#blackbreath

[whoshotthefrog]

Black Breath - Razor to Oblivion

[weedcloud]

PantherClan Cats - Blackbreath

I am going to make a series of posts about the cats from my fanclan I had as a kid. This is completely for my own amusement so if you want to blacklist these posts you can blacklist the tag "pantherclan" . I will put this one under a readmore (and probably all of them) since I don't know how long it will be. Most of this will be kept the same as I remember but I will be tweaking it a bit as I see fit

Blackbreath - large black she cat with green eyes, small ears, long muzzle, and shorter than average tail

(PantherClan is made up of my plush cat collection. Blackbreath is actually a panther plush)

Blackbreath was born in ShadowClan and trained as a medicine cat sometime after the canon series (the newest book at this point was probably Eclipse so anything past that wasnt taken into account). She has a unique power to heal any wound using a wispy black smoke that she is able to exhale (thus her name). She can even heal her own wounds this way. However, her power deteriorates as she ages and healing her own wounds takes longer and longer. At one time she had an eye injury and was blind in one eye for several moons, but it did eventually heal. (I had some tape over one eye but it kept falling off so eventually I gave up and said it healed lol). She eventually died in a natural disaster, I don't remember if it was a flood or a rock fall. She also has a strong connection to StarClan which leads to another supernatural phenomenon I will explain later.

She is a grumpy but passionate cat. I think her personality might have been based off of Yellowfang (intentionally or not, I don't remember).

She trained a medicine cat apprentice, Amberears. At some point, she had kits with a kittypet named Snowball. The evil leader of ShadowClan, Wolfstar, banished her for this once her kits were weaned. Her son Stripekit ran away after this but her daughter Nightkit stayed. Her nephew Tigerpaw also ended up leaving ShadowClan.

After leaving ShadowClan, she eventually meets up with Tigerpaw (now Tiger) and learns that Stripekit disappeared from ShadowClan, and her daughter Nightpaw was apprenticed to Wolfstar and treated very poorly, culminating in Nightpaw being banished at a gathering. It is unlikely that either of them survived. Stricken with grief, she gets to work trying to contact them. At this point she and Snowball are no longer mates but are still friendly. He does not want to leave his housefolk, and life as a kittypet does not appeal to her.

She and Tiger eventually meet a blind gray tabby loner living on his own but doing very poorly. They offer to let him stay with them and he begrudgingly accepts. He has no name, and Blackbreath names him Jaywhisker, reminiscent of a great blind medicine cat she had heard legends about, Jayfeather. (As a kid I did just called him Jayfeather, but I've decided now to give him a unique name). She trains him as a medicine cat.

I dont remember how exactly, but Blackbreath manages to open a portal to StarClan with the intention of bringing her kits back to life. She manages to find Nightpaw, but Stripekit is nowhere to be found. Since the portal is open longer than intended, more cats end up being resurrected than she intended.

All of these resurrected cats are aged up 6 moons from when they died, but no longer age and still faintly sparkle in the moonlight as StarClan cats do. These resurrected cats are still susceptible to injury, disease, starvation, etc. (I was like 9 or 10 ok? Don't ask questions). She gathers all of the resurrected cats and it is now that their are enough of them to be a clan. However, there is no official leader at this point, with Blackbreath still sort of leading the group despite only considering herself a medicine cat. Some of these cats (especially Tiger) are hesitant to live in a true clan anyway since their previous ones failed them.

As time passes a few more loners and kittypets join the group. Another group of cats about a days journey away form a similar group (aka my friend's stuffed cats) and they occasionally hold gatherings (we have sleepovers and bring our plushes).

Jaywhisker wants to take Moongaze, another cat from his own clan, as his mate, but Blackbreath refuses to allow this. She tells him that medicine cats are forbidden from having mates and it will only lead to ruin, remembering her own experience and irrationally projecting. Jaywhisker thinks this is ridiculous, as this isn't even a real clan. He, Moongaze, and a few other cats (some of which are from the other group) run away together to some mountains. However, from here they can see that their old territory is beginning to flood. They return to help, but Blackbreath is injured in a rock fall. At this point, her powers are almost completely deteriorated and she is unable to heal herself. She apologizes to Jaywhisker and Moongaze and makes peace with them before she dies. Jaywhisker, Moongaze, and the others decide to return to their respective clans.

After her death, the clan she founded is named PantherClan after Blackbreath's panther like appearance to honor her.

[minti-tales]

Vierapril, Day 2 - Payment

The Signora undergoes her last hunt on a broken world, far, far away from The Source.

The Signora: One of the voices in Minti Chocolate's "Choir." Governs Greed and the drive to see a difficult fight finished.

Endwalker spoilers ahoy.

CW: Violence, language, implications of abuse/harm.

Blackbreath was taking too long to expire. But, that was to be expected, wasn't it, given he was a voidsent in the form of an oversized, malevolent head.

Still. The least he could do was not bawl like livestock bound for the dinner table. "Mistress will come for you!" He screeched, his eyes lolling back in their sockets. "When she does, I shall- icckkk - milk you for all the aether in - acckk - in you." What awful manners. Such disgusting language.

"What is it with you lot and milking?" The voidsent called Signora gritted their teeth and pressed their shadowy claws round Blackbreath's "throat," as much as they could wager the throat was. Giant heads didn't have much below the neck, as it were. "Have we unfinished business in the bed chambers?" Their stocky frame, wrapped up in tattered black robes and cloths, moved up and down in a mockery of laughter. "Tell me where you saw the torn curtains, and I'll let you live. Defy me, and you'll never milk another teat for as long as you exist."

"Up- upstairs! In the gardens!" Oh dear. Blackbreath was looking a touch ill. Pity all the chirgeouns died in the Contra Memoria, else he might live to see another day. What passed for day in this rotted-out husk of a world. Surely the Signora would reward the perverted thing for their aid - a proper payment, perhaps. She could feel him straining to look at her, his whole mass writhing against her claws.

It wasn't always like this, hunting from the shadows, grasping for what little aether remained in Castle Troia.

Once, upon a very long time ago, Signora possessed a living, breathing body. And a name, a beautiful name, but she forgot what it was. She was an opera singer, beloved by all and favored by the Lady Beatrice. There were other birds who sung in the lady's gardens, but they were never as pretty or as well versed as Signora. The things she had to do to silence those warbling sopranos - oh! Awful. Best not to dwell on them, if she could even remember what they were.

Then came the Contra Memoria, the flood of Darkness upon the land, the eternal twilight that consumed everything and everyone in its path. Or had the dark always been there, biding its time as the Signora did before her terrible deeds?

What irony, Signora thought, that the pretty birds in Beatrice's court were transformed into succubi and sent off to Darkness-knows-where. They could do as they pleased with the desperate souls who summoned them. She, however, was left with scraps even the court hounds would reject. Why, she didn't even have eyes anymore, or a throat, or much of anything to aid her!

Blackbreath, the wretch, was consumed like the fuel he was meant to be. Signora made sure his last moments were especially painful, for some scrap of her former self remembered the cruelty he inflicted on her, once upon a time. Never again would she be humiliated in front of the Lady Beatrice's court, nor in her private chambers, not even in that blasted observatory.

Never. Again.

Violence begets violence, a philosopher once said. Surely they never had to get their claws dirty, squeezing every last drop of aether out of a voidsent. Not even once.

Signora moved between flickers of torchlight and candles, up the stairs to the gardens, up, up, up. No one could see her - no one should. The flicker, the "torn curtains," as Blackbreath described it, meant that there was a breach between realities. Someone from the Source was performing a summoning ritual, and that someone would be Signora's way out of this torment, whether they wished it or not.

And there it was, right at the top, a pulsating red tear between the Signora's world and another's. There were voices coming out of it: a feminine voice, and another too garbled to be understood. Not that that mattered. All the voidsent had to do was put a claw into the rift, and-

~~~

"Take up this crystal, Minti Chocolate, and attest to both worlds that you walk as a reaper. Bind yourself to the void, and claim the strength that the weak of heart shun.

Through the avatar at your side does the voidsent bring its power to bear, feeding upon the souls of the fiends you cut down in return. Not a bad arrangement, eh?

But I'm sure you tire of words. Here ─ the traditional weapon of our order. Let's see how it looks strapped to your back."

[quiverpaw]

Hi can you draw my oc Blackbreath? She is short furred all black w/green eyes, small ears, long snout, and has a shorter than average tail

she’s good practice, i haven’t drawn a proper fullbody in a lil while 🤒

[sineral]

Progress on a brewmaster monk, Nemorael Blackbreath. A twilight dragon in the guise of a night elf. He really likes fighting.

[cardiomains]

Rogue legacy lich

Rogue legacy lich Patch#

If the leather armor has any attribute of "%Chance to Hit" or "%Chance to Dodge",we categorize it to one of the "%chance" type.i.e.one of "%Chance to Crit","%Chance to Hit" or "%Chance to Dodge".else,go to step 2.We simply give the following rule to categorize the leather armor: Dodge & +%Chance to Hit Gear (PVE oriented).There is a list of so famous +%critical strkie chance gears: Tier 0 is Shadowcraft Armor, Tier 0.5 set is acquired through a quest series.It is said that Tier 0.5 is designed for casual people those who have no or few time to join raid group. See also Main Resist List.But the information categorized by armor type may confuse us,because besides rogue leather,there are also many resist gear designed for caster druid.Therefore you can go to Rogue Resist Gear for further information. This include Stratholme, Blackrock Spire, Scholomance, Dire Maul,we categorize leather armors to some types: When you reach 60,a lot of people may continuously run dungeons or join in raid group. ,bop,requires level 54,from Blackrock Depths boss High Priestess of Thaurissan.Devilsaur Armor set,boe,requires level 53/55,from leatherworking.,bop,requires level 53,from Blackrock Depths boss General Angerforge.,bop,requires level 52,from Blackrock Depths boss Hurley Blackbreath.,bop,requires level 52,from Blackrock Depths boss Lord Incendius.,bop,requires level 50,from Blackrock Depths boss Eviscerator.,bop,from reward of rogue class quest (level 50).Stormshroud Armor set,boe,requires level 50/52/54,from leatherworking.,bop,requires level 48,from Maraudon boss Rotgrip.,bop,requires level 47,from Temple of Atal'hakkar boss Atal'alarion.,bop,requires level 47,from the 6 bosses of Temple of Atal'hakkar.,bop,requires level 46,from Maraudon boss Razorlash.,bop,requires level 46,from Maraudon rare spawn boss Meshlok the Harvester.Refer to the Rogue Gear Guide for further information. When you reach level 60, there is a variety of choice of gear, so only equipment before 60 is listed. Probably you may run Maraudon, Temple of Atal'hakkar, and Blackrock Depths. ,boe,requires level 45,from leatherworking., BoP, requires level 45, from Zul'Farrak boss Chief Ukorz Sandscalp., BoE, requires level 45, from Arena Treasure Chest.,bop,requires level 42,from Zul'Farrak rare spawn boss Zerillis., BoP, requires level 37, from Razorfen Downs boss Glutton.,bop,requires level 37,from Razorfen Downs boss Tuten'kash., BoE, requires level 35, from leatherworking., BoE, requires level 34, Razorfen Downs trash mob static drop., BoE, requires level 33, Uldaman rare spawn mob Digmaster Shovelphlange(out of dungeon) drop., BoE, requires level 33, Scarlet Monastery trash mob static drop., BoP, quest rewards involving Gnomeregan.,BoE, requires level 32, Uldaman trash mob static drop., BoP, requires level 30, from Scarlet Monastery rare spawn boss Fallen Champion., BoP, requires level 30, from Gnomeregan rare spawn boss Dark Iron Ambassador., BoE, requires level 30, Uldaman trash mob static drop., BoE, requires level 27, Scarlet Monastery trash mob static drop., BoE, requires level 27, from recipe., BoE, requires level 26, world drops.

Rogue legacy lich Patch#

Also, once you hit level 15, as of patch 3.3, you can use the Dungeon Finder to start doing some low-level instances, which, if you take advantage of the Dungeon Finder's reward system for doing random dungeons, can net you some much-needed money and rare items.ĭuring this period,you can head into many dungeons if you like, such as Shadowfang Keep, Gnomeregan, Scarlet Monastery, Uldaman, Razorfen Kraul, Razorfen Downs, Zul'Farrak.The quest rewards and boss loots are rich and generous. Soloable between 22-24+ if the player has the Deadly Blunderbuss item for the quest and can travel to Booty Bay. , BoP, Horde quest - Warsong Supplies in Ashenvale.,bop,requires level 25, Razorfen Kraul trash mob static drop., BoE, requires level 25, Gnomeregan trash mob static drop., BoE, requires level 22, from recipe., BoE, requires level 19, world drop, from AH., BoP, requires level 19, one of Defias Leather set., Bind on Pickup, Alliance quest rewards involve The Deadmines., Bind on Equip, requires level 19, from recipe (quest rewards)., Bind on Pickup ,requires level 18, from Wailing Caverns., Bind on Pickup, requires level 18, from Wailing Caverns.The Defias Leather set is quite suitable for rogues below level 20, but you can get superior quality armor as follows: You may be lucky to get some uncommon armor from mobs' corpses or from quests. You can buy some standard leather armor when you start your character. Rogues can only wear leather and cloth armor, see also leather armor.

[metal-patches-vinyl]

I made a “New Arrivals” wall in my listening chamber so I can keep track of the fresh vinyl as it comes in.

[supportblackart]

Black Breath is a performance and visual art exhibition and salon exploring the experiences of Black space and place. How do we live in our Black Bodies? How do we live free? ✨ Friday, June 8th 7-11pm and Saturday, June 9th 12-6pm. Curated by Nana Chinara @nanachinara 👏🏾 Artists: @labadblack @catthearcher @kj8027 @flwrwrk @locsofliz @museofire @eatingtherunway @ambroisewalesca 🙌🏾 . . #supportblackart #blackbreath #performanceart #visuaart #artexhibition #blackexperience #blkart #blackbodies #nanachinara #nycart #lic #longislandcity #nycartscene #supportblackartists (at Local Project Art Space)

[lasantera]

If you wake up breathing today say. Aché. Amen. Namasté. And so it is. 🌪🌊⚖️⚔️🛠⚙️⛏🔧🔨⛓ Sis you stay doing your thing 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥 re-posted • @yasminhernandezart As I sit here waiting with this mask on while my momma is at the dentist, I meditate on the hundreds of thousands of brave souls around the world breathing through masks while #marching for miles, #protesting, lifting and honoring the #sanctity of a #blackbreath . Amazing. Lets meditate on that to ease the pain of how today, in 2020, there are still so-called humans who do NOT believe in the sanctity of a black breath. I'm focusing on #justice for black breaths stolen. I'm focusing on the #firstbreaths of beautiful black babies born to mothers risking disparities of #birthingwhileblack because racism doesnt value all lives. I'm focusing on how the earth prepared #humanity for focusing on the sanctity of breath with her forests burning. With a pandemic that affects respiration. I'm focusing on how the lungs are part of the #heartchakra and how humanity still has a long way to travel to truly know #love . (Corazón Luciernaga. 2019. #yasminhernandezart) #corazonluciernaga #cucubanacion #bioluminescentboricuas #fireflies https://www.instagram.com/p/CBQYBHtn6RX/?igshid=1uvn2gyviu1ut

[lowtorque]

Really sad news... Rock in peace Elijah! #rip #blackbreath #elijahnelson https://www.instagram.com/p/B60iOMWpSiF/?igshid=1cn58mk5v91ke

[whoshotthefrog]

Black Breath - Heavy Breathing: Transparent Blue (494)

[weedcloud]

PantherClan Cats - Tiger

Tiger - Pale ginger tabby Tom with white paws and muzzle with blue-green eyes and a shorter than average tail

Tiger was born in ShadowClan around the time Wolfstar rose to power. His parents were both loyal to Wolfstar but Tiger (then Tigerpaw) began to fear Wolfstar after he saw how his mother's sister, Blackbreath, was treated under his leadership. When Blackbreath's daughter Nightpaw was apprenticed, he befriended her and wanted to support her, but Wolfstar and Tigerpaw's mentor discouraged this, to the point where their training sessions were kept separate. The last straw was when Nightpaw was banished at a gathering after only training for less than a moon. The next morning he decided to leave ShadowClan for good, despite his warrior ceremony due any day now.

He was unable to find Nightpaw before she froze to death in her sleep. After this, he swore to never live in a clan again, and changed his name to Tiger. He had a deep distrust for authority.

He managed to find Blackbreath in her new home away from the clans. She was surprised to see him, but after he explained what had happened to her kits (one disappeared soon after Blackbreath was banished and the other banished so publicly, basically sentencing her to death) Blackbreath understood. She was devastated by this new of her kits as well. Tiger felt guilty, as he had promised her he would look after them when she was gone and felt he had failed. Blackbreath did not blame him however, as he was only an apprentice in impossible circumstances.

Over time, more cats joined Tiger and Blackbreath and formed a small colony. Some of these cats were resurrected from StarClan by Blackbreath using dark magic. One of these cats, Bluenose (formerly of RiverClan) formed a bond with Tiger and they became mates. However, Bluenose later realized that she was a lesbian and broke things off with him to become mates with a molly named Sunshine.

Tiger was angry. He felt betrayed and lied to. He refused to speak to Bluenose for a while, until Nightsky talked some sense into him. While they never quite recovered the closeness they once shared, Tiger was able to forgive Bluenose and was glad to see her happy with Sunshine (even if he was prone to jealousy).

After Blackbreath's death, Jaywhisker (Blackbreath's apprentice) realized he was not fit to lead them and heal them the way Blackbreath was. He suggested they become a true clan, with a leader and deputy to lead them more formally. Tiger strongly opposed this. He had seen the worst of what a clan could be and what the warrior code could do. Jaywhisker had never lived in a clan so Tiger did not trust his judgment on the matter. However, most of the colony was for the idea or neutral to it. They eventually decided to create their own code rather than strictly follow the warrior and medicine cat codes that the original five clans had. Tiger made sure that "the leader's word is law" rule was not a part of this clans code. Instead, the code included that the leader of the clan must always put the clans' needs above their own. He also helped develop the rule that the leader and healer must choose a new deputy together.

He lived for many moons, but caught an illness as a senior warrior and was unable to recover. He hunts with his clan as a ghost, as many PantherClan cats do after they perish.

[thunderheadfred]

æther

so, uhhh.... A) I have no idea if this ficlet will end up in the final chaptered version of Mirror, Mirror or if it’s doomed to be a permanent headcanon and B) I spent too much time to just let this sit in my WIP files for however long it takes to finish this monster of a fic because my brain is a shrivelled little acorn that requires constant validation

pairing: Asra x Julian (plague-era, post-Lazaret, AU-flavored) length: 3,750 words rating: explicit. bitter. citrus.  warnings: gore, plague-related horror, trauma, unresolved angst, emotional constipation, gothic narrator syndrome, a 200-coin paid Asrian bath scene

...well. here goes nothin’...

It might be two in the morning. 

Something about the tightness of my chest, the irregular, lumpy beating of my heart… tells me the night must be wearing thin. There is no other earthly way to divine the hour. No light penetrates the dungeons, and Valdemar seems to loathe timepieces; I have yet to find a single clock squirreled away in this bottomless hellhole they call a laboratory. What good would time do us, anyway? Other than to mark the endless stream of anonymous deaths, one tick after another…

tick… tick… tick…

Something drips onto my notes, running ink all over the place, ruining whatever half-lucid thought I’d been in the middle of. Useless anyway. I’m getting nowhere. I throw down my quill and drop my face into my hands. Crying does not feel good, or even bad. Like everything else in this place, it is simply draining, inevitable. Often, I seem to leak unwittingly, my body going through motions my mind has become too numb to sense.

I should sleep. I should. But the thought of that cramped bunk, at least half a foot too short, crammed against the molding, always-damp wall… It makes more sense to rot where I sit.

Outside, someone moans hoarsely. My hands turn to fists in my hair. No… not again...

Valdemar and their retinue of nameless numbered assistants have retired for the evening, leaving half a dozen “experiments” in mostly-inert pieces on various slabs to chill overnight. One of those unfortunate souls is coming back around, and it’ll only be seconds until they feel the extent of the horrors that were inflicted… Hands moving to either side of the desk, I brace myself.

Nothing prepares me. Young. Too young. Her voice, even in agony, sounds just like… I’m up and out the door before I know what I’m doing.

I lunge for her: the one writhing body amidst a pile of dissected remains. One look at her puts a clamp over the bleed in my heart: not a red hair in sight. She’s too tall, too dark, too anonymous to be my sister. But all the same, she is suddenly every bit as dear to me.

I take one of her hands, stilling her grasping, spasmodic fingers. My other hand takes up the cleanest rag I can find and mops sweat and muck from her forehead, a flimsy excuse to comfort. She’s too far gone already; all I can hope to do is ease this wretched passing. In shock, the body can act out a series of stirring autonomic reactions… or so Valdemar claims.

My tears fall freely now, because I’m still not dead enough to know better.

This girl should have died hours ago. Days ago. Should have died at home in her bed, tragically, yes… but whole. Not like this. But what Valdemar never understands—refuses to understand—is that people don’t die clean, on a schedule. It’s startling how many of these abandoned experiments wake up hours after they’ve been declared hopeless… and still go out screaming. In my own twisted way, I suppose I find their tenacity inspiring. The girl beneath me wails incomprehensibly, but I know exactly why, and I tighten my hold.

End it.

The pain of being left here, the fury of being abandoned, the indignity of being cut open for beetles and maggots and the curious field notes of a demon.

End it.

She writhes and foams and her ferocious red eyes track my every movement. Obeying her wordless commands, I grab the precious vial of contraband æther from my pocket. Keeping a firm hold on her hand, I depress the trick top of the vial and tip a few potent drops onto a rag, pocketing the bottle as quickly and secretively as I produced it.

Blackbreath Æther: the reaper’s kiss. A single whiff of the fumes is enough to dull the most extraordinary pain, and any more than that, well… Even at a distance, I can feel my own head swimming. Carefully, I hold my breath and bring the cloth to cover her nose and mouth. The æther smells warm and earthy, like fresh-tilled dirt, and the girl gulps down her own inevitable darkness, her shrieks of agony transmuted into the deepest, sweetest sighs…

Through the hole Valdemar left gaping and raw, I can see the girl’s healthy pink lungs expanding with the last breaths she’ll ever take. And just like that… she goes still, her face slackening. The way her pupils blow wide as they stare at me, gazing through me, seeing nothing and everything… fills me with hideous peace.

The silence she leaves behind knocks me off balance. Clinging to her lifeless hand, I stumble into the nearest stool, landing so hard I bruise the length of my thigh. The pain is welcome: at last, a feeling. It wakes me somewhat, and I realize that head to foot, I’m shaking.

Behind me, the door to my office creaks.

I leap from my own skin, wild with terror. No one else should be down here. The lift hasn’t returned, I would have heard it, I would have known... I can’t be that far gone…

I grab the closest, sharpest thing I can find, slashing a broken bone saw through the air. When I turn on my heel… I see Asra gaping at me, hands held up in surrender.

Inexplicably, the magician is emerging from my office. He looks coiffed and groomed, every bit the pampered palace pet he so skillfully plays at… but the moment our eyes meet, his façade flickers, words dying on his lips.

I swallow heavily, realizing I’m still clinging to the girl’s hand. “You don’t belong here,” I spit, unable to force the hostility from my voice.

As far as I know, Asra has never visited the dungeons before. He’s never so much as asked what work is done in this ever-worsening dark. No, he’s always dancing around the subject of the Plague. Always running back to his shop, or his “realms” or his god-forsaken dreams. Always pretending Vesuvia might wake up from this whole charade some day, like it was all just a terrible Masquerade-weekend hallucination.

Why should he open his eyes now? Why even bother? No one can wave a hand and vanish the apocalypse.

“Get out.” Suddenly infuriated, I brandish the bone saw in his direction, flinging at him all the bits of gore Valdemar left so carelessly behind, hoping the gesture looks as horrible as it feels.

“Blackbreath…” he whispers, voice gone ragged. “That’s why you wanted it…”

Funny. At the time, he hadn’t bothered to ask why I would beg for a vial of something so deadly, so forbidden. He’d just handed it over without so much as a ‘do not imbibe’, as if he’d give me anything I wanted… as long as I pleaded wantonly enough… as long as I spent enough time bloodying my knees for his amusement.

My stomach turns. “Thought I wanted to off myself, is that it? And you just handed it over anyway, you absolute bastard.”

Slowly, reverently, I tuck the dead girl’s hand neatly against her side… and then throw the bone saw onto a steel tray full of tools. The broken blade lands with a dull clang and a satisfying explosion of scalpels and clamps.

“You don’t know anything, do you?” I hiss, revolted by the deepening permanence of my own snarl. “What kind of magician has never sawed a person in half?”

His turns as if to leave—but how? Through my office?—and stops himself, eyes falling to the floor. He stands there silently, shoulders slumped in a noncommittal gesture: half dismissal, half acknowledgement. For a brief moment, Asra allows the expression on his face to play out naturally, a whirlwind of confusion and pain.

Good.

He holds out his hand, and my sneer falters.

I don’t move, but the mind-reading devil always seems to know what I’m thinking. His face softens into true pity and my intestines knot together.

Part of me wants to trust those watery, delicate eyes… and part of me will always be wary of snakes. As he waits for my answer, his unguarded gaze slides behind me, darting across the pile of nameless bodies. I don’t even have a shroud to cover them.

He seems unable or unwilling to hide his terror; I’ve only seen him look so lost once before. That horrible beach in the shadow of the Lazaret, where everything came apart, never to be put back together again… As if I’d spoken aloud, his jaw sets and his eyes snap back to mine. Witch.

I expect him to turn tail and run, but his hand stretches for me with redoubled insistence.

Well. He’ll never say ‘please.’ I know that.

I wish I had something else to throw at him, but I’m all that remains. Huffing out a breath, I step down from the stage and clap our hands together so hard that my palm stings. Asra doesn’t flinch, but tightens his mouth as if under better circumstances, he might owe me a smile.

He gently leads me into my office, the last place I want to be with him, with anyone. I open my mouth to protest, but in two steps he crosses the room and presses his pristine hand against the far wall. A sigil of light pulses beneath his palm, resonating with magic. Solid brick shimmers like water, opening into a portal, and he looks back at me, waiting.

I’ve seen other such passages hidden throughout the palace, but never trusted one enough to walk through it. I want to ask how long that secret escape has been there, how long he’s been waiting to taunt me with it. I have a feeling he wouldn’t answer honestly anyway, so I keep my mouth shut and square my shoulders, allowing him to pull me through.

As the portal envelops us, Asra feels so close he might as well be a part of me, as if the universe has folded us together inside a bolt of loose silk. A heartless drop, then we step unharmed into a room so bright I have to squint and cover my eyes.

He pulls me deeper into the blinding light, until carpet gives way to tile and the melodic trickle of flowing water. His guest chambers, his bath. Dimly, I realize he’s speaking to me.

“…here. You’re freezing.” He drops my hand and begins to gently lift my shirt. I flinch. He stills, but does not let go. If anything, he takes a surer grip. “Let me help,” he whispers.

My eyes finally adjust, and the room comes into focus. I didn’t realize he was standing so close… as he looks up at me, his perfumed hair tickles my chin, and his eyes seem to get caught on my mouth. I feel my breath quickening as the last shreds of equilibrium crumble out from under us.

“What do you want from me?” I didn’t mean to grunt that so pathetically. Didn’t mean to say it at all; and maybe I didn’t. Maybe he’s just in my head again. Always.

His brow crumples; his eyes glisten. “I… Nothing…”

We’re a hair’s breadth from it now, but this is as close as we’ll ever get to our apologies. We have too much to be sorry for, too many losses, too much yet to lose. Never mind the words. All this steam and closeness, he’s making it hard to even breathe. This shouldn’t be complicated. My chest hurts.

I can’t…

The first sob cracks me open like the chink in a dam, and it’s already too late. I can’t stop it. I fold over his shoulder, clinging to him, burying my face in his shield of silken scarves. Just being near him… too much. Warm and bright and blinding, like something that fell from the sky and left me smoldering in a crater of blackened glass. A dangerous star to wish upon.

He stands still and lets me weep on him. Seconds, hours, I don’t know. I don’t know. He lets me empty out.

When my eyes clear again, I see that I’ve stained one of the patterned scarves on his shoulder. A new one. A gift.

“Was that expensive?” I mumble, stupidly.

He jumps as if I’ve startled him from a dream. “What?”

I try to explain, but he pulls my shirt over my head, muffling my nonsense before it can begin. Warm hands skitter over me, and I watch, dumbstruck, as he traces countless bruises I didn’t even know were there. I shiver, finally feeling the cold of my own skin under this new and burning touch.

Healing magic moves up my chest, my neck, leaving tingling warmth in its wake. Slowly, he cups my face in his hands and forces me to meet his eyes. I feel my mind churning, and wonder if this tilting feeling is magical too… or a symptom of mutual insanity. With his fingers covering my ears, all my terror seems to ebb, all the kicking and screaming misery of the past few months reduced to the pulsing white noise of a tide. The muffling calm of deep water slips over my head… pulling me toward him… just him…

I want him so badly it hurts, but I know if I close the distance now, I’ll make a fool of myself. So I root down, standing there, waiting. Trying not to care what happens next.

He grabs the waist of my trousers. Like all of him, his hands are small but surprisingly strong. His swift, certain movements jerk me to and fro, and by the time he’s loosened my belt and unbuttoned my front, I’m rigid with need.

His eyes pass over my arousal. “Get in the bath.”

I struggle with the fastenings on my boots, distracted by the sight of him removing his own clothes and slipping gracefully into the water, like he belongs there.

The water feels painfully warm, but I force myself to submerge to the chest. I’ve gotten so accustomed to the cold, so numbed by it, that here in tepid bathwater, I feel like bones boiling in a pot, all pink marrow and jelly.

The water must be enchanted. The dirt sloughs from me in grimy clouds and then vanishes as if it never existed, just like the bruises. Too comfortable, too easy, like this is only a dream or another frivolous, expensive illusion.

Asra floats nearby, glittering and feral, watching his magic take hold, his spell forcing me into human form. Gulping, I dip my head back to wet my hair and face, scrubbing hard. My scalp burns, every inch of me burns, but I feel… I feel…

I should say it, I should tell him, but what? I don’t know. Too much. What name could I give this thing that’s been eating us both, whittling us down to salt and gnashing teeth, leaving only a bitter taste?

Just as I feel my heart tightening with panic, Asra’s hand slides over my chest. He waits for my pulse to slow, or quicken, or simply obey, then he moves up my neck, behind my head. He pulls me up by the root and all of my traitorous body throbs at that touch. The sight of him, too, is equally bewitching. Heavy wet curls falling over hooded eyes, lips moist and soft.

He’s leaning in, pressing his open mouth to my cheek, hot breath melting the path of my tears. When he pulls away, he looks feverish, and his tongue swipes across his lower lip, tasting.

Oh, Asra. That’s too much…

His eyes flash. Did I say that out loud? I don’t know. I can’t think. My head is moving back and forth—yes, no, yes—my mouth opens but my words are swallowed by the thickening steam. Asra’s lips graze over mine once… twice… again… again…

Who made that noise? I don’t know. We both vibrate, and I’m done for, my hands are on him, my mouth locks over his, the heat of his skin burning through my palms. I’m breathing too heavily, his teeth are too sharp. His kiss plucks my nerves and cuts my tongue, but I need more. This is all there is.

My back meets the edge of the pool with a painful thump, and our mouths break apart with a clack of teeth.

Asra pushes at my hips, urging me out of the bath even as he bends to lick water from my neck. Between breathless sweeps of tongue, he barely gets out one word: “…Bed.”

It rings like a command, but as I’m stumbling toward our mutual goal, I realize that it might have been a question. I trip horizontal and pull him along for the ride, our knees banging together. A lingering pause as he pushes up onto his elbows and looks down at me, his eyes wide, his chest heaving, water dripping from his face to mine.

I try to swallow, licking my lips. “Maybe…”

The thought dies as his hand closes around my cock. He watches my face, giving me a chance to stop this… but I can’t, I won’t. I pull him down and invite his ragged breath into my mouth, let him bite and steal and consume. He tightens his hand and pumps me to full hardness, his kiss deepening as he scrapes my lips with his teeth. The only indication of his own arousal is the ragged sound of his breath, the low moans he tries to mask against my tongue. Knowing that I have any effect on him at all… even this meagre sampling… I writhe greedily and Asra drags his mouth away. As if to distract himself, he tongues the sharp bend of my jaw and opens his mouth, bares his teeth… then stops, breathing deep.  

No, no… he can’t quit now. At least one of us isn’t above begging; I turn my head and offer him my neck.

Asra looks at me with darkening eyes. He’s breathing hard, his face strangely tight. “Julian… I… I want to hurt you.”

I laugh on reflex, dizzy with light-headed relief. Knowing how desperate I must look, I surge my cock against his idle hand and croak out: “That makes two of us.”

The shift is immediate. Just like that, he becomes ravenously, furiously alive. His teasing hand tightens around my cock, and with a slap of fervor, his other hand meets my throat. He tightens both hands until I’m gasping.

He straddles my waist and hovers over me, his mouth wide open and inches from my own. Eyes aflame, he devours every scrap of desperate air… and just as my lungs start to burn, he releases the pressure and grants me one gulp of relief before sealing his mouth over mine, choking me with his searing tongue.

Electrified, I reach for him, my hands roving up his well-shaped thighs, squeezing greedily over his muscled rear. I feel him roll with a fleeting show of pleasure… before he yanks my hands away and throws my arms to the mattress.

Forget shame, I whine and fist my hands into the sheets. I hold on as he scrapes his teeth down my neck, bites my collarbones, stutters his chin down the heaving, bony column of my sternum…. and eases his thigh between my legs. Using both sets of nails to draw angry red lines over my ribs, he bites my nipple hard enough to bruise. I squeak as he laves the wound with his tongue, soothing just long enough so that when he bites again, the pain sings through me even more sharply.

Keening low and long, I shamelessly thrust against his thigh. Just as I’m edging close, he pulls away, extracting his leg with a cruel bump of  his kneecap. I open my eyes, bleary and confused, as his dark chuckle roils in my blood. I see the sweetened plum of his grin rising over my groin and he pulls my hands into his damp ringlets.

“Hold on tight.”

There’s no further warning. His soft lips slide down around me, his luscious, infuriating mouth swallowing my cock as his otherworldly eyes stare up with the confidence of the damned, daring me to breathe. An unholy sight, one I’ve dreamed of all too often, and the sound I make is anything but human.  

He laughs, his tongue pulsing, his teeth scraping just enough to keep me from shoving all the way to the back of his throat. He works me expertly, easily reading my moans, setting a confident rhythm. My eyes roll back as the room spins. I cling to his hair and match his movements: thrusting and fucking his mouth as he bobs up and down. Every few strokes he scrapes me with his teeth, threatening to bite, savoring my yelps. He seems to know exactly how much I can take until my toes curl with pain… then he opens his mouth and slathers me with a cooling dose of lewd, loud, whorish spit. There’s barely enough relief to breathe… then he starts the torture all over again until I’m cursing, begging, speaking in tongues.

I try not to think about how he might have gotten so very, very good at this… but it’s impossible to resist imagining a barrage of possibilities. Asra choking on a thousand healthy cocks, cum sliding down his throat… Asra buried between countless sticky thighs, his face drowning in mystical, hallucinatory pussy, his eyes iridescent with a rainbow of shifting, seething pleasures…

…the world tilts around those lips, spinning on that magic tongue. I’m upside-down… look at this maze, we’ll never get out… she throws her head back and moans so loud that anybody might hear… her loose curls trail into the fountain, bobbing with pleasure… she’s grown her her hair long in the Prakran style and trussed it with tiny moonblossoms… dressed like a silver moth, her skirt pulled up, her leg thrown over his narrow, muscled shoulder... oh, yes… you two are so beautiful like this… both of you… Asra, Emry, my darlings… her hips roll as she cries out his name, clings to his hair, rocks into his eager face… his tongue lavishes her to oblivion, drinking her, worshipping her, fingers pumping into her until she sparks and ignites, lost to the flames…

Asra jerks away, staring at me like a man about to die.

[sineral]

Some OCs I managed to crank out yesterday. I've been ever so slowly chipping away at the depressive funk I've been stuck in since like, august. First two are different versions of a friend's (@necr0-mantix) OC, one from D4, one from WoW. The second and third fellas are mine. Third picture is my twilight dragon/void elf OC Nemorael Blackbreath/Nihlaxion. Fourth is Sinnathariel's older brother Daniel that's a massive simp for Inarius and would be my crusader character--IF I COULD HAVE ONE IN D4

[programmehq]

Some used LPs just arrived... #blackbreath #powertrip #oldwounds (at Programme Skate & Sound)

[metal-patches-vinyl]

Black Breath - Sentenced to Life