected sex, spanking, dirty talk, degradation, creampie, pet names, armour stays ON during sex, mean Boba, fluff, soft Boba. 

A/N: I got so many lovely comments on my last Boba fic and they encouraged me to write another one. This is definitely the filthiest thing I’ve ever written so please enjoy! I had a great time writing it! Part of this was also inspired by something @jangofctts​ said about calling Boba pretty.

This was so boring. So. Fucking. Boring. 

When Boba asked you to tag along for one of his jobs, you eagerly agreed, but you didn’t think it would be this. You thought it would be something fun, something exciting, and that maybe you’d get to see a little bit of blaster fire or Boba roughing up some asshole that pissed him off. But this… well, this was just plain insufferable. 

You were seated between Boba and a stone wall, in a booth, tucked in the back of Mos Eisley Cantina. It felt like you’d been there for hours and you wanted to scream in frustration. You understood that Boba needed to do business with people and aliens alike, but you didn’t understand why it needed to take this long. 

You’d lost track of the number of associates he’d met with in the past, however long it had been, because, in all honesty, you’d stopped paying attention well over an hour ago. At first, you were impressed by Boba’s ability to negotiate with, who you assumed, were some of the shadiest folks in the entire galaxy. You were also impressed that all those shady individuals seemed absolutely terrified of Boba. There were a few, particularly intense, interactions when Boba stiffened beside you, his hand gripping the steel of his blaster, ready to draw and fire at a moment’s notice. All those incidents ended peacefully though, and now, all you wanted was to go home. 

Boba dismissed you with a wave of his hand every time you tried to ask if you would be leaving. He was treating you like an impatient child and you were getting increasingly annoyed. Increasingly tipsy too, apparently, as a server kept stopping by your booth to refill your glass with Sashin-leaf mead. You weren’t sure how many glasses of the sweet liquor you’d consumed while Boba conversed with his associates but at this point, it was the only thing keeping you sane. 

Or maybe not… 

A devilish idea crept into your mind and you debated with yourself for a moment. Would Boba kill you for this? Probably, but at this point you were too annoyed to care, plus, the alcohol in your system was definitely inhibiting your sensibilities. Would you end up regretting this in a moment? There was only one way to find out. If Boba didn’t want to pay attention to you, fine, you were just going to have to take things into your own hands and make it impossible for him to ignore you. 

You took another sip of mead for courage and shifted slightly in your seat. This was a horrible idea and you knew it. Your right hand gripped your glass tightly while your left slowly moved off the table, down to Boba’s thigh. He tensed as your pinky grazed along the side of his leg, but continued his conversation with the yellow tinged Rodian across the table. Your hand proceeded up and you tapped your fingertips along the metal plates strapped to Boba’s thigh. Still, he did nothing to acknowledge you. Sighing in frustration, you released the glass of mead and slipped your other hand off the table. You spread your legs just a bit and pressed your hand against your clothed heat. The sensations caused you to arch your back slightly and you let out the quietest whine. The Rodian didn’t seem to notice but it certainly caught Boba’s attention. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” he leaned over and hissed in your ear through the modulator of his helmet. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you feigned ignorance, pleased that you managed to get a reaction out of him. 

Boba turned back to the Rodian. You inched your fingers up to the waistband of your trousers and pushed down past the fabric, into your underwear. This was incredibly risky, but Boba continued to ignore you and desperate times called for desperate measures. You adjusted your position again, widening your legs as you dragged a finger through your slick folds and up to circle your clit. Boba’s voice faltered for a second and you had to bite your lip to hold back a moan. Your other hand danced up Boba’s leg to where his thigh met his hip but, still, he did nothing. You flattened your palm along the sensitive area of his inner thigh and squeezed lightly. Boba’s muscle jumped under your touch and you could hear his words strain through the modulator. Maybe you were finally getting somewhere. 

Your head fell back against the wall and you let out a breathy sigh, widening your legs even further as your pushed one finger into your aching cunt. Boba flexed his hand on the table and leaned towards you again. 

“You’re on thin fucking ice, sweetheart,” he growled, causing your cunt to spasm around your finger with the thrill of pissing him off. 

Boba’s expression under his helmet remained a mystery but you assumed he was staring daggers at you. Your lips curled into a smirk and you pushed the hand on Boba’s thigh under his codpiece. The hard edge of the metal bit into your skin as you palmed him through his pants. He was already semi-hard. With that, Boba’s hand shot off the table and grabbed your wrist, tight. You yelped in pain as the bones in your wrist crunched together in his grasp. This, however, was not enough to discourage you as you slipped another finger inside yourself and curled them to reach the spot that made you see stars. 

The Rodian seemed completely obvious to the events that were unfolding on the other side of the table. You, squirming with two fingers deep in your cunt, your other hand groping Boba’s growing erection under his armour, and Boba, straining to concentrate on business with his hand wrapped tightly around your wrist in warning. At this point you were well past the point of no return and you knew it. 

Now, Boba wanted to leave this wretched cantina just as much as you did. You put his entire body on edge and, maker, if this Rodian didn’t fucking shut up soon, Boba thought he might shoot him. Your cheeks were flushed with arousal and you looked like a dream. Boba genuinely considered tearing off your clothes and taking you right on the table with the entire cantina watching. If he weren’t so possessive of you he might actually do it, but he was selfish and didn’t want anyone else to dare lay their eye on your precious curves or hear the pretty noises you made when you came. 

Boba’s jaw clenched as he felt your fingers tighten on the bulge in his pants and it took all of his willpower to pull your hand out from under his codpiece. His fingers stayed tightly enclosed around your wrist as his answers to the alien across the table grew short and clipped in frustration. If nothing else, he at least had to admire your audacity. 

When the conversation finally concluded, you were nearing your orgasm and you weren’t sure if you were more relieved that you were finally going home, or annoyed that you didn’t have enough time to cum. The Rodian left your presence and Boba let go of your wrist, moving to roughly grip your upper arm. You quickly removed your soaked fingers from your heat and he all but yanked you out of the booth. 

Boba, I—,” you started, but he cut you off.

“We’re leaving,” Boba growled, “Now.”

You could tell he was furious, his grip on your arm was vice-like as he dragged you through the cantina. He stopped momentarily to throw a stack of credits onto the bar for your drinks before continuing outside to his speeder. Part of you wanted to be afraid of the bristling bounty hunter but another part of you was still incredibly turned on. You were sort of proud that instead of any of the many rude associates Boba spoke to in the cantina, you were the one that caused him to snap and you knew you were in for the fuck of your life the second Boba got you inside his palace. 

When you reached the speeder, Boba released your arm and shoved your helmet into your chest. You put the helmet on and watched as Boba threw a leg over the small vehicle. He turned to you expectantly and you quickly joined him on it, your chest pressing against the heavy green beskar on his back. You wrapped your arms around Boba’s middle and pulled yourself flush against him. The pressure against the apex of your thighs made you uncomfortably aware of the wetness soaking through your underwear. When Boba was certain you were securely on the back of his speeder, he revved the engine and sped into the street. 

—

The trip back to the palace felt like the longest of your entire life. Sand sprayed out behind the speeder as Boba manoeuvred across the burnt, orange landscape. He was going heart-wrenchingly fast and you had to cling to his armour so as not to fly off the back. Normally, you would look out across the dunes and enjoy the sunset as Tatooine’s binary suns painted the sky beautiful shades of pink and purple before slipping below the sandy horizon. Now though, you were too keyed up to pay attention to anything other than the ache between your legs and the prospect of being absolutely ruined by Boba in a few short minutes. 

The speeder’s movements sent the whisper of a vibration to your core and you whined in need against Boba’s back. Thankfully the sound was lost in the wind as it whipped past you. For a moment, you considered rocking your hips against the seat for an ounce of relief but you knew Boba was already pissed about your little performance in the cantina and you didn’t want to risk further drawing his ire. 

Your heart began to race the moment your saw the palace materialise in the distance. As you approached the large stone edifice, you prayed to the maker that you would get some relief soon. You knew better though. After the stunt you pulled, the bounty hunter was going to be anything but forgiving. 

Boba roughly skidded to a stop in front of the palace, nearly throwing you off the side of the speeder in the process. He dismounted and turned to watch you, arms crossed, gloved fingers tapping impatiently against his vambrace. Despite not being able to see his face, you could tell he was not in the mood for any more of your games. Your legs were shaky from being wrapped so tightly around Boba on the speeder. Finally, you managed to get off the stupid thing and you pulled your helmet off. You blew your hair out of your face with an annoyed huff and turned to Boba who immediately grabbed your arm again and hauled you inside. 

—

The cool, stone interior of the palace was a welcome one after being out in Tatooine’s dusty heat for most of the day, but you were having trouble feeling grateful for it as the heat radiating through your body didn’t come from outside. Boba was deadly quiet as he dragged your sorry ass through the hall and down the steps, into the throne room. You thought of several witty remarks to make about his temper, but you kept your mouth shut, deciding that it probably wouldn’t be worth the punishment. 

You thought Boba was going to take you straight to his chambers to fuck you senseless, but instead, he stopped in front of the raised platform where his throne stood. Boba released you from his grasp and you rubbed the sore spot on your arm where his hand had been. 

“That hurt,” you whined, pouting at him like a child. Maybe if you made him feel sorry for you, Boba would go easy on you. Not likely though, as he wasn’t exactly a sympathetic man. 

“Not so confident now, are you?” Boba jeered, ignoring your complaint. “Strip,” he commanded. 

You blinked in surprise and opened your mouth to argue, but thought better of it. Boba cocked his head menacingly when you didn’t follow his orders right away. You were too caught off guard to move and you desperately wished he’d take off his helmet so you could see his face. For obvious reasons, it was much easier to gauge his emotional state if you could actually see his expression. Unfortunately, you were in no position to make any requests of him. 

“I’m waiting,” Boba growled. There was a dangerous edge to his voice. 

You squeezed your thighs together in desperation and your gaze followed Boba as he walked up the steps to his large metal throne, sighing as he sat down. When you finally came back to your senses you reached down, pulled at the laces of your boots, and kicked them off.  The stone floor was cold against the soles of your feet but the discomfort was nothing compared to the burning ache between your thighs. Next, you shrugged off your leather vest, allowing it to fall haphazardly to the floor next to your boots. Your top soon followed and you shivered, goosebumps rising along your newly exposed skin. Boba let out a huff of annoyance at your slow pace and you rolled your eyes.

“Patience is a virtue,” you quipped, immediately wishing you could take the words back as Boba straightened to his full height on the throne and let out a low growl. 

Heat bloomed in your cheeks as he watched you. He looked so intimidating up there, so regal and powerful. You suddenly understood perfectly why all those folks int he cantina seemed so afraid of him. If you didn’t know any better, you’d be absolutely terrified of the ruthless bounty hunter yourself. Still, this was a dangerous game you were playing and you were about to find out just how dangerous it could get. Boba was a rational man, but you’d managed to push every single one of his buttons and you were going to pay dearly for it. 

You reached around to unclip your bra and gasped as the cold air hit your exposed nipples, already pebbled and sensitive with arousal. Finally, you tugged at the buttons of your trousers and swiftly pulled them down your legs with your underwear. You were completely bare and vulnerable to the man in front of you. Normally, you felt confident under Boba’s appreciative gaze, but now, his face was obscured and you were resisting the urge cover yourself as he stared down at you from his throne. 

Boba beckoned for you to come forward with his finger. You straightened, trying to summon an ounce of the courage you had earlier, and climbed the steps to his throne. Boba patted the armour covering his thigh, indicating that he wanted you to sit. You lowered yourself down and flinched as cold beskar came in contact with your bare buttocks, grabbing onto Boba’s forearm for support. 

Once you were situated on his lap, Boba ran a gloved hand from the crease of your hip down to your knee while his other moved up your torso to knead your breast. You whimpered as he rolled your nipple between his fingertips and arched into his touch. Your arousal was slick between your legs and you could feel it threatening to drip down and make a mess on the armour underneath you. Boba’s fingers curled around the inside of your leg and he pulled, causing your thighs to fall open. Your breath caught in your chest as he trailed his hand back up your leg and squeezed the soft, sensitive flesh of your inner thigh. 

Boba didn’t say anything as he ghosted one digit over your quivering cunt. Squirming, you let out a low whine of his name, completely at his mercy. You tried to close your legs around Boba’s hand but he didn’t let you as he hooked his foot around yours and widened his own legs, keeping you spread for him. Your eyes rolled back and you let out a shaky breath as Boba stroked your folds but completely avoided that one spot you needed him most. You tightened your grip on his forearm as he spread your wetness around, the sound of your slick echoing obscenely in the empty room. After fingering yourself in the cantina, and the anticipation of the ride home, your were already feeling completely overstimulated and all you wanted was release. 

“B—Boba, p—lease,” you whimpered.

You leaned back on Boba’s chest and pressed a sloppy, open mouthed kiss to the side of his helmet, panting against him as he continued to tease your folds. Finally, he dragged his leather clad fingers through your slick and up to circle your swollen clit, torturously slow. You nearly cried with relief but it only lasted a moment before Boba was pushing two thick fingers into your dripping hole. The stretch was heavenly and the texture of his gloves within your tight walls made you clench around him. You gasped as he pressed up against your sweet spot and scrabbled at his armour when he began to stroke you there. Occasionally he’d reach his thumb up to circle your clit but it was never enough to grant you your orgasm.  Boba knew your body too well to slip up and push you over the edge by mistake. 

His name fell from your lips repeatedly as you begged him to please let you cum. If you weren’t so desperate for him for end this, you might admire his patience, but right now you hated the man with every fibre of your being. Your chest heaved as Boba held you right on the edge, your legs shaking as he continued his agonising ministrations. Frustrated tears formed in your eyes and threatened to spill onto your cheeks as the sensations because too much. 

Please… please…” you sobbed, seriously regretting your earlier decisions, just like you knew you might, “I—I’m sorry, please, I’ll d—do any—anything.”

Boba hushed you sharply and, much to your absolute dismay, stopped moving his hand and pulled his fingers from your warmth. Before you could protest or curse at him, he shoved you off his lap and onto the floor between his legs. Your knees hit the cold stone and you stared up at him incredulously, on the verge of tears. Boba reached down and gripped your jaw, squishing your cheeks as he forced you to look at his thigh which was glistening were your arousal had collected and was beginning to drip down his leg. 

“You want to cum do bad, don’t you, Little One?” his tone was infuriatingly patronising, “Poor thing, look how desperate you are. You made a mess on my armour.” Boba tilted his head at he looked at you. “Too bad, only good girls get to cum.” 

All you could do was let out a pathetic whine in response as Boba tightened his grip on your jaw and forced you to face his helmet again. He brought his fingers to your mouth and pushed the digits past your lips. They were coated in your slick and you dragged your tongue across the worn leather, tasting yourself as you sucked his fingers. 

“You thought you could just play with your pretty little pussy in the middle of the cantina and get away with it?” Boba mocked, easing his fingers further into your pliant mouth. 

You looked up with teary, pleading eyes at the T-visor of his helmet as he pulled his fingers out out of your mouth and released your jaw. Boba shifted as he moved to undo his belt and remove his codpiece, allowing it to fall to the floor beside you with a clatter. Your hands rested on his thighs and you watched as he reached into his his pants to pull out his stiff cock. He hissed at the sensation of the rough fabric against his sensitive shaft and your mouth watered slightly at the sight of him, tall and erect in front of you.  Boba groaned, pumping himself a few times before guiding his swollen tip to your welcoming lips. 

You pressed a kiss to the underside shaft and ran your tongue up his length, before licking the shining bead of precum from his slit. A low moan vibrated deep in Boba’s chest and he fisted a hand in your hair. Your lips enclosed over his rosy-brown head and you swirled your tongue around him, paying special attention to the particularly sensitive spot just below his tip. 

“F—Finally being a good girl, are you?” Boba strained, trying to keep his composure with your warm, wet mouth around his cock. 

You hummed around him as you took him deeper into your mouth, determined to take him all the way. Boba’s grip on your hair tightened, sending a jolt of electricity straight to your aching centre. He guided you down the rest of his cock and you could fell him twitch at the back of your throat. Your nose was nearly pressing into his lower belly and you gagged around him, tears finally spilling down onto your cheeks as he fucked into your mouth. The stretch made your jaw ache and your lips burn but you didn’t care. You were a pitiful sight, choking on Boba’s thick cock, dripping with need on the floor in front of his throne. 

Boba relaxed his grip on your hair and allowed you to come up for a breath. You dragged your lips down the side of his cock, to the base and back up before returning his twitching head to your mouth. One of your hands slipped off Boba’s thigh and eased between your legs. He let out a growl of warning which quickly turned into a groan of pleasure as you collected your own arousal on your fingertips and used it to jack him off. 

You bobbed your head on Boba’s cock and used your hands on what you couldn’t fit comfortably in your mouth. His grunts of pleasure rang in your ears, encouraging you to take him to the back of your throat once more. Boba let out a string of curses and tugged at your hair, pulling you off him. He gazed down at your through his helmet and tucked himself back into his pants. For a moment you thought he was finished with you and you almost cried with disappointment. 

“Kriff, Princess,” Boba panted, “as good as this feels, I’m not as young as I used to be and I still need to fuck that pretty pussy of yours.” His words sent another wave of arousal straight to your core and you whined with need. 

“Please fuck me, Boba,” you begged.

You were a picture, with your tear stained cheeks and swollen, red lips. Boba thought you looked almost angelic, in some twisted way, on your knees, begging for his cock. You’d never begged for any man before he came along, but stars, the effect Boba had on you, it was intoxicating. 

Suddenly, and without warning, Boba leaned down and grabbed you, throwing you over his shoulder and standing in one fluid motion. You squealed in surprise at the quick change of position. Boba’s large hand gripped the back of your thigh, holding you tight as your upper body hung down his back. He quickly carried you to his chambers. 

When you arrived, Boba threw you down onto the large bed and before you could steady yourself he flipped you onto your stomach. He hooked his hands under your hips and pulled your ass into the air. You arched into the mattress and spread your knees, wiggling your hips at him, eager to finally take his thick cock into your aching heat. 

Boba still didn’t want to give in though, and you yelped when his gloved hand came down harshly on your ass with a sharp ‘smack.’ Your cunt clenched around nothing and you whimpered, burying your face in the plush blankets as his hand came down a second time, leaving an angry red mark on your soft skin. Boba ghosted his fingers over the mark to soothe the stinging flesh and you shivered, lifting your head to turn and look back at him. He reached into his pants to pull out his cock again and leaned over your trembling form. 

“Is this what you need, Princess?” Boba asked, running the tip of his cock over your clit. “Is this what you wanted back at the cantina? Should I have just fucked you right there in that booth? Would that have made you happy, little slut?” 

You moaned and nodded vigorously. 

“I want to hear you say it.”

“Please Boba, I—I need your cock,” you heaved, “I wanted you to fuck me in the cantina with that stupid Rodian watching.”

“That shabuir,” Boba chuckled at your admission and ran his length through your soaking folds, earning a strangled cry from your lips. “He didn’t deserve to even look at you.”

It felt like every nerve in your body was on fire and Boba was doing absolutely nothing to douse the flames. Maker, you needed him so fucking bad it hurt. As Boba lined himself up at your entrance you tried to push back onto him but he harshly dug his fingers into your hips to hold you still. 

“Patience is a virtue,” he mocked, smacking your ass again. 

The sound you made when Boba finally pushed into you was pornographic. He praised your name as he eased into your dripping cunt and you squeezed tightly around him. His thick cock stretched you out so nice and you could feel every inch of him deep within your walls. As he buried himself to the hilt, the cold armour on his thighs pressed against your ass, soothing your sore, flushed skin. 

Boba didn’t even give you a moment to adjust before pulling nearly all the way out and slamming back into you with enough force to rock you forward into the blankets. You wailed his name in pleasure, stars prickling at the edges of your vision as the head of Boba’s cock struck exactly were you needed it. His hand’s gripped your hips hard enough to bruise and he began railing into you at an unyielding pace. 

“So wet, and t—tight,” Boba grunted.

“Only for you, Boba,” you panted, “No one else ever made me feel as good as you do. No one.”

Boba’s hips snapped against your ass repeatedly, expertly hitting your g-spot with each thrust. You cried a string of praises and tried to match his movements with your own, pushing your ass back on his cock. Your movements were restricted by Boba’s hand clasped tightly over your hip, his other between your shoulders, pressing you down into the bed. Maybe teasing the bounty hunter wasn’t such a bad idea after all if it meant he would fuck you like this. 

You didn’t even have time to warn Boba of your approaching orgasm before a particularly harsh roll of his hips made his cock strike something heavenly inside you, launching you into bliss. The long, torturous build-up made it earth-shattering, and for a moment, you though you might black out. You nearly forgot how to breathe and the only thing keeping your grounded was Boba’s grasp on your hip as your whole body writhed. You twisted the blankets between your fingers and wailed as the waves of your release spread through your trembling form. Your cunt clamped down hard on Boba’s cock but he didn’t let up as the most intense pleasure you’ve ever felt rocketed through your body. Boba was unrelenting and all you could do was take it. 

Suddenly, his hand was in your hair again and he pulled you upright. One hand travelled up your ribs to palm your breast while the other came to rest loosely around your throat. The beskar on his chest dug into your back hard enough to leave marks. You reached up and clawed at Boba’s helmet, desperate to feel his lips on you. 

“T—Take your helmet off,” you pleaded, “need y—you.”

Boba’s hips stuttered to a stop and he released you, raising his arms to pull of his helmet. He let it fall to the floor with a clang and proceeded to remove his gloves, tossing them aside. His hands quickly returned and you moaned at the feeling of his warm, calloused skin finally touching you. Your hands gripped his and encouraged him to knead your soft skin, wanting his touch everywhere. You let out an intoxicated gasp when he pinched your nipple between his fingertips. Twisting in grip, you captured his lips in a fervent kiss, moaning into his mouth as he pushed his tongue against yours. 

Boba resumed his thrusting and the new angle made your head spin. He was so deep, hitting all the right spots inside you. Your head lolled back against Boba’s shoulder and you felt him sink his teeth into the sensitive skins of your neck. Within moments you were on the brink of another orgasm, barely clinging to reality as Boba fucked into you. 

“I’m g—gonna—,” you couldn’t even get the words out before two of Boba’s calloused fingers found your clit and began rubbing fast circles, making you sob. 

“Go on, Princess, cum on my cock again.” 

Your second orgasm hit you like a train. It felt like Boba was everywhere and nowhere all at once as your eyes rolled to the back of your skull and pleasure consumed you. His arms were the only thing keeping you upright while wave after wave of white hot ecstasy pulsed through you. Boba continued thrusting into you erratically, finally chasing his release. Your body was limp in his grasp as he used you for his own gratification. His grip on you was nearly bone crushing as he rocked into you a few more times before stiffening. Hot ropes of his seed painted your walls, filling you up as his cock twitched within you. Boba uttered your name over and over against your skin as he came. You could feel him pulse inside you and you clenched around him again, coaxing every last drop from his cock. 

After a moment, Boba eased out of you with a his and let your fucked out form gently collapse on the bed. You could feel his seed leaking out of your cunt, making a sticky mess on your inner thigh. Boba nudged your legs apart and watched the evidence of your activities trickled out of your fluttering hole. Had he been a younger man, the sight of you, lying wrecked in his bed like this, would have been enough to get him rock hard again, but it was probably best for you that he needed a bit of time to recover himself. The ghost of an ache spread through your body and you knew you’d be able to feel Boba between your legs for the next few days, not that there was anything wrong with that. 

The bed lifted behind you as Boba got up and made his way to the fresher to clean himself off. You were too tired to even move, panting on the plush blankets, waiting for him to return. He did so a few minutes later, a warm, damp cloth in hand. You groaned and tried to roll over but Boba stopped you with a soft hush and knelt next to you, easing your legs open. He gently dragged the cloth across your thighs and up over your sore cunt, cleaning his mess off your skin. 

“I didn’t hurt you too badly, did I, cyar’ika?” Boba asked, leaning over you and pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder blade. 

You shook your head, “No, Boba.”

The first time you were with Boba, his tenderness after sex was surprising. You never expected such a widely feared bounty hunter to be so gentle with you. All you assumed was a quick, dirty fuck, but when he had time, Boba always made sure to take good care of you, especially if he’d been rough. He was always attentive to your needs and that made you fall for him even harder. 

Despite the care he showed you, part of you still wondered why he kept you around or even came to you in the first place. The man could probably have his pick of any woman in the entire galaxy and yet, it was you who warmed his bed, and you who he came home to after dangerous missions and near death experiences. It was puzzling but you didn’t dare ask him why he chose you in case he were to realise he made some kind of mistake and abandon you. Your heart wouldn’t survive if he did. 

You finally gathered the strength to roll over and face Boba, noticing that he removed the rest of his armour while he was in the fresher. He didn’t look so dangerous without the green beskar adorning his broad form but you knew better than to ever underestimate him. The bed dipped as Boba lay down next to you and draped the soft blankets over your tired body. You smiled sleepily at him and his dark eyes softened as he returned your gaze. 

“Always so grumpy looking,” you teased, reaching a hand up to cup Boba’s cheek. 

He chuckled in response and the sound made your heart flutter with joy. It was so rare to hear Boba truly laugh, so you cherished the moments when he did. Your fingertips brushed over the harsh lines of scar tissue that cut across his face and he let out a sigh. You expected that those scars were something he was a little self conscious about but you thought they made him look fierce and handsome. Your fingers traced over his forehead smoothing out his furrowed brow. 

“Can I tell you a secret?” you asked, lips curling into a smile and Boba hummed. “You’re pretty,” you murmured, “You should let me look at you more often, instead of being hidden away in your helmet all day.” 

Boba rolled his eyes and let out an exasperated sigh but he couldn’t help the small smile that spread over his features. You shuffled closer to him and craned your neck up to press a kiss to his lips. He returned the kiss, running his tongue over your bottom lip and nipping it lightly. His hand moved to your face and he brushed a few wild strands of hair out of your eyes. You pulled back and blinked slowly at him, trying to hold back a yawn.

“You should sleep now, Little One,” Boba urged, “You had a long day.” The suggestive edge in his voice made you giggle.

“You’re not worried I’ll act up again?” you challenged, wriggling playfully in his embrace. 

“Not after I just tired you out on my cock.” Boba gave you an amused look and pinched your ass, causing you to squeal with laughter. “And if you ever pull anything like that again, I won’t be so nice next time.” 

“You were hardly nice this time,” you said in faux indignation. “Look what you did to my arm, I probably have marks all over.” You shrugged the blanket off your shoulder to reveal several finger shaped bruises on your upper arm. 

Boba tugged the blanket back around you. “You like it when I leave a mark.”

He was right, of course. You loved wearing the evidence of his adoration, showing his marks off to the world, letting them know who you belonged to. It awakened something primal in you when you looked at yourself in the mirror and saw the temporary decorations he gave you, a reminder of your passionate activities the day before. You gave Boba his fair share of marks too and something told you he felt the same way about them as you did.

Boba pulled you closer, and you finally began to settle in his arms. You let your eyes close and sighed contently as he pressed a kiss to your forehead. It was nice, being able to fall asleep with him. It was such an irregular occurrence so you took advantage whenever you could, inhaling his scent, and memorising his touch so you could at least try to pretend he was there when he was away. You buried your face into his broad chest as Boba rubbed slow soothing circles against your bare back. 

“Sleep well, Mesh’la,” Boba murmured into your hair. 

[lxghtbound]

@dredgenshrike

Shrike drags Scout out to a fresh kill, the flies kept away by the Stasis and freezing cold. The victim- a Warlock, Awoken- was completely torn open. Their body hung from one of the old wooden spikes on the edge of the clearing, the rib bones poking out of the skin and clearly cracked and peeled back. The head was scrambled, a line of arrows stuck through the head and following down a line through the spine and down the mid of the body. The legs were torn off. Shrike brought a hand up to draw his own Stasis back, the ice forming long spikes until it accompanied the rib bones and began to look almost like petals- like a fucked up flower.

Shrike chuffed and chittered, before nudging into Scout's neck, the long and steel claws tilting into Scout's waist as he pulled him back. "All for you. All of it." The blood leftover on his claws was smearing over Scout but Shrike didn't seem to mind. "Their death, the gore- I did it for you."

Admittedly the gorey sight wasn’t what Scout anticipated when Shrike had rushed back to camp and dragged him out here, his optics widening as he took in the sight, but he certainly didn’t complain. “What did they do?” he asked, though Scout didn’t expect an answer that others would consider reasonable. Even just trespassing too close to the camp warranted this kind of reaction: if they wanted to avoid death, then they should be more careful about where they tread. It was like walking into a wolf’s den and then being confused when you saw a wolf - what else did you expect?

Perhaps one could argue that all the gore wasn’t necessary. That a swift death would be enough of a warning to those who came here, but that wasn’t the point. Scout absolutely felt good that Shrike had done this for him, and for once, he didn’t complain as the blood got over his armour and plating.

“Good. I love it when you kill for me...” Scout praised, pulling Shrike down for a messy kiss that managed to leave more blood spatters on both of them. At least it wasn’t Exo blood; that was the worst to clean when it came to certain colours. “Are you gonna leave ‘em here? Make it a message to any other cocky Warlocks who think they can take us on and invade our land?”

They had the whole city (or at least they thought they did, Scout supposed), so why they always insisted on trying to get a glimpse of the camp or a dangerous Dredgen, run home and then say they lived, he didn’t know.

[endangered-liaison]

FFXIVWrite Prompt #1: Crux

[Featuring @with-fists-and-folded-steel ‘s Claudia!]

The smell of engine oil and ceruleum is a sickly, cloying scent. Memorable, in the way that breaking a bone is memorable. It sticks with you, even after years. They blend together, overlaying one another in a way that makes both so much worse.

Maxima wraps a cloth around her face, tying it back to cover her mouth and nose. Too many fumes.

"Ain't this somethin' for the Jens to manage?" She finally speaks up, voice muffled by the bandana.

The Decurion pauses in what she's doing. "Sure. But we don't take them into the field with us. Wrench."

Max lifts the wrench from her box of tools and passes it over. A moment later, she gags and coughs at the smell as Claudia twists a bolt and a flood of viscous, lumpy oil splashes from the hull of the Reaper she's working on. It spatters across the floor, making the realm's worst Rorschach Test. Max thinks it looks kind of like a map of Thavnair. "Fuck," Max gasps out, taking a step back so she can actually breathe without wanting to vomit. "We ain't in the field, Dec."

Claudia shrugs. "What happens if the walker breaks down in a fight? Or halfway across Gyr Abania after a combat drop?"

"Point." Max hates to agree, but it's not wrong. And hey, at least she's not being asked to learn about it herself. It's all Servius's pet project.

"Come look at this."

Max blanches, shifting a few shades paler. An excellent pureblood imitation, in all. "Uh...I'm good, yeah?"

Claudia turns her head to give Max a flat look with all three eyes. She raises one oil-covered hand and points a middle finger at her. "Get over here, Max. And bring a screwdriver."

Max groans, pantomiming taking deep breaths before stepping back into the splash radius. She grabs a pair of screwdrivers on the way, crouching down under the hull of the Reaper.

Claudia takes one of the screwdrivers from her hands and begins working on a small panel beneath the armour plating she'd already unbolted.

"So. The fuck do you want me to look at?"

There's a dull thud, and the whole plate releases. There's a low magnetic humming, and Claudia grins, lowering the plate with the care one would give to a firstborn child. Probably not the thirdborn, though. She hands the plates over to Max, who tries her best not to fumble it.

"This...is the core of the Reaper." Claudia points the screwdriver at what she'd just opened, then steps aside. With a degree of reticence, Max steps around to look at whatever's being indicated. It's...oh. Okay. Engines, Max knows well enough. But this is...different. Ceruleum pipes and electrical wiring twist like vines around a circular core, thrumming with power. The engine powers the vehicle's motors, but this is its weaponry, its readouts, its linking tech. It glows, faintly, rhythmically.

It's honestly almost beautiful.

"...It safe to be this close to it? Without the platin'?"

Claudia shrugs. "It's just magitek. Don't worry about it so much, legionary."

Max frowns, handing the armour plate back to Claudia. "Can't help it. I bunk with Castellus, the girl must be rubbin' off on me."

Claudia smirks sidelong at that but, mercifully, doesn't make any sort of comments. That would be more Lee's purview, anyway. Claudia raises the plate, slotting it back in place and starting to screw it shut again. She seems satisfied with whatever maintenance she's been doing, at least for today.

"Why's it...pulse like that?" Max can't help but ask the question, and Claudia pauses.

"...I think it's the photon generators for the side guns. But it really does look like a heart, don't it?" Claudia wipes a hand over her brow, smearing oil and ceruleum over her forehead, the dark brown and the deep blue muddying together to make an awful mess. "The beating heart of a steel beast."

Max leans back against the Reaper's leg, watching the Decurion work. After a moment, she gets an idea, and rummages through her toolbox for what she needs. After a few seconds, she finds a chisel and a hammer. Hardly the most high-tech tools, but still useful enough.

Claudia half-glances her way. "...Sawyer, what the fuck are you doing with that?"

"Got an idea."

After a few long seconds, she sighs, but goes back to working replacing the armour plates. She only stops when Max places the chisel against the cermet plating of one of the legs. "If you crack that, the replacement's comin' out of your pay." She thinks about it. "If you draw a dick on it, the replacement's comin' out of your pay twice."

Max sighs. "Trust me, yeah?"

Claudia gives a long-suffering look.

"Come on, Dec."

She just sighs, and pulls her welding goggles down despite not having any welding to do. If she can't see what's happening, she doesn't have to acknowledge it. That’s become somewhat of a mantra, running III Squad the way she does.

Half a bell later, after she's finished bolting the last panel in place on the Reaper, Claudia wanders her way around the Reaper to see what fresh nightmare Max has left her with.

Instead, what she sees surprises her. In Max's rough-hewn script, made rougher by the use of the chisel, there's two words. A name.

Ferro Ferarum

"Y'know, Sawyer?" She grins slowly, and wraps an oil-covered arm around Max's shoulders. "I don't hate it."

[skyrimfuckery]

fuck’s sake.

I’m done. This project has turned out to be incredibly fun and incredibly time-consuming. And even though every fibre in my body is to rant right now, it’s late and i’m tired and i can’t even see my fucking keyboard in the dark. So i’ll keep it short. As always, link is in the sidebar. Get the latest release, which includes this armour and some other goodies, over there!

In fucking NOVEMBER i started working on this project. A new design! I wanted to accentuate the female curves using lines throughout the armour and guiding the eye to certain shapes. Very quickly, I decided to draw heavy inspiration from that dark star armour from armstreet which has been frequenting google images and pinterest a lot lately. You know, dark armour, blonde girl.

I got to texturing and I started with the gambeson. I wanted to outdo my past gambeson textures which were for the squire’s plate and I think i definite succeeded in doing so. The textures are more detailed, with more relief in the normal maps and more interesting geometry instead of just a repeated pattern. It was insanely time-consuming but it was certainly worth it.

I then moved on to making the blackened steel material. This required me to make a completely new texture based on the images i got from armstreet and google. It was to be a nonexistent material with new lore behind it, and I didn’t want to just recreate ebony. So I got to messing around with cloud filters and bullfuckery with different ways colours would be reflected in different maps. The oranges are dull, the deep blues are very reflective, with the semi-dark midtones being quite shiny. It makes for a very unique looking and interesting material with nice visual depth. I’ll definitely expand on this stuff later on, especially as this armor is still female only.

Texturing the other parts, that is the boots and the gauntlets, took a lot more effort. Not because they were more difficult, but because other things had gotten in the way and also because I was growing quite tired of making textures (at that point, i had two 4k textures done in total). I moved on to other things, like playing the game and messing around with other games. I also made a new minor outfit, to expand on those new plate and gambeson sets from two releases ago. I just added a breastplate but it looks quite nice. No screenies, but the sets are fully obtainable in game and use existing assets that make sense.

During this seemingly minor hiatus I also tried to overhaul the crafting mechanics of the wardrobe by starting with the Squire’s Plate. Now you need all parts that you can either buy or craft individually, instead of needing a few unique items and making the rest from scratch.

Then I started implementation of the armour. Mind you, we’re in January already. Life shit happens, I’m starting to work more shifts, and I’m faced with a huge ordeal of scripting my very first quest. Luckily I found help of someone I share discord servers with and it’s been a big deal. Without them, I wouldn’t’ve been able to even begin questing. Another friend helped me write some diary text for the plugin, which I hope you will enjoy. Then for pretty much the entire month of February there was another HUGE hiatus as I was playing another game altogether and was really struggling to finish another script for the mod and some minor shit. And now, today, I figured to just bite the fucking bullet and get it done. Or rather, circumvent the entire scripting issue in a hopefully clever way so that I can finally release this goddamn thing.

Long story short, this project has grown too large too quickly and I feel quite exhausted about it all. I need some time to get my bearings and get excited about other stuff, as well as come up with new ideas for outfits or maybe even other things, like add-ons for existing armors or miscellaneous items! There’s still tons of stuff for me to do and I want to revive this texturing passion of mine. Question is: when?

[shame-cubed]

i’ve been thinking way too hard about what i wanna do for the fantasy prompt for bederia week. definitely knights, totally wanna draw them as knights. bede’s a fancy ass with a white horse and gloria’s just got a hunting dog and a scrubby ole set of full plate armour. anyway the imagery got my mind spiraling into AU hell instead of sleeping because i’m deranged now apparently

buckle the fuckle up shuckle cuz i’m about to spill the brain juice all over this bitch

- Once upon a time there was a king named Rose and he was beloved by all his subjects for ruling the prosperous land of Galar with world-renowned grace and dignity. his advisor Oleana oversees his court, conducts his every word with a fist of iron and thorns, for Rose only wants the best for his people and certainly knows what he’s doing and couldn’t possibly be wrong ever

- one fateful day the kind King Rose meets a street urchin named Bede while on one of his trips into town to see a jousting competition or some shit, and in some sort of publicity stunt he takes the bread-thieving kid in to live on his vast estate and makes him a squire and trains him for battle, eventually knighting him and everyone praises Rose for his incredible generosity and compassion towards the poor

- no one is more grateful than Bede himself, his loyalty unshakable, although he rarely sees the King. He is just a very busy ruler, using the shreds of his spare time to brood atop some tower in his vast castle away from his subjects. surely it is because he is a Great King with Galar’s future in mind. Some nights Bede wistfully gazes up at the tower as it glows with an odd, beautiful light. He watches the shadow in the window that must be his King and hopes someday Rose will look down from there and shine that light on him, too

- Hop, Marnie, and Gloria were also squires who trained with Bede and became knights but did not live on the estate like he did, they go back to their little towns when they are not on duty. Most of the gym leaders are also Dukes/Duchesses/Lords under Rose who govern their respective patches of land and are high-ranking commander knights as well or whatever. I should probably research this shit. Anyway the highest ranking of them all is Leon. Rose often calls on Leon to do his dirty work, manage his armies etc. 

- Everyone respects Leon very much, except Bede, because while wandering the halls, he overheard Leon and Rose get into a disagreement. Bede thinks it treasonous for Leon to question his King and vows to be better than him and follow Rose’s orders without question. Perhaps Bede was expected to eavesdrop, for he gets his wish, Rose calls for him personally and sends him on a variety of special assignments.

- These special assignments turn out to be rather questionable, but because Bede is such a loyal knight, he enacts his duties no matter what. In the end, it is all for the prosperity of the region and the love of his King. He often runs into the other knights his age while on his missions, and Gloria in particular tells him what he’s doing just ain’t right. He tells her to fuck off and do her job, and she says her duty is to serve the people first and foremost, and Bede’s missions are not doing the people any good. He sneers at her, for his duty is to the King and therefore more important than she could ever imagine.

- Of course this is where shit hits the fan. Leon has assembled a rebel army against Rose because he’s just that charismatic, aiming to expose Rose’s crimes by breaking into his tower where he’s keeping fuck-knows-what. The rebels storm the castle but both Rose and Oleana escape through an underground passageway and his tower is empty because they knew he was coming. It’s Bede who rats Leon out, hearing of his plans through Hop or Marnie or a gym leader idk yet. Gloria and Bede cross swords on the battlefield but can’t bring themselves to kill each other because they share some kind of mutual unspoken respect from their days as squires and don’t know how to deal with it so Bede runs away.

-  Bede tries to escape with Rose and Oleana but turns out the secret passage has been blocked off. He was only ever meant to serve as a tool and a distraction and was promptly left to take the blame and die. He barely gets away from the fighting and drags his bloody body into the nearby woods where he passes the fuck out. Fairies take pity on him and bring him to the old wizard living deep in the heart of the woods. The wizard, who is Opal obviously, heals Bede who tells her his fucked-up tale of betrayal and naivety. While he’s talking, Opal sets out not 2, but 3 teacups and Bede silently wonders if she is insane.

- Cue motherfucking Gloria bustin in on this joint. She’s got a scrap of Bede’s bloody uniform in hand and her hunting dog Zammy has followed the scent, leading her to the wizard’s home. She seems relieved that he isn’t dead and Bede can’t fathom why. He calls her an idiot for caring about him after everything he’s done. Gloria agrees that she is, indeed, an idiot. Soon the idiot is distracted by the fact she is in the presence of the legendary wizard she had been told about in tales as a wee babe. She freaks out a bit, then chugs her tea to calm down.

- Gloria begs Opal to help the rebels, for Rose has gone absolutely mad, he has been dabbling in the dark arts/necromancy in his tower all along and is raising the fucking dead in droves to fight for him. Bede feels sick as he realizes it was probably part of Rose’s plan for him to get killed and become part of his undead army. He reveals that his special missions from Rose were to rob graves, gather strange artifacts, rare flora/fauna, and even some fresh human body parts. This makes Opal hum in wizened consideration. She recognizes these items as ingredients to awaken an ancient and powerful dragon which once brought vast bounties upon the land, a dragon that had been slain long ago by a pair of foolhardy princes with bad hair and would no doubt be quite angered to be disturbed from its eternal rest.

-  Opal agrees to help, for it would be a shame to watch Galar crumble to ruins. She divines Rose’s location and Gloria decides she needs to tell Leon immediately. Opal shows her the secret shortcut out of the woods and Bede tells her where his horse is hitched so she can get to the rebels faster. Gloria thanks them both and leaves her dog with Bede, telling him how to command Zammy if he needs to find her. Bede says she’s wasting time, insists he already knows how to deal with a damn dog, and yells that she better not dirty his horse as she leaves. Opal can’t believe they’re still bickering over stupid shit while the region's at stake and turns to her spellbooks. There’s a way to calm the beast in one of these dusty old tomes, so Bede better get cracking and help her out instead of staring out into the woods worriedly like a dumbass.

- Gloria gets to Leon who’s still at the castle, undead bodies slain all around him, and tells him where Rose is hiding and about his plan to resurrect a powerful dragon. Leon says he had an idea that Rose was gonna do something crazy like that but didn’t think it was actually possible and that they must make haste to stop him. They gather up the rebels and head the fuck out to confront Rose. Hop is there, always at the ready to back up his bro, and he brings his own hunting dog, Zacian. Together with Marnie and the remaining gym leaders who didn’t get fucked up in battle, they lead the charge to Rose’s secret hideout, which is the tomb of the dragon in a deep-ass crater on a mountain.

- Leon’s horse is named Charizard

- The rebels arrive and cut through the undead armies protecting the tomb. Oleana tries to stall them, and fails, but she escapes last minute to tell Rose of their arrival. Rose chides her for not being stronger, but it’s all well, for the dragon has been awakened at last. Finally the steel castles of heights beyond imagination, the vast towns of everlasting glittering lights, all these great wonders of his design which have been appearing in his dreams for many a night will be realized! This is his moment, where he will bring Galar into a shining new era advanced unlike the world has ever seen! He laughs jovially as if he had not just brought about hundreds, maybe thousands, of deaths in his pursuit of this grand future. Sickly red light pours out of his hands and fractures the earth. Debris is flying fucking everywhere as a scaly, skeletal mass of rotten flesh rises from below, bellows and shrieks in horrible pain.

- Leon and friends arrive, there’s a big scuffle with Oleana and some undead gym leaders, Gloria takes a nasty fucking hit when shockwaves from the dragon send her sword and shield flying out of her hands and an undead fuck stabs her in some weak point of her armour, unmistakably hitting some vital organs, she crumples to the ground but tries to get up anyway cuz she’s a hardy bitch. Hop notices and is pissed, calls for Zacian to protect her, and the dog brings her the discarded sword and starts snapping viciously at anyone who approaches.

- Opal, Bede, and Zammy arrive outside of the tomb in a blast of unnecessarily sparkly pink magic. Bede protects Opal as they make their way inside to join the rebels, for the wizard needs to save her strength if she’s about to subdue some ancient undead beast. Spotting Gloria hunched over coughing up blood, Bede loses it and cleans the fuck up, dispatching every undead bitch in sight-- he even manages to wound Oleana, who scrambles away to hide. Once he’s certain Opal will be fine, Bede runs over to Gloria’s side with Zammy in tow and tells her she’s stupid. Zacian growls at first but after seeing Zammy, it backs off to join its sibling alongside Hop as the non-wounded survivors regroup to close in on Rose.

- Gloria had dug her sword into the ground to keep herself upright, but as another blast of energy washes over the battlefield she loses her grip and Bede catches her. She smiles up at him because she didn’t think he cared. He cradles her in his arms, shielding her with his body and admits he couldn’t not care, she’s the only one who stuck by him even when he felt he didn’t deserve it. She confesses she loves him, and the poor guy breaks cuz no-one’s ever said that to him before. He leans down for a kiss, and apparently some of Opal’s healing magic is still in him, because their lip-lock somehow manages to heal Gloria’s injuries. I don’t care if it’s dumb I’m so weak for this shit... 

- While Rose is busy trying to control the increasingly unhinged dragon, Leon fucking stabs him in the back. Rose tries to ramble a bit with his dying breath but everyone’s just like Shut The Fuck Up. All the summoned undead fall apart, save for the giant dragon. Oleana comes out from behind her rock, freaks out, calls Leon a fool, because now there’s no way they can stop the beast from wreaking havoc without Rose’s dark magic. Opal saunters in all like, really now? And starts chanting some weird spell and sprinkling herbs everywhere or something. Magic bullshit. The dragon tries to resist the weird pulses coming from this elderly wizard bitch, and hovers low to the ground to slash at the rebels protecting her.

- Bede and Gloria finish making out and get up to join the fight. Everyone is attacking the dragon to keep it at bay, even the dogs, so Opal can pull off her fancy spell. Eventually a final flash of light appears in a blinding pulse outwards from the legendary wizard, and all the red magic holding together the pile of bones that is the undead dragon crackles and disintegrates. The skeleton crashes to the ground and dust flies everywhere, everyone looks around, all like, is it really over? They smile and celebrate when they realize, yes, the skeleton war is in fact over. 

- Opal is not looking well after using all her power like that, Bede rushes over to help her up and she pats his shoulder, saying he’s got the potential for magic in him. He’s like, what, no way, but Opal just nods all like I saw that fucking healing kiss, you’re a wizard, bitch. She grips him tightly, pours the remainder of her powers into him, and disappears into thin air. RIP.

- Leon becomes king, repairs Galar with the help of his trusted knights, Oleana goes into the dungeon to repent, Bede and Gloria get married (it’s fancy af, the dogs are flower girls) and everyone who isn’t dead lives happily ever after. The end.

WHEW, obviously I don’t have the time to flesh this out any more than what I have here, maybe in a couple months. I got too many irons in the fire rn, I just had to get this shit out of my head or it would haunt me forever. Perhaps I can finally sleep uaaagh

[buymyblood]

The Morning After- Part 4- with @InMyOwnMhis & @HowBoutDemWings.

Jagger:

-I was settling in to all that maple and cinnamon about halfway through my stack and well into the ease of Lassiter's company when I caught sight of her in my periphery. Her scent was fresh, both citrus and floral standing out even with breakfast dominating the arena.

Faster than someone could say leggo my Eggo, I was out of my chair, bending the knee to Ambellina. I didn't know much about the formalities of my kind, save for what Haven had managed to download to me, including the shaky grasp I had on the Old Language, but diverting my eyes I gave it the old college try. My apology might have been garbled, hell if I knew, but what I lacked in know how I hoped I made up for in tone. I wanted to wipe away my offense and atone for it, because even though we were only just acquainted I knew she was obstinate.

Before moving on to the last part, I shot a look Lassiter's way. Funny, that was all it took to steel myself instead of backing out of what I'd already promised I'd do, his very presence reinforcing my backbone.

Looking back Ambellina's way, this time I got the view of her in full and how my heart lurched in my chest...She reminded me so much of my mother, far less broken and fairer, but reminiscent nonetheless. Holding onto my figurative balls, I continued in English.-

Ambellina....if it's still on offer...I would be humbled for the gift of your vein.

Ambellina:

~I gave the courtesy of softly clearing my throat when I entered the doorway of the kitchen, and looked around to see Lassiter and Jagger sitting at the small kitchen table enjoying breakfast. My steel plated heart clenched unexpectedly. It had been so long since I enjoyed first meal with more than just the empty chairs across from me. Even before my transition, most mornings I spent tiptoeing my way through the kitchen to make whatever created the least amount of noise so I didn’t wake my mahmen...or whomever her lay of the night had been.

More often than not, I would go without because she hadn’t gone for groceries and refused to give me money to do it for her. But here, before me were not one but two males who had gone to the effort of making what looked like a very lovely meal while I had sent my woes down the drain. They appeared to be half way through and I had missed my chance to join, all because I had indulged in a purging of emotions.

Refusing to feel sorry for myself, I lifted my chin and was about to join them at the table when Jagger was out of his seat and before I could tell him it wasn’t necessary to stand for me, he was down on a knee...speaking in the old language. My breath got caught in my throat while my hands grabbed at the hem of my borrowed shirt, twisting it between my fingers as his apology hit a place in my chest that managed to slip past a crack in the self-imposed armour covering the organ that was working so diligently at pushing the blood he had given me through my veins.

I was well versed in the old language, thanks to one of my doggen who had taught it to me just so I could read the journals of my grand mahmen and while Jagger’s words were a little minced at times, the point had been delivered in his remorseful tone. I was taken aback and for the second time since being brought here by the angel, I could feel my vision growing wavy but I refused to allow myself the indulgence of letting more tears stain my cheeks. Blinking quickly, my gaze stayed fixed upon Jagger until he was done with his apology.

I was at a loss for words and looked to Lassiter for some help but he was sitting there like he hadn’t a clue what was being said. I supposed that meant angels didn’t speak the old language, so no help there. Jagger must have sensed my shock with what he had said because he continued for all of us to listen, and when he did, I was taken aback to the point where my jaw positively dropped. My recovery was slow despite the immediate thoughts that began to churn in my mind.

Right away, I nodded and moved closer to him, reaching behind me to pull my hair over my shoulder, exposing the side of my throat that wasn’t ravaged by Rhancid before pushing the sleeve of my shirt up to my elbow.~

Of course it’s still on offer, Jagger. You saved my life and I wish to repay my blood debt. Moreover, you’ve allowed me to remain here safe from the sun and have given me clothing to wear and provided access to your bathroom to clean up. I owe you immensely, so I’d like to do that now, or I can wait until you’ve finished eating?

Jagger:

- I just barely caught the shock that overtook her features before Ambellina moved forward. She flipped the tables on me, offering throat and wrist, the former of which I’d never experienced. I didn’t flinch, go me with the growth. After being so viciously savaged and leagues beyond disrespected, she was so eager to repay the favor with a male she’d only just met. Her grace was staggering and put my fears to shame. Still that didn’t ready me for it. She was more than vein to tap and she needed to feel that. I WANTED her to feel that. Getting to my feet, I felt as though I loomed over her and hoped I wasn’t too imposing. I turned a quarter, pulling out one of the available chairs.-

Would you join us?

-Even though I’d plunged into all this thanks to a shove in the right direction from Lassiter, I was hardly through my hesitation. If things moved too fast, I’d be wading through a lifetime of crap and baggage I didn’t want to unpack. It wasn’t about me though, it really wasn’t. She’d just been through hell at the hands of a shitty male, I wanted to show her compassion, I wanted her to feel communion.-

If French toast isn’t your cup of tea, Lassiter will make you whatever you want.

-hoping my dry humor wasn’t DOA and that the smirk in my tone did the trick, I shot a grin the angel’s way before turning back to Ambellina-

Maybe then you’ll allow me the chance to explain a few things.

Ambellina:

~Jagger was collecting moments of surprise with me quicker than those human girls selling their addictive cookies...he wanted me to join them for breakfast, all I could do was nod and as I took a seat, my eyes lifted to Lassiter’s waiting for him to insert his loud opinions but they never came. Instead he kept shovelling forkfuls of French toast into his mouth. The only reaction he gave was a wink and a grin when Jagger volunteered that he’d make me something else if I wanted. He did not need to go to that kind of trouble for me, he had done enough. With a small smile of gratitude for both the offer and Jagger’s dry humour, I shook my head as I spoke.~ That won’t be necessary, I will eat what you both are having.

~I watched as Jagger retrieved a plate previously stacked with a few slices of already made French toast, the opened oven sent the warm aroma wafting over before the arrival of my plate. When it was set down in front of me, I reached for the maple syrup and drizzled it over my stack before using the knife to cut a bite sized piece. As I lifted the fork to my mouth and closed my lips around the tines, I held back a moan and looked between the two males, waiting for someone to break the quiet silence that had developed.

When it was clear that Lassiter’s only plan was to keep his mouth full, I licked the sticky syrup from my lips and turned my attention to Jagger.~

Thank you for your kind generosity, this meal...I haven’t had one like this in quite some time. The companionship, that is. ~I’d never been one to feel like I needed to fill silences but I wasn’t blind to the fact that I had interrupted their casual conversation, and I didn’t want them to feel like they couldn’t continue in my presence.~

Jagger:

-Where had Lassiter’s gift of gab run off to? The dish and the proverbial spoon were still on the table so couldn’t have done the runaway thing with them. Clearly Ambellina and I weren’t used to shooting the shit in the natural way he did. I nudged his foot with mine under the table, checking for signs of life while I finished the bite in my mouth before putting my tongue to use.-

That makes two of us. I’ve been eating alone for decades. -I shrugged a shoulder, stuffing another bite in my mouth, brows drawing together in thought while I stabbed another forkful, holding it up in prep for delivery.-

That’s the tip of the ‘berg when it comes to my issue with other kinds of… eating.

-eyes flashing to Ambellina, going straight to her neck, the side that’s still in recovery, taking another blow in my chest region. How in the fuck could any male treat someone so precious with such rabidness? Swallowing thickly while getting pulled into the vortex that was my family tree. How in the hell had my father done it time and time again? How was I his progeny? Pinching the bridge of my nose as bile creeps up the back of my throat, threatening the moment before I choke it back down on another swallow of the French toast. I didn’t know if it was the company or the cinnamon, but it did taste pretty fancy.-

Ambellina:

~I took my time with chewing each bite that was delivered past my lips, whomever had made the French toast had quite the culinary skills and I intended on enjoying each bite until my plate was empty. It had been many hours since my last meal, Jagger’s vein aside, that my stomach felt like a never ending pit. Fortunately for me, Jagger took a turn to fill the silence by offering a moment of similarity, though I was not surprised by his admission of eating alone, I was once more taken aback by his eating issues reveal. How could a vampire, who admitted to eating alone for decades live as long has he had if he did in fact have problems feeding. I wanted to understand, and more than that, be the female who helped him. He deserved that.

In the short time I had been in his company, it was abundantly clear he was someone who held everyone at more than arm's length, and I found myself wanting to know why. He was a handsome male and not at all lacking in proper manners which was a far cry from a lot of the males I had serviced, he could have any female he wanted if he was so inclined. There had to be an explanation.

When my plate was clear, I set my cutlery down and folded my hands in my lap. Lassiter was still somehow shovelling food in his mouth, which I took as a sign that it was my turn to speak.~ Feeding is something I am very good at, Jagger. I promise you, despite the condition I arrived here in, I am strong and can endure you at my vein. I will do whatever is needed to guarantee your iceberg does not grow in size.

~My gaze held Jagger’s as I spoke so he could see my conviction and determination. Somewhere between soaking in his claw foot tub and sharing first meal together, my excuse of wanting to repay my blood debt became less about keeping my promise to Ghiselle and more about a personal desire to help Jagger in a way that he had done for me. Suddenly the why of Lassiter’s silence became clear. The angel knew something more than we ourselves did, and now that I had food in my belly to go with the blood I had drank from from Jagger’s wrist, my mind was functioning at its usual sharp capacity.

It all snapped into place. Just like my past had dictated my path to selling my blood, something in Jagger’s past clearly had caused his aversion to feeding. A soft laugh at the realization bubbled up and quickly, my hand left my lap to reach across the table, covering one of his, squeezing firmly as I spoke.~ My blood, it is unlike most females. Feeding from me will endure you longer than is traditionally expected, which means you won’t need to worry about taking a vein as often. You don’t have to explain to me why your iceberg is as large as it is, just know, I understand your need to hold some type of control.

Jagger:

-I lost track of what was left on my plate as the taste of syrup faded on my tongue, when Ambellina’s eyes fixed on mine. Her voice was lulling, but the conviction in her eyes was downright steel. The color of her pupils seemed to converge in a storm of persuasion, maybe an optical illusion, but there was more going on behind that one gaze than most others held in a lifetime.

I’d already decided I’d take her vein, so the extra selling wasn’t needed, but she was less Avon-calling and more...something. Assuring? Yeah...yeah, that was the word. And wouldn’t you know I latched right on when the mention of her blood sustaining me longer was thrown in.

Maybe it would only take one time to make sure she got her ahvenging in and was safe before I faded off into that sunset I’d been planning before this fork in the road. I wanted to ask some follow ups about why her blood was different, but left well enough alone since she wasn’t ramming my iceberg with any Titanic questions. Seemed we had found the bounds of mutual respect in short order, which was maybe why I didn’t flinch when her hand covered mine. But... the anxiety over feeding was still crawling back up my spine. The fear of becoming a monster like my father still ruled my roost, and that wasn’t going to shake off in a day, no matter how many strides I’d taken. I was driven to see it through out of the aim of protective duty. Ambellina was no shrinking violet, and I was sure she could slit a throat were it to come right down to it, but still, I wouldn’t be able to take any kind of final breath without knowing Rhancid had gotten his due.-

My resume with females is not long, but I am sure you are not like any others in general, Ambellina. So…

-clearing my throat and swallowing a few times, breaking Ambellina’s gaze after a nod of my head to shoot my eyes Lassiter’s way- Hey, hate to break up your love affair with the French toast, but I still need you for this. Just... in case. And not here.

Lassiter:

<French toast. Crispy. Decadent. Syrupy goodness. After the lost opportunity to Big Mac my stomach, I was not at all about to rush this, and for more than being hungry reasons. These two at the table with me had to get their shit to move in the same direction if they stood a chance to heal some of those emotional scars. I could see it in the way they vocally danced around asking the hard hitting questions, the kind I never shied away from, but that didn’t mean they were completely blundering.

Not even Jagger’s kick under the table or those pleading ocean blues from Blondie could convince me to pipe up before the exact perfect moment. I had half a mind to make myself invisible to their eyes while they spoke, but at the risk of looking like those crazy uncles in Casper while I continued to eat, I resisted. Besides, I got the impression that my mere presence was enough to keep their vocal cords working. Definitely doing them a favour in the courage department. Without a doubt.

When my plate was nearing empty, I slowed the rate of fork to mouth speed then eyeballed up the forgotten piece on Jagger’s plate. He was so focused on Ambellina while she explained her magical extra hearty blood that he didn’t even notice as I stabbed my fork into his partially eaten piece of toast and slid it across to my plate. I managed to polish that off too, just in time for him to accuse me of having myself a love affair with the food. I laughed heartily and sat back in the chair, rubbing my full stomach and sent a wink his way.> Everyone who knows me, knows the Big Mac is my first love. But this here breakfast is my new mistress. Don’t tell Fritz he has some competition in the kitchen, he’ll never survive.

<I laughed again at the joke only I’d get as my eyes moved over to Blondie, and I licked my lips then sat forward to gather the plates, moving to my feet as I did so I could drop them off in the sink.> Alright, Blondie. This is your show. You tell me where I need to be to help this one sink fangs into that pretty throat of yours. Shall we take it to be bedroom? Or do y’all prefer the living room? <There it was, the uncomfortable logistical questions they had so perfectly avoided…served up for dessert. I looked over at Jagger as I set the dishes in the sink, lifting my pierced brow almost daring him to go back on his word.>

Ambellina:

~The angel’s boisterous laughter seemed to do the trick of breaking the heavy Jagger and I had managed to get ourselves in. Though, I had to give credit to the male, his dry humour was what had set Lassiter off. I listened as he spoke of someone called Fritz and mused to myself how we were supposed to know him when we’d only just met. It mattered not. The comment from Jagger was enough to get Lass back in motion for which I was grateful, until he started asking more questions than I had answers for. More than that, he was putting me in charge.

Summoning up my most professional self, I nodded then turned to Jagger who was starting to look uneasy. I chalked that up to his aforementioned lack of experience. That didn’t bother me, I had to coax more than a few nervous first-timers to my vein before and had always been successful. There was no way I was going to sour my record now. Pushing away from the table and rising to my feet, my voice held all the command my ears were used to hearing fall from mine lips. Those lips might have been lacking their traditional ruby paint but the stickiness from the syrup lingered and that was enough to phantom the feeling of one piece my preferred work uniform, not that I wasn’t grateful for the clothing that had been graciously offered to me.~ The living room. It’s neutral and that way, Jagger, your bedroom shall remain yours.

~I didn’t give him a chance to agree or disagree, I simply turned on my heels and exited the kitchen, feeling their eyes on my back. I took a strengthening breath and exhaled it slowly as I surveyed the options to feed Jagger from. His sofa would work. I could sit in upon the middle cushion, Lassiter could be beside me and Jagger could choose his own approach. That would hopefully remove some of the wariness I saw in his eyes when Lassiter had given me control over things.

As I sat and waited for the males to join me, I finger combed my hair, moving it to the side where Rhancid had ravaged my throat, covering what remained of my healing wounds and exposed the opposite side. Next, I rolled back the sleeve of my shirt all the way to my elbow, just in case taking my throat proved a challenge...even if it was the faster of the two methods, I wanted to be prepared. When I was done that and still hadn’t been joined, I cleared my throat and offered some dry humour of my own.~ I realize we do literally have all day for this, but the sooner you join me, the sooner I can show my thanks for first meal by washing the dishes.

Jagger:

-As soon as the angel found his tongue again, it was on about the French toast and even through a low chuckle, I had the strange and sudden urge to fire the pan back up and make him more. Stranger than the night itself was whatever switch had flipped inside my head. I didn’t have time to foray into all that-what-the-hell, because he dropped a few more suggestions like grenades.

“...sink fangs into the pretty throat.” BOOM.

“Shall we take it to the bedroom?” DOUBLE BOOM.

But despite the ricochet from those bombs, my eyes went on a rogue mission, straight to his throat and the thought of him in my bed.

Fucking what?

I thanked all appropriate creator entities in my head that Lassiter was busy with clearing the plates, missing the swallowing I was doing. When he gave me a look, the curve of that hoop through his brow catching the fluorescents, it drew my eyes to his, and I shrugged casually, while my insides were wavy gravy.

I looked to Ambellina and wanted to thank her because her mouth was still in working order, while the pre-feeding panic started to wake up inside. My throat felt tighter, the muscles on the back of my shoulders started to bunch up and finally the heart was pumping hard enough to generate power for a small village.

She stood with such poise and confidence, I knew this was not her first time with someone uneasy, and she baptized me with relief when she suggested the living room. She exited as quietly as she had entered while I sat in my stupor until she called out from the living room, and first I laughed for the twist of humor in her tone and then in objection to her suggestion of doing the dishes. Uh. No.

I pushed myself out from the table, sliding the chair back against it before detouring to Lassiter at the sink so I could be quiet. This feeding from someone new thing was unpredictable and I couldn’t live with myself if I hurt her. My eyes narrowed with seriousness at Lassiter when I spoke.- You have to restrain me. Please. I won’t be able to do it if I’m not feeling she is safe. -dropping the volume even lower- From me.

-I followed Ambellina’s lead, leaving the kitchen before Lass got to playing twenty questions with me, finding her on the couch, wrist already exposed. I had never taken the vein at my home except for during transition. This was different.

Taking quick strides before I was rendered paralyzed, I made my way to where she was, kneeling just to the right of her, where I could reach her wrist with ease and where Lassiter could pin me with boot or fist, if he sat where I thought he would. Fear kicking up at the thought of puncturing her delicate skin, bringing the beat of my heart further out of hibernation.- Just shy a not-shy angel, female.

[thereluctantinquisitor]

Bloody Lines

[Part two found here]

Thank you for the prompt @taerellavellan​! They were so good I figured, hey, why not do both? Unfortunately this got super long as a result... u_u

Featuring: The Dawn Squad, Hanin “Overprotective Dad” Lavellan, Maraas Adaar. (Approx 7000 words, most under the cut).

CW: blood, graphic violence, swearing, major character injury. 

This wasn’t how this was supposed to go.

Hanin grunted, shoving away a bandit with his boot and only just managing to regain his balance in time to block a mace-swing from another. Claim the fort, the missive said. It’s abandoned, it said.

As the grizzled man Hanin had kicked staggered back, wheezing from the force of the heel that had been driven into his gut, Hanin couldn’t help but feel like someone had overlooked a very important thing. Namely the bandit nest nestled at the heart of their conquest. Like angry hornets, they had buzzed to life the second the Inquisition soldiers crested the nearby hill, banners raised and flapping in the wind. 

Unfortunately, Hanin did not have time to dwell on his frustration; his mace-wielding opponent readjusted his grip, growled, then swung again, arm muscles rippling, aiming for the dead-center of Hanin’s chest. The mace’s massive metal head was designed to crush armour and shatter bones like the back-kick of a mule, and Hanin treated it with worthy caution. With barely a second to think, Hanin danced back and away from the blow, the snarling bandit too close for him to manoeuvre his greatsword to parry. By the grace of Mythal, he had chosen wisely when he began the fight in leaf-stance. Outnumbered as the Inquisition soldiers were, he knew he would be required to move whenever one of the many bandits managed to get within his reach. In this instance, Hanin needed the mobility more than he needed brute force behind his swings.

There were many advantages to the greatsword. Extreme close-quarters combat was not one of them.

Safe for a brief moment as the mace-wielding bandit lurched and staggered, pitched by a blow that failed to connect, Hanin threw his gaze around him like a frantic parent who had lost sight their child on a crowded dock. Around him, scattered among the other scouts and soldiers, the Dawn Squad were locked in fights of their own, some with more than one opponent bearing down on them. The bandits met Hanin’s recruits to the sound of clashing steel, teeth bared with the feral determination of men with nothing left to lose but their lives.

About ten yards away, through a press of bodies, Ralon swung his longsword in practiced sweeps, playing to his strengths, sharing Hanin’s choice in stance. He twisted and danced around the swings of the massive bearded man who faced him; a technique that let him avoid jarring last-minute parries. The young man’s face was like chiselled marble, stern with concentration that aged him well beyond his years. He spun past the bandit and slashed a line right up the length of the man’s trunk-like arm. The bandit gasped from the shock of it, his blade clattering to the rocky earth, relinquished by suddenly useless fingers. Ralon’s triumphant whoop was lost to the din of combat, but his grin flashed like sun-caught metal in the corner of Hanin’s eye.

Hanin returned to his own fight just in time to see the mace-bearer shift tact, going for an underhanded blow aimed directly at his groin. Ignoring how much that move reminded him of a certain someone, Hanin hefted his sword up and across until it lay horizontal at about waist height. Then he slapped his palm flat against the broadside of his blade and dropped. The upward blow stood no chance against the descending weight of a warrior in plate, and the head of the mace struck square against the underside of Hanin’s sword. The crashing ring of colliding metal was enough to shake the marrow right out of his bones, but he gritted his teeth and ignored the sensation, his mind already moving ahead, shaping his next move. With one knee grounded like a reverent knight, Hanin twisted, hooking the edge of his blade behind the mace’s head, locking it in place. A look of bewilderment flashed across the bandit’s face as he tried to tug it back to no avail. Hanin’s grip tightened. He smirked.

Then he heaved.

His strength was enough to wrench the weapon free from his opponent’s grasp, sending it spinning hammer-over-hilt through the air.  It thudded against the ground somewhere nearby, but it didn’t matter. By the time the thump of metal on earth reached his ears, Hanin and swung his blade back around to cut down his bewildered opponent.

The next bandit to stumble forward like a bewildered lamb looked even easier to manage. Young enough to be the proud owner of a patchy peach-fuzz beard, he was clearly inexperienced and engaged Hanin the way a halla sized up a snarling wolf. With such a feeble threat before him, Hanin decided he had enough time to check in on his squad again. Whatever his current opponent had planned, it wouldn’t be happening with any great haste. Sharply, he glanced to his left.

Connors, feet wide, deflected blow after blow with her shield, situated firmly in shield stance as she fought back-to-back with Cyrus. Confident that his rear was defended by a veritable wall of stubbornness and steel, the dark-haired man was free to attack the pair of bandits rounding on him that sought to break apart their little formation. Of all Hanin’s recruits, Cyrus was by far the best when it came to direct, fast-paced combat. Smirking, the man spun his short-sword casually in his hand, clearly goading his opponents, then flew into a flurry of fast, blurring blows. Unlike Connors, Cyrus favoured offence over defence, and in this instance his eagerness to strike early paid off. The first bandit was so stunned by the explosion of movement that he leapt back and stumbled awkwardly over the loose rocks that scattered the sloped terrain. He threw out an arm for balance that served as a fine target for Cyrus’ moving blade. The bandit collapsed in a screaming heap, clutching the bloody stump were his hand had once been.

Grinning triumphantly, Cyrus wheeled back around, feet sweeping hypnotic patterns through the dirt as he spun and just caught a strike from his other foe with the upper edge of his blade. Steel slid against steel and rather than attempt to reposition himself Cyrus just shouted and threw himself forward, barrelling into the bandit with a reckless shoulder-charge that set Hanin’s teeth on edge.

Idiot.

The pair fell in a tangled heap of limbs and violent oaths, Connors shifting to cover the two scuffling, slapping men with an air of obvious exasperation. As she moved, an arrow zipped through the air and struck down one of the bandits who had been attempting to break her guard, catching him square in the throat. Some distance away, perched higher up the slope, stood Lyrene. Her blonde hair whipped around her head as she flicked up a fresh arrow from the three held tip-down in her draw-hand and swung around, eyes snapping onto a new target. Her arrow flew half a breath later, catching a large bandit running for Hanin in the shoulder with a dull yet satisfying thud. The man roared, reeling back, teeth bared in a snarl so furious it would have looked at home on a Hinterlands bear. Hanin managed to offer her a grateful nod before casually batting away a swing from the youth who was shaking so hard he could conduct an orchestra with his sword.

Yet, more bandits were pouring from the supposedly abandoned fort. The one they had been sent to claim for the Inquisition. As well as they were doing, Hanin knew they would have to call a retreat soon. It would be difficult to flee up the hill, given the bandits’ superior mobility in their light leathers. Hanin ground his teeth and took a menacing step towards the young man who flinched back pitifully. If only—

Suddenly, a massive boulder ripped through the air above Hanin’s head, slammed straight into his opponent, then met the ground with an earth-splitting crash.

Maraas laughed wildly as the bandits scattered like ants before a falling boot, the boulder he had torn from nearby shattering as it impacted the ground and flung knife-edged shrapnel in all directions. Sure, Maraas considered it a shame that he had to fight for a change, but he figured he might as well earn his pay occasionally. Only a short hour after dawn, he had drawn the short stick and been forced to accompany a group of scouts headed north-west of the Inquisition camp. They had travelled further north than the fort patrol, however bandits were far from quiet folk. An entire army of them suddenly roaring to life carried sound through hills better than a foghorn on a still morning.

With eagre shouts, the squad Maraas had been tagging along with rushed down the hill, flooding past one of Hanin’s archers whose quiver was fast resembling a beggar’s coin purse. Maraas paused beside her, eying the fight down below, uncertain if he felt like throwing himself directly into the tangled mess of steel and sweat.

“Good thing you lot came along,” the woman said. She kept her words short between shots, clipped at the edges to match her overall efficiency. “Was getting hairy for a bit there.”

“Well you’re in luck,” Maraas replied amiably, “hairy is my specialty.”

“… Charming.”

Face splitting into a grin, Maraas concentrated then made a fist in front of him at about waist height. Focusing on a piece of ground some twenty feet into the fray, he breathed out a sharp puff of air and jerked his forearm upwards. Stone and earth ripped up from the ground in a ragged wall, tossing a pair of bandits with crossbows flat on their backs and cutting them off from their intended targets. Their disorientation did not last for long, but it was enough for the sword-wielding Inquisition soldiers to close the gap without being turned into pin cushions for their trouble. Maraas counted that as a win.

“Well fuck me… that’s sure something,” breathed the elven woman, glancing across at him with no small degree of wariness. Maraas chose not to take it to heart. “Don’t suppose you learned that trick playing with sticks in the woods?”

“Yeah, you’d be surprised,” Maraas replied dismissively, then cast his gaze at the unfolding battle. It seemed the fort had run out of bandits to throw at them, but the ones locked in combat outnumbered the two patrol groups almost two-to-one. It wasn’t looking good. Sure, it was doable, considering the way a good number of the bandits flailed their swords around like soggy fish, but it was clear that fatigue was beginning to tug on the arms and legs of the soldiers who had begun the fight earlier. Particularly Hanin’s squad, who had been at it for who knows how long.  While Hanin himself appeared to have gained a second wind with the arrival of reinforcement, Maraas could see from his elevated position that the others were not faring quite so well. Cocky and Stone-Face were doing all right, back-to-back and conserving their energy for the time. Pony-tail was flagging, but not enough for it to be a real problem just yet. Arrows up on the hill was running low of, well, arrows, but in no immediate danger.

That just left…

Fate could not have amused itself more than in that precise moment Maraas’ gaze flicked across to the young blonde man fending off a bandit. The boy was holding his own despite his youth, but wore a clear look of terror on his face as he parried and skittered away from his furious axe-wielding man.

Had Maraas looked just a half-second earlier, what happened next would have gone completely unnoticed. He could have continued about his day in blissful ignorance. But, unfortunately, he hadn’t looked just a second earlier. Instead, he bore witness to the exact moment the bandit pulled a clever punch with his free hand, catching the young soldier on the chin. It was a glancing blow, but enough to stagger the man, knocking him back a few steps. It left enough of an opening for any fighter worth half a damn to take advantage of. Maraas’ feet began to move of their own accord and he charged down the slope towards the pair, reaching out a hand, his magic rushing down his arm as a piece of earth tore away at his command somewhere to his right. But, despite his best efforts, he was too damn slow. Too far away even as he sent the rocky missile hurtling out ahead of him, hoping fervently that it could somehow outpace the inevitable.

It didn’t.

The bandit’s axe came down in a flash of steel and caught the reeling soldier straight across the thigh, biting deep into the flesh. What followed was a cry of pain and a spray of red.

Hanin wasn’t sure how he heard the scream. He was even less sure how he knew it was one of his own, but he did. As sure as he knew Atisha’s hilt in his hand, he did. A feeling of overwhelming dread swelled deep within the pit of Hanin’s stomach. It pushed its way up the back of his throat, bitter and acrid. He nearly choked on it as he whirled in the direction of the cry, his heart forgetting for a moment the proper rhythm in which to beat. The battlefield was reduced to a sweeping blur as he searched among the press of clashing men and women, taking tally of his own with dizzying swiftness.

Ralon... Cyrus and Connors... His eyes flicked up the sloping hill. Lyrene…

… Shit.

Wherever Darren was, Hanin couldn’t see him. That, he decided immediately, was not good enough. However, as he tried to move in the direction of the shout, his opponent – now a russet-haired man oilier than the blade of a sword set for storage – rushed him with a cry of premature exaltation. Hanin gritted his teeth and swore he could feel them creaking inside his mouth.

Damn it - he didn’t have time for this!

With furious impatience, Hanin jerked his blade, batting away the bandit’s weapon with one sweep, intent on a greater goal beyond their pointless squabble. For a split-second, Hanin considered his options, calculating the fastest course for disengagement. Disarm… cripple… kill…?

In the end, he settled on a time-honoured technique favoured by warriors both ancient and present.

He growled, raised his hand, and slammed one gauntleted fist straight into the bandit’s face.

“You’re all right, kid. Just keep breathing. That’s it. I’ve gotcha…”

The blonde was trembling like a half-drowned pup that had stumbled into a river. Maraas, jaw tight, wrapped one hand behind the boy’s head for support and pressed the other, already bloodied by his own knife, hard against the mess of his leather-clad thigh. Hot blood and muscle pulsed beneath his bare palm, the former seeping around it in a steady flow that ebbed and rushed with each frantic pump of the boy’s failing heart. He’s losing a lot of blood, Maraas thought grimly. And really fucking fast.

Glancing up, Maraas spared a half-second to check on their axe-wielding friend. The bandit in question lay sprawled on the ground, head bleeding, a red-tinged chunk of rock settled less than a foot away from where he had met the dirt. His axe, far redder than the rock, lay abandoned at his side. Maraas scowled, hating the way it seemed almost content as it dripped blood onto the dirt, its job well done.

Shaking his head, satisfied that the bandit posed no immediate threat, Maraas allowed himself to focus his attention on… well…

… more pressing issues.

The axe wound was relatively clean, as luck would have it. Well, as far as axe wounds were concerned, at least. Luck was probably quite a generous term, too, considering the pool of blood in which Maraas currently knelt. His knees were warm and the cotton of his breeches had quickly adopted a new shade dark, wet crimson. He knew it was foolish to even consider the cleanness of the axe’s cut when the boy was bleeding out onto the thinning grass. Maraas swore softly – the blonde’s skin was already far too pale. Glassy. Shit, if he lay down in a patch of snow he would probably disappear.

Closing his eyes, Maraas forced himself to focus. To drown out everything else. He poured his concentration into the flat of his palm, magic rising to his call like a lover charmed by familiar song. It tingled in a curious yet comforting way, trickling down his arm like beads of sweat beneath the skin to pool in his bloody palm. Once enough of it had gathered there, Maraas took a slow, steadying breath, then forced his awareness outward.

It’s been a long time, huh…?

Rusty as he was, he knew what he needed. What he sought was a tether. An anchor. A place of connection that would welcome his presence as much as it would fight it, as was often the way with such intrusive magic. However, vaguely at first, Maraas became more and more aware of a dull rhythm pounding softly beneath his touch. It was like a drumbeat through a wall, only he could hear it inside him. Not with his ears, but with the core of who he was. It thrummed from the young soldier’s body and rolled up his palm and through his veins, catching onto the threads of magic Maraas had cast out like a net with his seeking mind. The second he felt it connect, Maraas drew on the pulse until the two rhythms – his and the boy’s – melded into one. Harmonized. Yes, he supposed there was a musical quality to it all. The Chantry would likely say otherwise, but there were familiar notes to which even forbidden magic moved.

And they were as eerie as they were beautiful.

The young man suddenly went rigid beneath Maraas’ touch, his breath hitching tight in his chest. It took everything Maraas had not to lose concentration as he flicked his gaze up to the soldier’s face in sharp concern. But the boy wasn’t flagging. Instead, he was staring at Maraas’ hand, blue eyes blown wide, his bloodless lips parted in an expression of mute disbelief at the haze of red that was slowly spreading from Maraas to his wounded leg. In that gaze, despite the pain and incomprehension, Maraas saw a true, deep fear ignite like a fire from a lightning strike.

There was always fear.

“Listen, I get it, but you’re gonna have to trust me here, kid.” Maraas tried to sound reassuring despite the circumstances. Reassuring yet firm. It had to be done. “This’ll feel damn strange, okay? Don’t panic. I’m pretty good at all this shit if you don’t squirm around and make a mess of it.”

Not bothering to wait for a reply, Maraas pushed. Not physically, but with his mind. His awareness. With the rhythm that pulsed, briefly and unnaturally shared by both their bodies. With his magic. Humming in synchrony with the now sobbing soldier, it slipped from Maraas the way a thin stream of water escapes through a crack in a jug. As it flowed, Maraas directed it with the deftness of a master puppeteer, finding the damaged veins and arteries, knitting them back together. No, knitting wasn’t right. It wasn’t perfect. Shit, it wasn’t even permanent. But for the moment, it would suffice. For the moment, the boy would live, so long as Maraas maintained a connection and closed off where the axe had torn.

“You got a name, kid?” he asked tightly. Sweat had formed on his brow, a renegade bead sliding down his temple, ignored. The hardest part was over – or, well, ongoing – but Maraas knew he needed to keep the boy awake. If he fell unconscious, magic or not…

Maraas shifted and felt his boot slip a little on the blood-slick ground.

Shit…

“M… My name? D-Darren,” the soldier replied, teeth chattering despite the warmth of the sun that bathed the entire sloping field. “It’s… Darren. Miller. W-What’s your… n…?”

Maraas snorted, quietly amused.

“Maraas.” He turned his head and offered a close-lipped smile. “Y’know, you’re pretty polite for someone with half his blood watering the grass. Miller, was it? A good name. Your folks raised you well.”

Darren let out a breathy, shivering laugh, like someone had tossed it into a can and rattled it. Yet he seemed almost proud – pleased by the compliment. Something about him relaxed in that moment, and Maraas saw the lines of pain ease from his face. However, they were quickly replaced by an expression of foggy bemusement.

“I… it doesn’t hurt… anymore,” Darren mumbled weakly, surprised. He tried to sit up to take a look but Maraas gently restrained him by sliding the hand behind the boy’s neck to his shoulder. Apologetically, Maraas shook his head.

“You just lie still for a bit, okay? Take a break. Reckon you’ve earned it, personally.”

“But t-the others?” Darren continued, swallowing audibly as though to shift a lodged stone. He blinked, but the motion was sluggish, like his eyelids were made of lead and one was heavier than the other. “Are they…?”

“Alive and kicking, don’t you worry,” Maraas reassured him absently, briefly departing from their conversation to reassert his authority over the mess that was the poor boy’s leg. Concentrate. “They’ll be fine. You just keep those eyes open for me, okay?”

Silence followed between the pair, although nothing truly felt silent with the battle still raging a few short yards away. Bandits and Inquisition soldiers clashed bitterly, although it was clear the tide was beginning to turn. More and more of the leather-clad rebels broke away from their duels, spitting and cursing with the colourful vehemence of fated men. However, many still fought, determined to win or die with their blades in their hands and the sun above their heads. A part of Maraas could respect that, or at least understand the sentiment behind it. They had chosen a path of freedom, but twisted it along the way. They hurt others to buy pleasure for themselves. It was sad, in a way, how easy it was to lose sight of what truly mattered. Of the beliefs that had set them on their path in the first place.

“M… Maraas?”

Maraas turned his attention back to Darren. He was lying flat now, his head tipped back against the grass, blonde hair a mess of sweat and blood and dirt. The boy stared directly up. Up at the clouds that lazily pulled their way across the too-blue sky, as oblivious and uncaring as the Maker himself. He stayed that way, and when he spoke he didn’t meet Maraas’ eye. But he reached out shakily, weak fingers somehow catching his sleeve.

“A-Am I… g-going to die?”

Maraas closed his eyes and, soldier to soldier, did the boy the courtesy of not lying to him. Instead, he said nothing, and just let the kid twist the fabric in his trembling fingers. Just watched as glassy tears slid down the side of his face to join his blood in the grass.

C’mon Maraas, you big oaf, Maraas thought bitterly, tasting copper. Just say something. Lie. For fuck’s sake, look at him!

Maraas opened his mouth to speak, but before he had the chance a figure lying a few short paces away, sprawled unceremoniously on the ground, an axe at his side, shifted.

Hanin roared in frustration as he cut his way through yet another bandit who was foolish enough to cross his path. The man went down with a watery scream, felled by a blow that lacked all grace. All finesse. Pride and flair, Hanin had left it all somewhere behind him, lost in the churned-up dust of his footsteps. He shouldered past another bandit, who was already wounded, and sent him staggering. Like an afterthought, he swung Atisha up to fend off a passing swipe from a long iron blade. Bandit after bandit tried to block his path, but despite it all, he did not stop. He barely even paused until he had reached the outskirts of small yet intense battle. These were men and women fighting for their lives. For their freedom. Freedom that would be lost to iron bars should they surrender to the Inquisition and be made to pay for their crimes.

Many of them saw no future in cages.

Chest tight, lungs aching, Hanin spotted Darren’s shock of blonde hair almost instantly, and everything else fell out of focus like an unsteady dream. His body moved. His feet thudded against the ground, seeming somehow detached. Eerie. Distant. A part of him knew the grass and dirt around Darren was the wrong shade. Too red even for the sun-scorched dust, it blossomed around him like a death bloom. Hanin ignored it. He had to. Had to get to him. He was so absorbed by that singular thought that he almost ignored the massive figure leaning over Darren. The qunari’s large hand was pressed firmly to the boy’s blood-soaked thigh, while the other resting on his shoulder, keeping him down. The Vashoth, Maraas, shook Darren roughly whenever his blue eyes slid shut for longer than a justifiable blink, jostling the boy back into hazy, wet-eyed consciousness.

But, for some reason, he did nothing as a bandit slowly rose from the ground barely a few paces away from them, a dripping axe clutched in his white-knuckled grip. Hanin could only look on in horror as Maraas did nothing as the bandit raised his weapon high, the expression on his face equal parts haunting and furious. He screamed a shrill, mindless word – demon! – then swung down, throwing all his weight behind the strike. The axe split the air with its razor edge, cutting downwards, whistling, flashing…

… Hanin caught the blow with the cold, flat rage of a man set to slaughter. Eyes dead yet dangerous in their fury, he slapped the axe away and lunged, driving the full length of his greatsword into the man’s stomach and up through the cavern of his chest. It slid through organs, scraped against bone, then punched straight out the back at the base of his neck. For a moment, the bandit simply stood there, impaled, his face a wet mask of sheer disbelief. Blood trickled down the side of his head and rushed from his lower stomach. It sprayed from his mouth as he hacked out a cough. Trembling uncontrollably, the man reached out and clutched with numb fingers at Atisha’s blade, her edge shredding the skin of his hands as blood ran down her blade to pool at her cross guard. For a moment, the bandit pawed at the metal that ran him through, eyes bugged and shaking in his sockets. Then, the horrifying expression faded into something dull and lifeless, and he fell slack. It was over in seconds that felt like years. Hanin forced himself to watch.

It never got any easier.

A feeble, wet cough ripped Hanin back to reality and he raised a leg, extracting the bandit from his blade with a callous shove of his boot. By the time he pulled in his next breath, Hanin was on the ground, kneeling beside Darren’s shivering form. His hand reflexively reached out, smoothing the boy’s sweat-soaked hair back off his face. He cast his gaze over the soldier’s body, taking rapid tally of his wounds. Darren had done well, for the most part. As far as injuries went, there was only one.

Granted, a bad one.

“S-Sir… I’m… I’m s-s-sorry,” Darren babbled, his face clammy with cold sweat, eyes rolling slightly in his head as he tried and failed to focus on Hanin’s face. His cheeks were wet, but he did not sob. Hanin doubted he had the energy left for that. But he continued to try to speak, struggling to cough out the words. “I’m … I’m s-s—”

“Enough, Darren,” Hanin instructed sharply. He knew how he sounded. Cold. Cruel. But it was all he could do to keep the writhing knot of horror and fear at bay inside him. To stop it from overwhelming him as he reached a hand behind Darren’s head and cradled the boy helplessly. What could he do? What the fuck could he possibly do? There was so much blood. There was…

… There was Maraas.

“Hanin,” the Vashoth said suddenly, his voice stern. Commanding. It demanded Hanin’s attention like a sergeant before a battle. “Listen. Your boy’s lost a lot of blood. We need to get him back to the camp. Find a healer.”

“There’s a healer there?” Hanin asked numbly. He slapped the side of Darren’s face with the back of his hand to jostle the boy awake. Darren groaned weakly, the whimpered, tight pain flashing across his face as the safety of unconsciousness fled. Hanin cringed in sympathy, and kept talking. “Who?”

“Solas,” Maraas replied. “But only if we hurry. It’s possible he hasn’t left with the Inquisitor yet.”

For the first time, Hanin glanced up and met the huge mercenary’s eyes, a part of him hoping to find…. something there. Anything. Reassurance. Hope. Everything he didn’t have himself as he felt Darren shiver and weep in agony, cradled in his arms.

Instead, what he found made his blood run colder than his hatred for the bandit he had killed seconds earlier. Maraas’ eyes were… glowing.

Red.

Hanin saw it, then. The strange fog. He traced the haze of it, like a cloud that bled from Maraas’ skin.

That rose from Darren’s leg.

Something inside Hanin, wound so tight and desperate, suddenly snapped.

“You!” he growled, reaching out to his side, groping for Atisha who lay abandoned in the dirt nearby. He hadn’t cared where he let her fall. “Get away from him, you fucking bastard,” Hanin spat. Every bone in his body sung. Demanded. Hated. “You… you’re—!”

“—Hanin, for fuck’s sake, get a grip!”

Maraas’ voice was like a slap to the face. Actually, that wasn’t entirely true as Hanin was no longer looking at him, his head turned sharply and suddenly to the side. Maraas had, indeed, slapped him. Not hard, but hard enough to knock the blind rage clean out of him. Hanin reeled slightly, leaning away, shaking his head like he’d just struck it on a low doorframe. As he clumsily rearranged his addled wits, Maraas continued, his voice tight as a drawn bow and twice as deadly.

“Listen, save your shit with me for another time, all right? Way I see it, you’ve got two options: you let me keep your boy alive, or you carry back a fucking corpse. Understand?”

The truth behind his words, however rough, was not lost on Hanin. Even as the Vashoth worked that skin-chilling blood magic on Darren’s torn leg, Hanin couldn’t deny him the fact that it was, somehow, helping. Setting his jaw, he nodded tightly, forcing back the very real urge to get Darren as far away from the insidious haze of blood magic as possible.

“Good,” Maraas continued, as tense as a fallen soldier waiting for the inevitable blade through the back. “Come on, then. Get him up. You carry him, and I’ll stop what’s left of his blood from watering the flowers from here to camp.”

“That’d better be all you do,” Hanin warned icily, but conceded regardless, reaching under Darren and scooping the young man up into his arms. Darren moaned in pain, shuddering, as though the act of being lifted had twisted a knife in his spine. Then, just as suddenly, he fell slack. Hanin felt his heart stutter to a stop in his chest for a brief moment as he stared at Darren’s form, panic rising like a flood within him. But… no. The boy was breathing. It was short – shallow – but Hanin could feel the movement of his chest as he cradled Darren against him.

There wasn’t much time.

“Dawn Squad!” Hanin shouted, pitching his voice to carry. “To me! Now!”

Most of the fighting was over, the bandits either scattered to the trees or rounded up. Out of the corner of his eye Hanin saw the rest of his soldiers come rushing towards him, some in silent horror, others – namely Cyrus – swearing with the open vulgarity of a sailor that had dropped a dagger on his foot.

“Damn it, Darren, you fucking bastard! You absolute fucking half-brained shit-faced idiot!” Cyrus fell into quick step beside Hanin and Maraas, who moved as fast as they could without tripping over each other. “I take my eye of you for one god-damn fucking second and you… a-and you—!”

“Enough, Cyrus. It’s not your fault,” Hanin said sharply, cutting off Cyrus’ suddenly choked rant. “Just move. Where is Lyrene…?”

“Over there, sir,” Connors replied tersely on Hanin’s other side, shield still hanging off her arm. Its surface was scraped up badly, and completely battered out of shape in places. “Top of the hill.”

Hanin nodded, then glanced down. Darren’s head lolled against his chest. His eyes were open, but barely. He was clearly forcing himself to stay awake with every last thread of his resolve. Following orders, no matter what toll it took on him…

“You’ll be fine, Darren,” Hanin murmured in a low voice as he reached they reached the top of the hill and joined a horrified Lyrene. “Just keep it up. Don’t sleep. Understood?”

“… Y’ssir.” Darren breathed, lips barely moving. He was so pale, the colour drained from his cheeks like the sky before winter rain. Hanin grit his teeth and tried not to think about that red-cheeked smile. The one Darren always fell into when he finally got something right, or caught the eye of one of his squad from across the courtyard. The one he wore when he truly felt he’d earned the right to grin.

Hanin cursed himself quietly.

Don’t.

“Lyrene, Cyrus, go ahead. Find Solas. Stop him from leaving and tell him he’s needed.”

Not even bothering to salute, the pair took off at a sprint as though they hadn’t just spend the good part of an hour fighting for their lives. Ralon muttered something under his breath and took up Cyrus’ old position, watching over Darren like Mythal herself, eyes hard yet pained.

“Connors,” Hanin continued, glancing across to catch the woman’s eye, “watch our backs.”

She nodded and fell back a few paces, out of Hanin’s sight. Slowly, Hanin looked at Maraas, his face contorted in concentration, then let his gaze slide back down to Darren’s form.

“And you,” Hanin breathed, throat traitorously tight. “You just hold on.”

Hanin paced outside the tent, his anxious steps wearing a track in the dirt as he moved.

Back and forth, back and forth.

Occasionally he paused, as though struck by a thought, the scraping of his boots against the small stones underfoot grinding to a halt. But every time, as though angry at himself, he shook his head and resumed.

Back and forth, back and forth.

I should have been paying more attention.

“Keep that up and you’ll dig yourself a trench.”

Hanin turned sharply, his eyes locking on to Maraas as the Vashoth approached. He looked paler than usual, his skin drained of some of its usual depth, dark circles taking up residence beneath his eyes. Around his hand was a makeshift bandage, clearly tended awkwardly by Maraas himself rather than the healers. Hanin regarded it with a disdainful twitch of his upper lip, but he said nothing. Refrained from voicing how he truly felt. The man had, after all, saved Darren’s life. Or, if not saved it, he had at least maintained it. Preserved it.

It was more than Hanin could have done, at any rate. A part of him squeezed tight at the thought of what might have happened had Maraas not arrived when he had, and he let the feeling twist inside him like a frenzied eel. It was almost painful. He deserved far worse.

“I…” Hanin stopped, chewing on the words he knew he had to say. However, before he had a chance to continue, Maraas just sighed and raised a hand. The un-bandaged one.

“Look, I get it, okay? You can skip the lecture because I’m not going to stop. I can do good with my magic. So what if there’s a little blood involved? You don’t have to like it because either way, you’re boy’s alive. That’s what matters to me.”

Hanin could hear the sound of people talking inside the tent, muffled by the canvas that had been drawn tight the moment he’d been ushered out. Whether for privacy or to stop him from barging back in, Hanin didn’t know. But as he stood there facing Maraas, some piece of Hanin just… faded. It left him as surely as a long-held breath that needed to be released.

“I just… wanted to thank you.”

His words seemed to surprise Maraas as much as they’d surprised Hanin himself. With a kind of incongruous defiance, Hanin met Maraas’ gaze, as if daring him to argue or complain. After a long, steady stare, Maraas snorted and folded his arms.

“Well then… huh.” The Vashoth shook his head, although a satisfied half-smile had well and truly found a home for itself on his stubbled face. “Cut off my hand and call me stumped. I didn’t think you had it in you, with the shit you said back there.”

“Don’t misunderstand,” Hanin said sharply, “I don’t approve of it. But you’ve made it pretty clear that doesn’t matter to you, and so be it. But I… can’t deny facts. You saved Darren’s life back there. I owe you for that.”

To Hanin’s surprise and mild alarm, Maraas let out a low, conspiratorial chuckle. “Don’t go around advertising that, friend,” he said, half-smile widening into a proper smirk. “I might just call in that debt next time I have morning watch.”

“If that is what you want.”

They stood for a time in the awkward, lingering silence of a conversation that had ended minutes earlier but missed its cue to leave. However, rather than excuse himself, Maraas walked forward towards the entry of the tent. Towards Hanin. The warrior stiffened, eying him the way a cook eyes a child lingering by the biscuits. But Maraas just reached out and placed a hand on Hanin’s shoulder.

“Heard you telling your squad it wasn’t their fault,” he said. He gave a comforting squeeze. “Not yours either.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.”

Hanin wanted to argue the matter, but just… couldn’t. He didn’t have the energy. It wasn’t worth pretending. Instead, he just gave a stiff nod, and Maraas slid his hand off his shoulder. The Vashoth met his eye and nodded back, then hesitated, face tightening as a thought barged to the forefront of his thoughts.

“They kick you out of the tent or something?”

Hanin actually felt his ears heat up and he cleared his throat, eyes sliding away from Maraas uncomfortably. “I ah… yes.” He sniffed, reaching up to scrub at his nose roughly with the back of his hand. “Solas said my hovering I was making him… uncomfortable. Said he couldn’t concentrate with me breathing down his neck like a...” Hanin trailed off, catching himself at the last moment. However, after glancing back and seeing the expectant expression on Maraas’ face, he huffed out a defeated sigh. “Like a mother hen.”

“Ha!” Maraas clapped his hands once, the sharp sound so loud and sudden that Hanin almost started. “Sounds about right! Shit, I thought you were going to skewer me on the spot back at the fort if anything happened to that kid. Solas is right – you do make it hard to keep focus. You sure you haven’t had Templar training?”

Despite himself, Hanin felt the corner of his mouth twitch into a smile. It faded quickly, however, and he found himself turning back towards the tent, staring at the opening as though he could somehow see through it. Shadows flickered in the candlelight, the figures backlit against the dull canvas. I should be in there.

“Let them work, Hanin.” Maraas’ voice was oddly soothing, but not patronising. There was a note of understanding to it that both set Hanin on edge and made him feel just a little less hopelessly alone. “The boy’s in good hands. I’m sure you’ll be the first person they call on when he wakes.”

If he wakes, Hanin thought, then stiffened, horrified by his own traitorous thoughts. He groaned quietly, reaching up to rub at his eyes but hesitated. His fingers were still a mess of red.

“C’mon,” Maraas said, and Hanin barely registered the heavy arm being draped amiably around his shoulders. He didn’t fight as it began pushing him insistently, forcing his legs to move to stop him from tipping and falling like a statue. “Let’s both get cleaned up and find some food, huh? You and the rest of your squad look like you could use a square meal. Do they even feed you lot…?”

Hanin didn’t reply, but he listened numbly as Maraas lead him away from the tent, chatting amicably the whole while. Plodding along, Hanin’s feet felt heavy, like the soles of his boots were made of lead, but he forced himself to move. Forced himself to walk away, just for a bit. After all, he’d be back soon enough. Even as he headed for the nearby stream to scrape the dried mess from beneath his nails, Hanin knew one thing as sure as he knew his own name.

He would be there when Darren woke up.

[cuilpantielthesleepyscribe]

I wear corsets, proper double-steel-boned ones that pull in my waist a solid 3" and feel like armour and make me look, as my friend put it, 'an hourglass - I just want to tip you over'. I also hold a black belt in Tae Kwon Do.

I can tell you firsthand that too-tight sports bras cause me more breathing difficulty than my corsets and that I can do a solid roundhouse kick in my corsets no fucking problem at all. Back when I was still physically active I could RUN up four stories of stairs in one, carrying a heavy schoolbag, and only be a little more breathless than the average non-corseted schoolgirl. In a pinch, I could probably have sparred in them without much trouble.

Even my overbust corset, which wasn't fitted too great, still allowed me plenty of freedom of movement and gave me the space to eat AT LEAST two big plates of food. Yeah. And my underbusts? They're so comfy that I have repeatedly slept or napped in them. And they're goddamn amazing for back support and backache, btw.

This is why I always have Pan in period-typical clothing, with a view to where she is, technology levels, and what her social status is. She's middle class to upper middle class. In the Tolkien universe, she lives in a medieval-ish, Western European-type setting. Thus, everything is made by hand.

So lace, to her, is massively expensive (a piece the size of a postage stamp might take a whole day of specialised, skilled labour to produce), she wears bright colours for the same reason modern people wear designer clothing - to show that she can afford the expense of getting it dyed so brightly with colourfast dyes (bloody expensive before the advent of chemical dyes), almost all of the textiles she uses and wears are produced within a day's walking of her home (meaning, she rarely if ever handles cotton, but wears a hell of a lot of wool and linen), etc. It isn’t particularly glamorous or exciting or fun, but goddamn it makes logical sense, and she isn't any less of a character just because she isn't in glitzy, modern dresses.

A woman's worth is not defined by her clothing. Good god, I can't believe I have to say this on Tumblr of all places. A WOMAN'S WORTH IS NOT DEFINED BY HER CLOTHING. Not what she wears or chooses not to wear. She may wear what is appropriate or typical of her lifestyle and society (no different from T shirt and jeans today) and her worth is not any less diminished for it. Like the OP said, if your female character can't stand out and can't be badass and strong dressed in the typical clothing of where and when she lives, YOU DONE FUCKED UP and you need to go back to the drawing board. Because it is a very bad sign when a female character needs to depend on her LOOKS to stand out.

can we please let historical women be historical?

NOTE: I AM REFERRING HERE TO AESTHETICS, NOT MORAL/SOCIAL ATTITUDES. RACISM IS GROSS AND ENOUGH PEOPLE IN ~YE OLDEN TIMES~ WEREN’T RACIST THAT IT’S NO EXCUSE

papers are praising Emma Watson to the highest heaven for refusing to wear stays and a hoop skirt in Beauty and the Beast and honestly, I’m kind of sick of it

yes, it’s a fairytale, but Belle is living in 18th-century France. she probably would have worn stays because they’re a basic foundation garment that provides breast and back support and pretty much every woman wore them. probably hers would have been laced more loosely because she’s not upper-class. and yeah, she would have worn some kind of hoops or panniers under her fancy ball gown. which would have been significantly fancier than the new adaptation is making it and needed the support and can you tell how hard I am side-eyeing the designers

in a fairytale it doesn’t matter so much. I’ll concede that the movie’s not actually set in real-life 18th-century France, so they can do what they want. but it’s a trend I see a lot in historical fiction, too. Miss Whatsherface is a Liberated Strong Female Character and doesn’t wear a corset! how shocking! how perfectly tailored to appeal to our modern sensibilities!

here’s a truth-bomb: women wore corsets. most women didn’t lace them at all tightly and some took them off upon returning home for the evening like we take off our bras today. nevertheless, they did wear them, in almost every echelon of society. factory girls, servants, farmers, sex workers, artists, aristocrats, the earliest female politicians and doctors- almost all women. the only time I’ve seen “liberated woman doesn’t wear corsets” done well was with a character in the Artistic Reform dress movement started by pre-Raphaelite artists in the late 1800s. and then the author actually did research to reflect that Artistic Reform was more than just not wearing corsets

most women also wore skirts most or all of the time (with notable exceptions like Amelia Bloomer, Anne Lister, and other singluar ladies who defended their right to pants). many also wore hoop-skirts, panniers, or crinolines. and guess what? they were still badass.

Ada Lovelace made her groundbreaking mathematical discoveries in the dorky balloon sleeves and puffy skirts of the 1830s

Madame C.J. Walker became the first black female millionaire in the US and ran her beauty empire in bustle skirts and corsets

Mary Shelley invented science fiction in stays and an Empire-waisted dress. Charity Bryant and Sylvia Drake got commonlaw married and wrote reams of poetry in the same

Dr. Shih Meiyu got her medical degree from the University of Michigan in a corset, as did Dr. Kang Cheng at the same time

these women were products of their time aesthetically and we shouldn’t have to divorce them from that or denigrate it to appreciate their accomplishments. the same holds true for historical fiction. if your female character can’t be just as strong dressed in the typical clothing of the era, you need to go back to the drawing board

[inmyownmhis]

The Morning After - Part 4 - With @BuyMyBlood and @HowBoutDemWings

Jagger:

-I was settling in to all that maple and cinnamon about halfway through my stack and well into the ease of Lassiter's company when I caught sight of her in my periphery. Her scent was fresh, both citrus and floral standing out even with breakfast dominating the arena. Faster than someone could say leggo my Eggo, I was out of my chair, bending the knee to Ambellina. I didn't know much about the formalities of my kind, save for what Haven had managed to download to me, including the shaky grasp I had on the Old Language, but diverting my eyes I gave it the old college try. My apology might have been garbled, hell if I knew, but what I lacked in know how I hoped I made up for in tone. I wanted to wipe away my offense and atone for it, because even though we were only just acquainted I knew she was obstinate. Before moving on to the last part, I shot a look Lassiter's way. Funny, that was all it took to steel myself instead of backing out of what I'd already promised I'd do, his very presence reinforcing my backbone. Looking back Ambellina's way, this time I got the view of her in full and how my heart lurched in my chest...She reminded me so much of my mother, far less broken and fairer, but reminiscent nonetheless. Holding onto my figurative balls, I continued in English.- Ambellina....if it's still on offer...I would be humbled for the gift of your vein.

Ambellina:

~I gave the courtesy of softly clearing my throat when I entered the doorway of the kitchen, and looked around to see Lassiter and Jagger sitting at the small kitchen table enjoying breakfast. My steel plated heart clenched unexpectedly. It had been so long since I enjoyed first meal with more than just the empty chairs across from me. Even before my transition, most mornings I spent tiptoeing my way through the kitchen to make whatever created the least amount of noise so I didn’t wake my mahmen...or whomever her lay of the night had been.

More often than not, I would go without because she hadn’t gone for groceries and refused to give me money to do it for her. But here, before me were not one but two males who had gone to the effort of making what looked like a very lovely meal while I had sent my woes down the drain. They appeared to be half way through and I had missed my chance to join, all because I had indulged in a purging of emotions.

Refusing to feel sorry for myself, I lifted my chin and was about to join them at the table when Jagger was out of his seat and before I could tell him it wasn’t necessary to stand for me, he was down on a knee...speaking in the old language. My breath got caught in my throat while my hands grabbed at the hem of my borrowed shirt, twisting it between my fingers as his apology hit a place in my chest that managed to slip past a crack in the self-imposed armour covering the organ that was working so diligently at pushing the blood he had given me through my veins.

I was well versed in the old language, thanks to one of my doggen who had taught it to me just so I could read the journals of my grand mahmen and while Jagger’s words were a little minced at times, the point had been delivered in his remorseful tone. I was taken aback and for the second time since being brought here by the angel, I could feel my vision growing wavy but I refused to allow myself the indulgence of letting more tears stain my cheeks. Blinking quickly, my gaze stayed fixed upon Jagger until he was done with his apology.

I was at a loss for words and looked to Lassiter for some help but he was sitting there like he hadn’t a clue what was being said. I supposed that meant angels didn’t speak the old language, so no help there. Jagger must have sensed my shock with what he had said because he continued for all of us to listen, and when he did, I was taken aback to the point where my jaw positively dropped. My recovery was slow despite the immediate thoughts that began to churn in my mind.

Right away, I nodded and moved closer to him, reaching behind me to pull my hair over my shoulder, exposing the side of my throat that wasn’t ravaged by Rhancid before pushing the sleeve of my shirt up to my elbow.~

Of course it’s still on offer, Jagger. You saved my life and I wish to repay my blood debt. Moreover, you’ve allowed me to remain here safe from the sun and have given me clothing to wear and provided access to your bathroom to clean up. I owe you immensely, so I’d like to do that now, or I can wait until you’ve finished eating?

Jagger:

- I just barely caught the shock that overtook her features before Ambellina moved forward. She flipped the tables on me, offering throat and wrist, the former of which I’d never experienced. I didn’t flinch, go me with the growth. After being so viciously savaged and leagues beyond disrespected, she was so eager to repay the favor with a male she’d only just met. Her grace was staggering and put my fears to shame. Still that didn’t ready me for it. She was more than vein to tap and she needed to feel that. I WANTED her to feel that. Getting to my feet, I felt as though I loomed over her and hoped I wasn’t too imposing. I turned a quarter, pulling out one of the available chairs.-

Would you join us?

-Even though I’d plunged into all this thanks to a shove in the right direction from Lassiter, I was hardly through my hesitation. If things moved too fast, I’d be wading through a lifetime of crap and baggage I didn’t want to unpack. It wasn’t about me though, it really wasn’t. She’d just been through hell at the hands of a shitty male, I wanted to show her compassion, I wanted her to feel communion.-

If French toast isn’t your cup of tea, Lassiter will make you whatever you want.

-hoping my dry humor wasn’t DOA and that the smirk in my tone did the trick, I shot a grin the angel’s way before turning back to Ambellina-

Maybe then you’ll allow me the chance to explain a few things.

Ambellina:

~Jagger was collecting moments of surprise with me quicker than those human girls selling their addictive cookies...he wanted me to join them for breakfast, all I could do was nod and as I took a seat, my eyes lifted to Lassiter’s waiting for him to insert his loud opinions but they never came. Instead he kept shovelling forkfuls of French toast into his mouth. The only reaction he gave was a wink and a grin when Jagger volunteered that he’d make me something else if I wanted. He did not need to go to that kind of trouble for me, he had done enough. With a small smile of gratitude for both the offer and Jagger’s dry humour, I shook my head as I spoke.~ That won’t be necessary, I will eat what you both are having.

~I watched as Jagger retrieved a plate previously stacked with a few slices of already made French toast, the opened oven sent the warm aroma wafting over before the arrival of my plate. When it was set down in front of me, I reached for the maple syrup and drizzled it over my stack before using the knife to cut a bite sized piece. As I lifted the fork to my mouth and closed my lips around the tines, I held back a moan and looked between the two males, waiting for someone to break the quiet silence that had developed.

When it was clear that Lassiter’s only plan was to keep his mouth full, I licked the sticky syrup from my lips and turned my attention to Jagger.~

Thank you for your kind generosity, this meal...I haven’t had one like this in quite some time. The companionship, that is. ~I’d never been one to feel like I needed to fill silences but I wasn’t blind to the fact that I had interrupted their casual conversation, and I didn’t want them to feel like they couldn’t continue in my presence.~

Jagger:

-Where had Lassiter’s gift of gab run off to? The dish and the proverbial spoon were still on the table so couldn’t have done the runaway thing with them. Clearly Ambellina and I weren’t used to shooting the shit in the natural way he did. I nudged his foot with mine under the table, checking for signs of life while I finished the bite in my mouth before putting my tongue to use.-

That makes two of us. I’ve been eating alone for decades. -I shrugged a shoulder, stuffing another bite in my mouth, brows drawing together in thought while I stabbed another forkful, holding it up in prep for delivery.-

That’s the tip of the ‘berg when it comes to my issue with other kinds of… eating.

-eyes flashing to Ambellina, going straight to her neck, the side that’s still in recovery, taking another blow in my chest region. How in the fuck could any male treat someone so precious with such rabidness? Swallowing thickly while getting pulled into the vortex that was my family tree.  How in the hell had my father done it time and time again? How was I his progeny?  Pinching the bridge of my nose as bile creeps up the back of my throat, threatening the moment before I choke it back down on another swallow of the French toast. I didn’t know if it was the company or the cinnamon, but it did taste pretty fancy.-

Ambellina:

~I took my time with chewing each bite that was delivered past my lips, whomever had made the French toast had quite the culinary skills and I intended on enjoying each bite until my plate was empty. It had been many hours since my last meal, Jagger’s vein aside, that my stomach felt like a never ending pit. Fortunately for me, Jagger took a turn to fill the silence by offering a moment of similarity, though I was not surprised by his admission of eating alone, I was once more taken aback by his eating issues reveal. How could a vampire, who admitted to eating alone for decades live as long has he had if he did in fact have problems feeding. I wanted to understand, and more than that, be the female who helped him. He deserved that.

In the short time I had been in his company, it was abundantly clear he was someone who held everyone at more than arm's length, and I found myself wanting to know why. He was a handsome male and not at all lacking in proper manners which was a far cry from a lot of the males I had serviced, he could have any female he wanted if he was so inclined. There had to be an explanation.

When my plate was clear, I set my cutlery down and folded my hands in my lap. Lassiter was still somehow shovelling food in his mouth, which I took as a sign that it was my turn to speak.~ Feeding is something I am very good at, Jagger. I promise you, despite the condition I arrived here in, I am strong and can endure you at my vein. I will do whatever is needed to guarantee your iceberg does not grow in size.

~My gaze held Jagger’s as I spoke so he could see my conviction and determination. Somewhere between soaking in his claw foot tub and sharing first meal together, my excuse of wanting to repay my blood debt became less about keeping my promise to Ghiselle and more about a personal desire to help Jagger in a way that he had done for me. Suddenly the why of Lassiter’s silence became clear. The angel knew something more than we ourselves did, and now that I had food in my belly to go with the blood I had drank from from Jagger’s wrist, my mind was functioning at its usual sharp capacity.

It all snapped into place. Just like my past had dictated my path to selling my blood, something in Jagger’s past clearly had caused his aversion to feeding. A soft laugh at the realization bubbled up and quickly, my hand left my lap to reach across the table, covering one of his, squeezing firmly as I spoke.~ My blood, it is unlike most females. Feeding from me will endure you longer than is traditionally expected, which means you won’t need to worry about taking a vein as often. You don’t have to explain to me why your iceberg is as large as it is, just know, I understand your need to hold some type of control.

Jagger:

-I lost track of what was left on my plate as the taste of syrup faded on my tongue, when Ambellina’s eyes fixed on mine. Her voice was lulling, but the conviction in her eyes was downright steel. The color of her pupils seemed to converge in a storm of persuasion, maybe an optical illusion, but there was more going on behind that one gaze than most others held in a lifetime.

I’d already decided I’d take her vein, so the extra selling wasn’t needed, but she was less Avon-calling and more...something. Assuring? Yeah...yeah, that was the word. And wouldn’t you know I latched right on when the mention of her blood sustaining me longer was thrown in.

Maybe it would only take one time to make sure she got her ahvenging in and was safe before I faded off into that sunset I’d been planning before this fork in the road. I wanted to ask some follow ups about why her blood was different, but left well enough alone since she wasn’t ramming my iceberg with any Titanic questions. Seemed we had found the bounds of mutual respect in short order, which was maybe why I didn’t flinch when her hand covered mine. But... the anxiety over feeding was still crawling back up my spine. The fear of becoming a monster like my father still ruled my roost, and that wasn’t going to shake off in a day, no matter how many strides I’d taken. I was driven to see it through out of the aim of protective duty. Ambellina was no shrinking violet, and I was sure she could slit a throat were it to come right down to it, but still, I wouldn’t be able to take any kind of final breath without knowing Rhancid had gotten his due.-

My resume with females is not long, but I am sure you are not like any others in general, Ambellina. So…

-clearing my throat and swallowing a few times, breaking Ambellina’s gaze after a nod of my head to shoot my eyes Lassiter’s way- Hey, hate to break up your love affair with the French toast, but I still need you for this. Just... in case. And not here.

Lassiter:

<French toast. Crispy. Decadent. Syrupy goodness. After the lost opportunity to Big Mac my stomach, I was not at all about to rush this, and for more than being hungry reasons. These two at the table with me had to get their shit to move in the same direction if they stood a chance to heal some of those emotional scars. I could see it in the way they vocally danced around asking the hard hitting questions, the kind I never shied away from, but that didn’t mean they were completely blundering.

Not even Jagger’s kick under the table or those pleading ocean blues from Blondie could convince me to pipe up before the exact perfect moment. I had half a mind to make myself invisible to their eyes while they spoke, but at the risk of looking like those crazy uncles in Casper while I continued to eat, I resisted. Besides, I got the impression that my mere presence was enough to keep their vocal cords working. Definitely doing them a favour in the courage department. Without a doubt.

When my plate was nearing empty, I slowed the rate of fork to mouth speed then eyeballed up the forgotten piece on Jagger’s plate. He was so focused on Ambellina while she explained her magical extra hearty blood that he didn’t even notice as I stabbed my fork into his partially eaten piece of toast and slid it across to my plate. I managed to polish that off too, just in time for him to accuse me of having myself a love affair with the food. I laughed heartily and sat back in the chair, rubbing my full stomach and sent a wink his way.> Everyone who knows me, knows the Big Mac is my first love. But this here breakfast is my new mistress. Don’t tell Fritz he has some competition in the kitchen, he’ll never survive.

<I laughed again at the joke only I’d get as my eyes moved over to Blondie, and I licked my lips then sat forward to gather the plates, moving to my feet as I did so I could drop them off in the sink.> Alright, Blondie. This is your show. You tell me where I need to be to help this one sink fangs into that pretty throat of yours. Shall we take it to be bedroom? Or do y’all prefer the living room? <There it was, the uncomfortable logistical questions they had so perfectly avoided…served up for dessert. I looked over at Jagger as I set the dishes in the sink, lifting my pierced brow almost daring him to go back on his word.>

Ambellina:

~The angel’s boisterous laughter seemed to do the trick of breaking the heavy Jagger and I had managed to get ourselves in. Though, I had to give credit to the male, his dry humour was what had set Lassiter off. I listened as he spoke of someone called Fritz and mused to myself how we were supposed to know him when we’d only just met. It mattered not. The comment from Jagger was enough to get Lass back in motion for which I was grateful, until he started asking more questions than I had answers for. More than that, he was putting me in charge.

Summoning up my most professional self, I nodded then turned to Jagger who was starting to look uneasy. I chalked that up to his aforementioned lack of experience. That didn’t bother me, I had to coax more than a few nervous first-timers to my vein before and had always been successful. There was no way I was going to sour my record now. Pushing away from the table and rising to my feet, my voice held all the command my ears were used to hearing fall from mine lips. Those lips might have been lacking their traditional ruby paint but the stickiness from the syrup lingered and that was enough to phantom the feeling of one piece my preferred work uniform, not that I wasn’t grateful for the clothing that had been graciously offered to me.~ The living room. It’s neutral and that way, Jagger, your bedroom shall remain yours.

~I didn’t give him a chance to agree or disagree, I simply turned on my heels and exited the kitchen, feeling their eyes on my back. I took a strengthening breath and exhaled it slowly as I surveyed the options to feed Jagger from. His sofa would work. I could sit in upon the middle cushion, Lassiter could be beside me and Jagger could choose his own approach. That would hopefully remove some of the wariness I saw in his eyes when Lassiter had given me control over things.

As I sat and waited for the males to join me, I finger combed my hair, moving it to the side where Rhancid had ravaged my throat, covering what remained of my healing wounds and exposed the opposite side. Next, I rolled back the sleeve of my shirt all the way to my elbow, just in case taking my throat proved a challenge...even if it was the faster of the two methods, I wanted to be prepared. When I was done that and still hadn’t been joined, I cleared my throat and offered some dry humour of my own.~ I realize we do literally have all day for this, but the sooner you join me, the sooner I can show my thanks for first meal by washing the dishes.

Jagger:

-As soon as the angel found his tongue again, it was on about the French toast and even through a low chuckle, I had the strange and sudden urge to fire the pan back up and make him more. Stranger than the night itself was whatever switch had flipped inside my head. I didn’t have time to foray into all that-what-the-hell, because he dropped a few more suggestions like grenades.

“...sink fangs into the pretty throat.” BOOM.

“Shall we take it to the bedroom?” DOUBLE BOOM.

But despite the ricochet from those bombs, my eyes went on a rogue mission, straight to his throat and the thought of him in my bed.

Fucking what?

I thanked all appropriate creator entities in my head that Lassiter was busy with clearing the plates, missing the swallowing I was doing. When he gave me a look, the curve of that hoop through his brow catching the fluorescents, it drew my eyes to his, and I shrugged casually, while my insides were wavy gravy.

I looked to Ambellina and wanted to thank her because her mouth was still in working order, while the pre-feeding panic started to wake up inside. My throat felt tighter, the muscles on the back of my shoulders started to bunch up and finally the heart was pumping hard enough to generate power for a small village.

She stood with such poise and confidence, I knew this was not her first time with someone uneasy, and she baptized me with relief when she suggested the living room. She exited as quietly as she had entered while I sat in my stupor until she called out from the living room, and first I laughed for the twist of humor in her tone and then in objection to her suggestion of doing the dishes. Uh. No.

I pushed myself out from the table, sliding the chair back against it before detouring to Lassiter at the sink so I could be quiet. This feeding from someone new thing was unpredictable and I couldn’t live with myself if I hurt her. My eyes narrowed with seriousness at Lassiter when I spoke.- You have to restrain me. Please. I won’t be able to do it if I’m not feeling she is safe. -dropping the volume even lower-  From me.

-I followed Ambellina’s lead, leaving the kitchen before Lass got to playing twenty questions with me, finding her on the couch, wrist already exposed. I had never taken the vein at my home except for during transition. This was different.

Taking quick strides before I was rendered paralyzed, I made my way to where she was, kneeling just to the right of her, where I could reach her wrist with ease and where Lassiter could pin me with boot or fist, if he sat where I thought he would. Fear kicking up at the thought of puncturing her delicate skin, bringing the beat of my heart further out of hibernation.- Just shy a not-shy angel, female.

[carterthornton]

The Third Wave | Chapter Thirty: The Marksman

        "So, err... who's this?" Carlo asked as he munched on a forkful of omelette, pointing his utensil at Isabelle, who quietly nibbled on a piece of toast.

      "You're awful quiet," Aiko smiled, waving at Isabelle, who seemed to duck her head under the lunch table. "Who is she, Jace?"

      "Yeah, I suppose you guys would be curious..." Jace chuckled scratching the back of his head as he stared down at a plate of waffles. "This is Isabelle, she's-... she's a new friend I met earlier— really wants to be part of the IMOP."

       "That's not what you told me," Mura piped up, pointing out the holes in Jace's story. "You told me she was a long-time family friend yesterday at the supermarket."

       "Mura, cut it out," Jace muttered to the blue-haired blurter.

       "This girl has amnesia, and Jace doesn't want to tell anyone because he believes they'd think he is taking advantage of her," Mura said nonchalantly, with not an ounce of restraint regarding details. "She's also a Mark-user."

       Carlo choked on a piece of egg momentarily; Mura's words were almost like a slap to the face. "I'm sorry, what?"

       "Jace, is she serious?" Aiko gasped.

       "Yeah, she is..." Jace sighed, messaging his brow.

       "Jace, why haven't you gone to the police? Someone could be looking for her!" Maeve scolded him, frightening Isabelle.

       "I was, but she's been remembering stuff recently— figured she would eventually figure out where she came from," Jace explained, only realizing then how stupid his plan sounded once he said it aloud. "Okay, okay! I know it sounds bad, but I had good intentions in mind!"

       "I like your hair!" Yuko gave Isabelle her friendliest grin, gesturing to her own long, metallic locks.

       "Thanks..." Isabelle cracked a smile as she bashfully tugged on her bangs; it was clear to Yuko that she was overwhelmed by so many new faces.

       "So why is she with you, Jace? Shouldn't she be at home?" Aiko inquired, hoping her cooler approach at the situation would calm their table down.

        "My mom told me it was really the only option. She couldn't watch her at work since she'd be in the operating room most of the day, and there's no way I'd let her go to school with my sister," Jace shook his head, flipping over a waffle with his fork. "So, I um... I sort of talked with Headmaster Colter and signed her up for a one week trial?"

        "Jace, are you kidding me?!" Maeve shouted, nearly bashing him over the head with her food tray. "That's the most idiotic thing I've heard! Does she even want to go here?!"

       "Um..." Isabelle raised her hand, hoping to interject, but Maeve yelled over her.

       "Maeve, we should let her speak," Aiko interrupted Maeve, motioning to her to sit back down.

       "Th-thank you," Isabelle gave Aiko an uneasy smile as she scooted closer to Jace. "This was my choice— staying with him. He's the only friend I have, and I think it's best I wait until my memories have returned. So, I'll try to do my very best while I'm here! I promise I won't let any of you down!"

       "And you're sure this is what you want for the time being?" Maeve couldn't let go of her skepticism. "Do you have any experience with your Mark?"

       "I'm sorry, what's a Mark?" Isabelle asked, clearly confused by what Maeve was referring to.

       "It's on the nape of her neck. She probably didn't notice it because of its location," Mura chimed in, directing everyone's attention to the symbol on the back of Isabelle's neck as she grabbed a handful of her hair. "Do you know what this is?"

       "Oh, my birthmark? I've always had that," Isabelle snatched her hair back from Mura's grasp, letting it fall back into place. "Is there something wrong with it?"

       "That's no birthmark, Isabelle, it's a Mark," Carlo rolled up his sleeve, revealing the Mark on his left forearm. The symbol of his Mark appeared to take the shape of roots or vines embedded in the ground, sapping particles from the earth. "This is mine, see? We all have Marks."

       "I see... interesting," Isabelle nodded slowly, noticing the similarities between her birthmark and Carlo's Mark. "What does mine do?"

       "I guess since you're technically a student, for the time being, you could consult Dr. Baxter and get your Mark tested," Jace suggested. "But I think you can figure it out in time."

       "That'd be a good time to get your Mark registered too," Aiko added. "Oh! Speaking of which, I have to correct an error in registration! I falsely identified my Mark as an Alteratio."

       "Yeah, I think we could do that," Jace agreed, double-checking with Isabelle. "Sound good?"

       "Um, okay," Isabelle replied, a little unsure of what she was getting herself into.

       "Hey, if I may make an unrelated observation..." Carlo's eyes wandered over to Maeve and Aiko, who was sitting next to each other quite comfortably. "You two seem awful friendly with each other this morning. You guys go to couple's therapy or something? I mean, you two were like cats and dogs a couple days ago." Carlo received no verbal response from Maeve— just a malicious glare. "What?! I'm just asking! Geez!"

       "We're working it out," Aiko answered, finishing off her espresso.

       "Thankfully," Maeve hid the red in her cheeks, acting as distant as possible.

****

       "Alright, no more man-to-man fighting for now! We've got some lovely toys for you all right here!" Ms. Steele stood before her class with an eager jitteriness, welcoming her aids as they entered the training grounds, wheeling in huge black containers. "Crack em' open, boys."

       The aids did as instructed, unlocking each container with its key. The containers didn't pop open as a conventional crate or chest would; they unfolded into a neat display, revealing a rack of various firearms. There were handguns, rifles, and even a few shotguns, all shiny and new. Every student was floored, teeming with excitement and intrigue as the weapons were laid out on tables near the recently erected shooting range.

       "Yes! Oh, I knew suffering through Macusology was worth it!" Carlo shouted at the sky as he raised his fists into the air. "Woooo!"

       "As a member of the IMOP, a firearm is optional, but still feasible nonetheless. Generally, most members of the force prefer to focus more on using their Mark for subduin' an opponent, as it's better for non-lethal engagement. But, in the event of a life-or-death situation, a firearm can be a useful tool." Ms. Steele lifted her shirt up just a tad, showing off her holstered sidearm. "This is Bloom— my baby." With a gritty mug, Ms. Steele slid her revolver out of its holster, turning to face a target dummy down the shooting range. "I recommend you plug yer ears."

       "What the hell would you kill with that, a whale?" Jace almost burst into laughter as he gawked at Ms. Steele's piece.

       In Ms. Steele's hand was a revolver so ludicrously huge, Aiko had to do a double-take just to make sure she wasn't hallucinating. The design of her gun was enough to turn heads on its own— a mixture of 1800's cowboy and modern technology. It had a long, chunky barrel with a laser attachment on the bottom, and it sported a high-powered, holographic sight. The whole gun was obsidian black and adorned with polished, pearl accents— rose vines and leaves —that glimmered under the morning sun. Its cherry wood grip bucked hard as Ms. Steele pulled the trigger, unleashing a deafening bang as the revolver spat its blast of hot, merciless lead at its target. She landed a bull's-eye right between the eyes of the practice dummy. Breathing deeply and planning her remaining four shots, Ms. Steele slid her thumb up to prime the hammer, revealing the burned symbol of a rosebud on the other side of the grip. And suddenly, quicker than the eye could track, she unloaded the revolver into her target, hitting every major weak point: the sternum, the heart, the liver, and the neck. All shots unleashed a devastating amount of energy into the dummy, nearly tearing it out of its fixed position.

       "This here pistol fires a .700 Nitro Express round designed specifically for taking down heavily-armoured Beast Mark-users," Ms. Steele kissed the smoking barrel of Bloom, twirling it once around her metal finger before holstering it. "I don't usually use it unless lethal force is necessary, so I apologize if I'm savouring the moment a little too much— can't help it."

       "Holy shit, that was awesome," Carlo whistled, marvelling at Ms. Steele's elegant beast of a sidearm as he adjusted his pants, which grew uncomfortable around his crotch area the longer he stared at Bloom. "Oh, no..." His face turned bright red as he crossed his leg, leaning on Jace.

       "Carlo, what are you-..." Jace's lips retracted into his mouth as he held back intense laughter, catching a glimpse of Carlo's groin region. "Oh my god."

       "Shush, shush, shush! Shut up!" Carlo silenced Jace, pinching his lips together with a thumb and an index finger. "Shut your fucking mouth!"

       "Okay... okay..." Jace was on the verge of crying. "Wow."

       "Do you have an erection?" Mura squinted at Carlo's awkward leg position, piecing together his predicament. "Pervert."

       "Shut the fuck up Mura!" Carlo shushed her before she could spread the news, readjusting his pants as he calmed himself down.

       "Whatever," Mura shrugged, turning her attention back to Ms. Steele.

       "What's an erection?" Isabelle asked Jace, peeking over his shoulder.

       "Um... " Jace couldn't help but snort a few times before he could answer with a straight face. "Apparently it's what happens to Carlo whenever he looks at an extra-curvy piece of metal."

       "Shush!" Carlo quietly snarled, trying not to draw attention to his group. "We're never speaking of this, got it?"

       "Speaking of what?" Aiko interjected.

       "Carlo got an erection from Ms. Steele's revolver," Mura ignored Carlo's pleas, spilling the beans immediately.

       "Holy shit," Aiko covered her mouth, trying to conceal her laughter. "No..."

       "Ugh, that's disgusting!" Maeve scrunched her nose and scowled, avoiding eye contact with Carlo.

       "Did you not just hear me?!" Carlo hollered at Mura, who also seemed to start cracking up.

       "I did," Mura nodded, sticking her tongue out at him. "That's payback for groping me." And with that, Carlo went completely pale. "Pervert."

       "It's okay, Carlo, I still like you!" Yuko reassured him as best she could, patting him on the back.

       "Thanks, I guess..." Carlo sighed, shrinking into nothingness.

       "Alright, rookies, now it's yer turn!" Ms. Steele instructed her students, grabbing a much smaller, less exquisite sidearm from one of the weapon containers. "This here's a standard-issue sidearm for IMOP Officers, the ten millimeter. It's light, easy to manufacture, and is good in most situations where a firearm is applicable." Ms. Steele snapped her fingers, and her classroom aids began handing out guns to each student. "Don't worry, they aren't loaded. But just in case, I suggest ya point your guns away from anyone. Hold it with two hands, and aim it down towards the ground, got it? I don't want anyone losin' a finger or a toe today."

       "It's heavier than I expected," Aiko stated, inspecting the chamber of her pistol whilst still keeping the barrel directed towards the ground.

       "Everyone says that," Carlo scoffed, holding a pistol firmly in his left hand. "Why does everyone always say that?"

       "In a couple weeks from now, your teams will each make several decisions. These decisions will decide your field of expertise on the force, your classes. In a team of five to seven, each member will have a specific role to play," Ms. Steele swept her hair to the side as she continued. "This training exercise will help yer team identify the cowboy on the team. The Marksman Class is the label given to a team member with exceptional sharpshooting skill, and it's the team member who will use firearms more often than the rest."

       "Carlo, you alright?" Jace saw an odd look in Carlo's eyes as he glazed over his pistol.

       "Heh, heh, heh..." Carlo's typical goofy, klutzy behaviour seemed to melt away as he analyzed his sidearm, checking for a label somewhere on the barrel. "Manufacturer... Cogsbaine Firearms! Alright, so it must have a burst function somewhere-... ah ha!" He clicked a button near the receiver, activating a secondary firing mode. "Let's see what you can do, huh?"

       "Alright, we'll begin with..." Ms. Steele picked a random number from one to thirteen. "Twelve! Let's have Team 12 test their mettle! I'll give you further instructions once you all take position down the range." She came over to Aiko and Yuko first as they took their places, standing at the left edge of the shooting range. "I'll need you both to-."

       "Ms. Steele, is there a gun for Yuko?" Aiko called over her instructor; the firearms provided were much too small for Yuko's massive hands."Her hands are pretty huge."

       "Hmm... I'm not so sure, recruit," Ms. Steele shook her head at Yuko's lack of a proper sidearm. "I'll have to look into it." She placed a hand on Yuko's shoulder before walking over to the next team member. "Sorry, girly."

       "It's okay!" Yuko grinned, showing no signs of disappointment. "I don't think guns are for me anyways!"

       "Yeah, well, you are bulletproof," Jace added, helping out Isabelle with her pistol. "Iz, you think you're up for this?"

       "Um... yeah, I think so," She nodded uneasily s she held her pistol tightly, imagining herself with a blown-off finger. "I hope so."

       "You really don't have to do this you know— be on the team and all that jazz. You only agreed because you wanted to be where I could see you," Jace sighed as Ms. Steele came by. "Stay cool, alright? She'll help you out."

       "Okay..." Isabelle squeaked.

       "Carbon finish... nice," Carlo complimented his pistol as he fiddled with its mechanisms, aiming down the sights. "Very nice iron sights."

       "Are you getting another boner?" Mura asked, watching Carlo mumble to himself as he toiled away with the handgun; he didn't seem to pay attention to her. "Carlo?"

       "Huh?" Carlo blinked rapidly as Mura snapped him out of his own little world. "Oh, sorry! I was just checking this thing out, you know? You like guns at all?"

       "No," Mura flatly replied. "Not at all."

       "Really? Not even a little bit?" Carlo snorted, grabbing a loaded magazine from one of the aids as they came around. "They're pretty fun."

       "I don't think so," Mura grumbled, scowling at her handgun. "I've never been a good shot."

       "You can always learn, right? That's what we're here to do," Carlo offered Mura his optimism, but she wasn't having any of it. "Okay, okay! Do whatever!"

       "Recruit Isabelle, Recruit Jace? You two ready to go?" Ms. Steele asked as she passed by Aiko.

       "Um, not just yet," Jace replied, still occupied with Isabelle's handgun. "She's pretty new to firearms."

       "I'll just take a burn around and come back, okay?" Ms. Steele instructed the two recruits as she walked over to Carlo. "Don't touch your guns until I get back to you."

       "Right," Jace and Isabelle both nodded.

       "Recruit Catelli, are you-?" Ms. Steele was cut off by Carlo as he pulled out a card from his pocket, flashing it in her face. "Hmm... a handgun safety certificate? That's only good for usage in American provinces, right?"

       "I know— just thought it might help my case," Carlo assured her, loading his pistol. "Care to watch and offer criticism?"

       "Well, you better make it snappy, recruit," Ms. Steele said as she stood behind Carlo, keeping an eye out for any slip-ups in his posture or etiquette. "Go on."

       Carlo took a deep breath as he raised his pistol, making sure that his heartbeat remained at a steady pace. Then, he aimed down sights, squinting at the practice dummy as it stared back at him. Keeping burst-fire on, he unloaded three into the dummy's head, all landing right between the eyes, then he fired the rest into the same weak points that Ms. Steele had targeted. And within only a few short seconds, Carlo completely spent his clip, never missing once.

       "How's that?" Carlo wiped his brow as he unloaded the magazine, turning to face his teacher.

       "I'd say turn burst-fire off, but judging by how that dummy's feeling, I'd say you know what you're doing," Ms. Steele scratched her chin, thinking back to how Carlo managed his breathing. "But a shred of advice I could provide is to breathe a little more between shots. Don't hold your breath until you've unloaded completely; in a firefight, you might pass out. Still, good job."

       "Got it," Carlo gave her a two-fingered salute, oblivious to the wide-eyed students around him. "Thanks."

       "Carlo, I-..." Jace was at a loss for words. "Geez, dude."

       "What?" Carlo spun around, noticing the shocked expressions of his fellow classmates. "What's up?"

       "I'm going to go out on a limb and say that you're the Marksman," Ms. Steele whispered to him before moving on to Mura, giving him a pat on the back.

       "So you aren't completely useless then..." Maeve smirked, watching as Carlo's dummy slumped over.

       "Hey, I heard that!" Carlo snapped at her, flailing his arms in a wild outrage.