#brave soul wearing white to a blood drive

[rararatigan]

A true agent of choas

“Brave soul, wearing white to a blood drive”

[legiomiam]

Find The Word

I was tagged by @jules-writes my words are: snow, tight, reflect, trip, and always 

One day I’ll do something other than TDADP today is not that day

☙❦❧

Snow

Cold arms wrapped around her, and melted snow soaked the strands of his hair to his face as he hugged his only child. Dark eyes looking her over first before releasing her to place a kiss on his wife’s forehead. “My family, I have returned to you.”

“You must sit.” Veda bowed once and Seung frowned.

“I said my family I have returned to you, that goes for you too, Veda.” He quickly pulled her into a hug. “First I must bathe—”

“Please do you smell like a goat in need of a trim.” His wife smiled as she made to push him out of the kitchen into the hall, “please go. I am bak— Seung!” She had howled as they rounded the corner and Rashka couldn’t help but move just in time to see her father stop shaking his head so water would fly off from his hair.

A ‘humph’ came from the elderly vampyre behind her, Griselda started setting out the fresh fruits she had brought home. The blackberries tumbled from the cloth bag they were in and Rashka was quick to snatch one up and place it in her mouth. Savoring the burst of juices as the tart flavor hit her tongue when she chewed.

☙❦❧

Tight

“Or not,” his sister’s voice pulled him out of his memory.

He knew she had suspected something when he altered their path to follow the rivers, the ones further in land not showing any signs of the flooding now. But the pink scaling that made up the other Fae’s skin reflected the sun to alert him to where she was. Brahm ignored the exasperated sigh from the woman next to him as he pulled his horse to a stop, the white coat would be in need of a brushing at the next village stop.

“Gyli!” Swinging a leg over he dismounted the mare.

She was beautiful, scales coating her cheek bones and down to her neck. They covered the backs of her shoulders and biceps, and her calves. She sat bare on the river bank, the waterproof skin that held the clothes she would wear on land tossed up on the side. Out of the entourage that made them up only he knew just how different the scaly patches of her felt compared to the soft skin, the scales there too tightly knit to be anything but.

“Brahm,” the two hugged, and he smoothed down her hair that could rival the bright clear surface of the ocean, placing a kiss against the damp surface. “Thank you for sending that message with one of my siblings. I was so worried when the bridge started flooding. Grandmother doesn’t like us traveling when the waters are worthy of testing any brave soul.” Unabashedly as she spoke her hands trailed over his shoulders and down his back, the slits of her irises widened just enough as he tilted her head up.

A throat cleared behind him, only turning away so his back was facing his sister did he duck to slot his lips with hers. He took his time, much to his companion’s annoyance.

☙❦❧

Reflect

Passing by a set of windows Rashka glanced at her reflection, her braided and bound hair. The dress was more opaque than she thought, the bodice and skirt had a layer that covered everything that was needed, what she thought would leave her visible was on her back and the sleeves, along with the top layer of skirting.

That’s not what made her pause in her reflection; it was how sickly she was starting to look. Quickly in her head she started counting back, what little blood she took from the redheaded maid hand before leaving was not enough to fully satisfy that hunger. She had not been given any blood since then, not enough to count. Only a few doses in a wine glass here and there, nothing that would keep her radiant and healthy. But just enough to not drive her mad with thirst.

“I need to feed,” she looked at the blonde. Marjorie nodded, and Rashka took it for what it was, making requests from Klaas would not bode well in his angered state. They were toeing down the last stretch of steps when the man himself was walking through the door, anger was radiating from him. Her friend flinched beside her as a guard caught sight of them and leaned in, mouth moving. Cold blue eyes were on her instantly, the pulse at his temple evident.

☙❦❧

Trip

“You ate your half already.” She looked at the sky and then down the length of the river. It was true not even thirty minutes into their trip he had grabbed his stash of food and began to chow down. She didn’t feel any closer to the fork of the road as she followed the river, the sun was low with how the sky around her turned the blue of twilight. Shit, shit, shit!

The hair on her arms started to rise and she grit her teeth, something in her gut told her to run, to run and not stop to look back. As night fell around her it grew quiet, only her footsteps and her companions could be heard.

“You’re slowing me down,” she had told him as he would pause from his aching feet, she would take the time, listening for any sound of gaining hoofsteps. “I’ll be caught before we reach where we need to.”

“Stop,” ice froze her veins and the steam ghosted out of her parted lips. She had seen the underbrush shift, chirping that was different than any animal she had heard before.

St— Star— Starving.

The voice that reached out to her was nothing and everything. It echoed as if it didn’t belong to just one mind. The man just eyed her, something crossing his face.

“You’re kind of—” blood sprayed her as dark claws burst from his chest. Clicking from the body that rose above him. Starving.

Beady eyes that seemed to be unseeing, or only focused on the warm body spilling blood onto the grass. Biting down on the inside of her cheeks Rashka slowly sunk to the ground as teeth dug into the flesh of his shoulder, crunching through collar bone and scapula. Still holding on the creature pulled away chewing, stopping to whine. Starving.

Griever.

☙❦❧

Always

Her pant legs caught on fallen branches as he drug her down the subtle slope away from where she had tried to make camp. Heart racing, alone. She was alone once more. Alone, and being taken by a warm blooded human, nonetheless, didn’t he fear her? Why was he so sure that she was human? Did he not see the small hints at her nature? No human was this beautiful, the merchant must have picked up on how she moved, fluid as if her very legs and the ground were made of water. No one could be so dull to their senses, he must know what gooseflesh covered his arms at the mere touch of her own skin. The way his heart raced when she struggled, when she walked, when she had looked at him.

Foolish man, he had mistaken it for lust.

Play dead.

It called to her, a voice that had plagued her mind sometime after suddenly arriving like the gale of a storm. Always having done what the voice told her to do, she did. Letting her body go limp as her hold on his wrist slipped away, ignoring the burning of her scalp. Unprepared for the change in weight the man stumbled, hold loosening.

Do what you do best.

What I do best? She rolled, coming to her knees as she stared down the man. His face twisted into a grimacing snarl.

“Don’t be stupid, I easily outweigh you.” He pulled a hunting knife from his pantline. “And you are just one silly little girl against me.”

She’s almost not worth the struggle. I thought the horned one would be harder to take. Just knock her out.

But instead of moving he froze, froze as she came to her feet. The flight or fight response in her blood kicking in and having chosen to fight now made her fangs slide from their resting place.

What?

His shock was evident at her snarling form, eyes bulging as her fangs, elongated and sharp, settled into place. Her lips caught on them as she hissed. Hair stood, where he may not have been able to notice it — or ignored it — at first, now she was all too aware. Aware of how his heart raced even more, how the front of his trousers became damp with piss.

“Are you scared?” She took a step and he jerked, unable to move in his terrorized state. “What? I’m just one silly little girl against you, aren’t I?”

Alright anyone who wants to play that I tagged in the last one is tagged to avoid double tagging since I just did one.

@awritingcaitlin @pinespittinink @runeseaks @mr-writes

Words are: unkempt, dirt, rain, sky, and word

[pascalepalaces]

"The Accident" in Crow & Cross Keys:

content warning: discussion of suicide

It was as he was slumped over the steering wheel that Frederick scratched at his collarbone for the hundredth time that day. The gift he was wearing was too appropriately from his mother; though it looked very warm, he knew how prickly it felt. At home he’d pull it off, ask his wife for her hot apple cider. The day’s burden hadn’t been the conference, really; it was this drive to, now from, the building at the other end of the city. It was a busy hour and he was stuck, yet again, in the slug of traffic.

He was somewhat stuck, too, in his petty grumpiness. He was forgetting that he’d known much greyer days—that if anything, this Tuesday had only been off-white. That was what was showing in the clouds, in the way that the sky seemed to be covered in craft paste: the city was dim, but there had been no rain. Compressed in his small Peugeot, though, Frederick had sweat forming in his underarms.

He cursed when the Volkswagen ahead made a stop, blocking the street unreasonably like a kidney stone. He braked and hit the horn; others also did the same, and the sounds of displeasure built up like grimy pus. The guilty driver stuck his head out of his window, yelling already—but Frederick saw, after a few moments, that he wasn’t at all addressing the street.

He followed the man’s attention towards the park, which faced north, and noticed the clumps of people forming on the thin and pale lawn. The crowd was all at once staring toward the cliff; Frederick focused to see over them and into the horizon, where the sky was finally ripping open. He spotted the man climbing over the fence, and his heart sunk to the brake pedal. 

He had climbed a fence of his own, once. On that awful spring night, almost two decades prior, he’d dangled a foot and his life off of the Hersenkam Bridge, in Antwerp. Thanks to the interference of another, however, his failure to jump had signified the last major failure of his life. He parked his car in the traffic as he thought of the near incident, and he pulled his heart all the way up. He had to be brave, now, or it’d be this poor stranger who’d be sinking. 

The cool breeze shocked his skin as he stepped to the sidewalk. The air was haunted by cigarette smoke; this slum, in particular, smelled most of all like death. It was worse as Frederick entered the park and jogged on the stone. 

“I’ve got it,” he yelled, approaching the cliff. “Somebody ring the police. I’ll keep him at bay.”

The crowd obeyed, stagnant. Sure, they feared death enough to worry for the approacher, but they likely dreaded it too hard to ever approach, themselves.

Frederick wiped the sweat from his cheeks once he’d stopped. The rabid waves below were blasting him with cold air, which felt good on his inflamed face. He leaned over the flat metal and looked over the man on the other side; though they were close, now, the stranger did not acknowledge Frederick. His arms clutching at the black bars behind his back, he stared only forward. He looked to be in his twenties: pale, flushed skin, a raging head of auburn hair. 

“Son? Hello,” Frederick tried. “What’s your name?” 

The boy gathered his tears, and then something else, not quite as identifiable.

 “Ansel,” he groaned.

“Hi, Ansel. I’m Fred,” Frederick spoke again, running his hands atop the cold metal. “I’ll be very simple about this. I don’t want to ask why you’re here, so don’t worry about all that. Okay? I want to tell you why I’m here.”

Ansel shied his head around. His pale blue eyes limped all over Frederick’s face, as if in judgment. Eventually, they fell into his eyes. 

“I can’t not think about it,” he spoke.

“What?” 

“That my life’s nothing.” His face was drooping like a sad sack of blood. “My soul is too tired.”

Ansel’s words weighed further on Frederick. He knew he shouldn’t show it. 

“The soul doesn’t get tired,” he said.

“Huh?” 

“There’s no such thing as a tired soul. An unhappy one,” Frederick’s hands trembled as he thought back to his time in the facility, to the things he’d been told.

“I don’t understand.”

“Souls are made of pure, vibrating joy,” Frederick said. “It’s our souls that make us want to live in the world.” His hands shook with more violence, yet he assured himself it was due to that vibrating power.

“I don’t—”

“The mind is what gets sick. Sick minds cover our souls over with dust and dirt. But that can all be swept away. It just takes some effort.”

Yet his throat turned to ash as Ansel stared back at the water. He probably wouldn’t have believed the words, either, at his deadliest point. These were only words. They were promises from a stranger. A grey, misty truth was now encircling him.

And, before he’d entirely realized it, Frederick was clasping the top of the fence with both hands, which were quivering further under the weight of the decision. He placed a foot on the bottom rung, lifted himself upwards; his heart was heaving. He raised one stiff leg over the top of the fence— another—and it felt like a plummet as he lowered himself. With sweaty hands, he clutched the cold posts now behind him, too. Pieces of his insides were ricocheting all over his body. 

The edge was so close, the water so far down—yet, somehow, the salty taste of the air overwhelmed him already. The glassy blue waves below were curving and sinking, too, like they were trying to grab at him. Frederick felt a crashing chill as he watched them, and yet it was almost thrilling. His heavy, sinking feeling was increasing, but it was filling him whole. A seagull as white as the sky passed over the water, and as it was only as it started to cry that he remembered what he’d meant to do.

“Now, the reason that I’m here,” he coughed, his head sticky with mud. His heart thrashed when he turned to Ansel, again; the boy’s sunken, watery eyes looked too much like the water below. “I was in this position before,” he managed. “At your age.”

“You’re lying,” Ansel said.

“No. I was ready to give up, because I thought that I had nothing left. And it was true. I had nobody.”

Ansel withered.

“But it made me realize that I had nothing to lose if I took another chance,” Frederick continued, feeling sticky in his stomach, now, and in his legs. “I agreed to take just one more. It was at my disposal. Now, I have a nice job. I have a wonderful wife, and two boys. So, this,” he nodded his head towards the water, “it just no longer tempts me.” 

Ansel blinked slowly, at that, and then he turned his gaze back over the fence—which gave Frederick a ring of hope. He looked over too for a moment, then another few: a new crop of people had cultivated on the grass, staring at them with scarecrow eyes. 

“You’re telling the truth?” Ansel muttered, his grip on the fence tightening. His voice was strained, which only meant that something in him was fighting and alive.

“Of course,” Frederick said.

The screeching sirens were approaching harder, too. Ansel’s eyebrows dipped, then curved.

“What are their names?” he asked Frederick.

“Huh?”

“Your family. Tell me about them.”

Frederick understood, finally, and he smiled vigorously. He’d have him, soon. He’d reel him back to land, like fish on a hook.  

It was only a moment later that he felt a hook had entered his own brain, had lobotomised him.

Ansel watched Frederick, with life in his eyes, as he awaited his simple answer—yet Frederick was waiting alongside him. The man was paralyzed, almost—though, internally, he was spastic and grabbing at the air for words that seemed to have evaporated. He became only concerned for himself. Any man would know the name of his wife, of course. Of his own children. He’d remember their faces. 

Heaving the increasingly salty air, Frederick was sure that everything would return to him, within only a few moments—but the moments left with increasing force. Soon, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever had children, or even a wife. He supposed that he didn’t. He’d been mistaken…

“Oh my god,” Ansel’s voice shook Frederick out of his mind, or his lack thereof. The boy’s face had been re-ignited with dread. His eyes had flatlined. “You��are lying,” he spat.

“Wait,” Frederick struggled. He was too dizzy.

Ansel’s face screwed downwards, then, and he made the ugliest whimper that Frederick had ever heard. Such a sound could only signify death. 

“Oh, god,” Ansel repeated. 

Frederick was greeted that evening by the smell of burnt chicken, the noises of Nikolas and Emeric throughout the halls. 

“Darling?” Mary called, from the living room.

Frederick let down his briefcase. “Yes,” he said. 

“I’ve been worried.”

Frederick went to her, coming up beside the brown leather couch. She’d been sitting, her wavy black hair draped over a book. She looked up at him and smiled.

In the fourteen years that Frederick had known her, Mary’s smile had never burnt out a touch. Before his death, her father had warned him that many had looked down on her for it; she’d grinned, always, at all of the homeless people on the street, at every rude client or stranger. She was still always joy and giggles, in their home: whenever she played with her children, for instance, or every time she and Frederick tried for another.

Frederick didn’t mind, too much, if people believed Mary was odd, or even if she was. Her smile, as always, brought him a luminous joy—even if no flame would be catching tonight. 

“Work kept me,” he told her.

“You’re starving.” She put her book down on the couch. “Let me—”

“No. I’m tired,” he said. His mouth and throat were so dry, and every word was a razor blade. “We’ll talk tomorrow. Okay?”

Mary furrowed her brows. She approached him, touched his cheek. 

“You’re pale,” she told him. “I hope you’re not sick.”

He grunted, backing away from her and going to the stairs.

“Say good night to your boys,” she called. 

He did, but their faces hurt him harder.

Frederick and his family had been, for a long time now, the twinkle in the eye of all of their social circles: the literature club, Mary’s relatives, the church, their colleagues. They were the guiding star, the goal that everyone else was set to reach. It was always, remember Fred and Mary’s wedding? Fred and Mary are so in love. Aren’t their sons so beautiful? Most importantly, Frederick’s family was the light of his own spirit: the gaslight that had kept it alive.

The events of that afternoon had ruined him, now, had overturned all of the heavens in his mind.

In official terms, Frederick had always been an atheist. He’d participated in the church only because it pleased his wife, and pleasing his wife had been his only real religion. Yet things were changing, tonight: the turbulence inside of him was knocking down all of his sturdiest beliefs. He was certain that his amnesia on the cliff, that afternoon, had represented a grand act of God. There was no other real explanation to the fact. There had been the pressure of the moment to speak, yes, but that wouldn’t have been enough to crush his memory completely. What had happened to Frederick had been more than an idiot accident. This truth was as clear to him as the lake water, now: he’d been punished. 

And as he lay in his bed, that night, the guilt was growing in his mind like a sickly itch. He spent the night with his fingers in his hair, pulling at his scalp, trying to distract from his bursting pain.

It wasn’t long before he concluded that he should have gone and killed himself, all of those years ago in Antwerp. He’d been shown, today, what it was like to not know his own family—and for the very simple reason that he never should have come to know them. If he’d rightfully jumped off the Hersenkam, he wouldn’t have lived to later take Ansel’s life.

The boy, after all, had chosen to climb the fence during the day, when the park had been thickly populated. That was the behaviour of someone who needed attention. His acts had been but a cry for help, which Frederick had violently gagged. He’d decided that he needed to be the one, out of the crowd, to take control, to help the boy off of the edge. In consequence, he’d coaxed him off of the wrong end.

The rash sizzled in Frederick’s mind when the sun reached his eyes. His hands hadn’t left his scalp; clumps of brown hair had gathered by his head. There was no worse agony, he’d come to find, than an itch underneath the skin, one that couldn’t ever be scratched. It felt like a taunt, a Godly mockery. He wanted to dig his way into his brain, to pull it apart. 

The static pain also reminded him, strangely, of what it felt like to have a limb burst from its sleep. It could only signify that his brain, for the first time in two decades, was awake.

“Fred? Are you alright?” Mary gasped, in response to the groaning that he could no longer cage. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “You’re in pain?”

Frederick clamped his eyelids shut. Mary’s voice was stomping on his brain, as would definitely her face.

“I’m fine,” he croaked. 

Still, he felt her approach. The bones on the back of her hand were knives to his forehead. 

“You’re sweating,” she tried. “I need—”

“No,” Frederick growled. He grabbed at her wrist, threw it to the pillow.

There was a pause. A cold silence came over Mary as she backed away off of the bed, then toward the door. 

“I’ll call your work, and mine,” she said, in a single breath. 

As she stepped out to the hallway, Frederick vomited.

Mary left him alone, after that, save but to clean up after him and to bring him food. He didn’t need to leave the bed to plan his death, after all—and he’d decided that he’d jump off of the same cliff as Ansel had. It’d be only right. And while he’d never before tasted this flavour of pain, Frederick and his previous self still agreed on one thing. Jumping to one’s death—jumping, hence, literally into death—was the most dutiful way to go. 

He decided that he’d drive to the cliff when it was dark, when there was no more audience. The cliff would be an open crime scene for another day, or maybe two. He couldn’t take the public’s attention away from Ansel; he’d already stolen too much from the young man. 

Frederick stayed in place for his two waiting days, but he also still didn’t sleep. Even once he had decided his fate, the shame in his mind kept growing like prickly bark on a tree. As much as he begged for sleep, the pain was much too grating. Now that his mind was truly awake, it wouldn’t let Frederick forget again—not even for a moment—that he was meant to die.

He never hungered, either. He didn’t thirst. Sustenance was for survival, and survival was no longer Frederick’s purpose. And so he hid all of Mary’s cooking under their shared bed. She’d be alerted to it when it began to rot, of course—but the smells were masked, for now, by his lingering vomit.

There was nothing left that Frederick wanted to taste except sleep. He thought of nothing but sleep. He lusted for it: for its curves, the ups and downs, the vivid feeling of it, of being inside of it. On his final morning, as he watched Mary change out of her nightgown, he felt even more sickness cooking in his throat. He didn’t know how he’d ever been attracted to that custard-like flesh; nothing at all was erotic to him, now, but the perfect softness of slumber. This was true, of course, because he was meant to have the best kind, the ultimate coma: the kind in which he’d soon plunge the deepest and never have to leave. 

Frederick woke the next morning in a bed that was not his own. Even his body didn’t feel like his own. He was swollen and smothered with pain; he moaned as he opened his eyelids.

He hadn’t thought that Hell would have tile ceilings.

“Sir?” a woman’s voice scraped at his mental wall. Frederick turned his head, with some expanding pain. Yet he noticed that the pain on the inside had cleared, and that the world was no longer turning. As he looked to the young lady, he saw her hair was in a tight bun that pulled at her skin, making white lines. She was wearing all white, too. Yet there was no way that Frederick had been sent to heaven. He looked down, next, to himself: above the blue cover, his arms were draped in yet even more white. His legs felt fatter. 

This is a hospital, he thought. Alright, alright, that makes some more sense.

“Do you remember what happened to you?” the nurse asked while Frederick squinted. With some distant nausea, he passed his eyes over her nametag: DANICA. 

“You were in an accident,” she informed him. “You fell asleep at the wheel.” 

Frederick looked back to the ceiling. 

“You’re lucky to have survived,” she told him, and she dampened her voice. “Can you remember your name, sir?”

“Was anyone else hurt?” he asked. Reality draped over him, a coarse blanket.

“No,” she told him. “Your name, please.”

 “Frederick Ivey,” he spoke. It was difficult. He felt as if he were breathing in smoke, again.

“Your wife?”

“Mary Ivey.” Ignoring the clawed rip of pain, he sat up as much as he could. “Where is she? My—”

“Your family’s waiting. They’ll be very relieved,” Danica smiled down at him. “Just a few more questions, first. Do you remember where you were going?”

“The park.”

“Which one?”

“I don’t know the name. It was by the lake, after highway E12.”

Danica’s face looked, in the next moment, to have jumped and drowned for him. “Oh,” she said.

Frederick felt a pull in his stomach. “What?” he said.

“You haven’t heard about…”

“I have, I have. Someone died there just the other day.”

“Many people have.” 

“What?” His patience was trickling.

She went to a large grey bin near the door, leaning down and fiddling through. 

“There.” She returned to him, presenting him with a page in a newspaper. The headline was, Hetistil District Shaken by a Self-Killing—Again. She pointed to the third paragraph. “Now. Your family,” she said, and she went to the door. 

Frederick took the news between his rough hands.

“My brother had precious things in his life. He had so many people and things that he loved. He was going to teach primary. We were meeting for lunch to discuss it,” Remi told us. “Above all things, he was terrified of heights. So, I simply can’t believe he would ever do this…  thing willingly.” When we asked him if he believed in the cliff’s supposed curse, however, he presented no pointed answer. “I’ve heard so much in this past day,” he admitted. “People insist Ansel touched the fence for too long and that it convinced him, somehow, in some way, to climb over. They say my brother probably didn’t know that he shouldn’t ever touch it. But I still have trouble believing that whole myth.”

“It’s no myth,” one superstitious local had insisted, earlier in the day. “Many of us call that fence Hell’s Gate, and it’s not just a funny nickname.”

Frederick’s confusion was a whirlpool in his chest.

“I am a bit offended by the speculation,” Remi had added. “But I’m glad that that man came to the fence when no one else would dare go near. I would have thanked him, too, if he hadn’t run.”

When asked what exactly this curse could be doing to convince healthy minds to jump—and to convince them so quickly—the local became flustered. 

“Well, I can’t know that,” he claimed. “That, you might want to ask the runaway man, if you can find him. He’s the only one, after all, who has ever climbed over that fence and then climbed back. Maybe he was too focused on the other fellow.”

Frederick’s confusion turned to realization, then, and then repugnance, and finally a widening relief.

It flooded his throat.

an earlier version of this story was previously published in New Reader Magazine, Issue 5 (March 2019)

[mandoalorian]

Sinner [Dark!Din Djarin x F!Reader] *SMUT*

Summary: The Mandalorian has been attending confession for weeks now, with the sole intensive purpose to see you. 

Rating: 18+ smut

Warnings: Dark!Din, implied age difference, religion kink (don’t come for me...), sex in a place of worship, smut: loss of virginity, mutual masturbation, dirty talk, degradation, unprotected p in v, cunningless, death mention, alcohol mention, brothel mention. 

Word Count: 4000+

Masterlist

REBLOGS APPRECIATED!<3

He’d been coming to confess for about a year now. He’d gone off the rails when he lost the kid. You’d heard rumours about the Mandalorian — strong, fierce, brave... a warrior. You certainly wouldn’t have pinned him for a man of faith. You’d seen him a few times when you were shadowing your father in church. He was tall, broad shouldered, and only came during the dead of night, when the abbey was completely isolated.

“Hello,” you greeted him, your soft voice echoing throughout the chambers. Your crimson red heels clicked against the marble floor beneath you as you approached the masked figure. Curtseying politely and removing your hood, you couldn’t help but bat your eyelashes in the direction the Mandalorian. “It’s quite late. I was just closing for the night.” you admitted, biting down on your lower lip in hope that he’d understand.

“I thought places of worship aren’t supposed to close?” He countered quizzically, an air of amusement in his voice. 

“You’re right, technically,” you hummed, picking at your nails as a wash of nerves flooded over you. “But my father is out of town and... I need to sleep.”

That’s where he recognised you from— you were the daughter of the Grand Bishop. He’d seen you before, doting around the abbey in your signature black gown and red robes. You were hard to miss, your beauty being beyond standards of measure. Yes, he knew you. He had noticed you watching him from the pillars above, when you thought nobody was looking. He noticed the way you’d deliberately brush past his body... desperate for just the slightest touch. He recognised your scent too; it was sweet like honey. And your ruby coloured lips. He’d dreamt of them plenty of times. It was really you.

“Where is he?” The Mandalorian asked after a beat of prolonged silence.

“He was requested by Senator Berenko to present evening mass on Naboo, for the Festival of Lights.” you explained, probably offering a little too much information.

“When will he be back?”

“Next week.”

“Well, I’ll be back then.” 

No, you couldn’t just let him leave. You couldn’t just let him walk away from you. This was your chance. In a fluster, you extended your arm and pawed at his bicep. He froze under your touch, and you hoped that you hadn’t overstepped. 

“Are— you’re here to confess. Aren’t you?” you asked him with a nervous gulp. Maker, why were you so nervous? The Mandalorian didn’t say anything, so you heeded to continue. “I’ve seen you come by before. I know you speak to my father usually but— I can do it. The confession, I mean. I’ve been shadowing my father for the past few months— training with him. I can do it. If... if you’d like me to.”

The Mandalorian took a moment to process your words. Maker; you were a sight to behold. Your eyes were starry and reflective of the galaxy he’d spent so long venturing. Your skin was soft and delicate. You were pure— untouched— holy. He was afraid the discussion of his sins might be a bit too much for you to handle. 

Or maybe there was something more.

Maybe he was afraid that once he’d start opening up to you, he wouldn’t be able to stop. He wouldn’t be able to resist you.

“Aren’t you a little young?” The Mandalorian scoffed incredulously, bringing his leather gloved hand to his helmet, his thumb grazing the cloth between his chin and his neck. His rude manner didn’t surprise you at all, but yet, you kept a strong posture and held your head high.

“I’m old enough.” you declared, not ripping your gaze from him once. Even through the dark tinted visor of his helmet, it felt like you were looking into his eyes, staring deep into his soul. 

So, he agreed. You told him to wait in the confession box by the altar. “I won’t be long, I just have to lock up and turn out the lights.”

As you walked down the aisle, you lit a match and ignited some candles. They were tall and made from beeswax, and the flicking amber flames provided barely enough light. But it had to be enough. It had to do. The wax dripped down the sculptures and chambersticks, pooling into swirls of hardening ivory. 

The Mandalorian waited for you in the confession box, having already discarded the plates of his beskar armour. It was hard to wear, and heavy on his back, but he felt safe… here, with you. He had no reason to be still wearing it. No more fighting tonight, he hoped.

The image of you couldn’t escape his mind, no matter how hard he tried. Dirty thoughts — it was wrong of him. You were the Grand Bishop’s daughter for Heaven’s sake.

When you entered your side of the confession box, your full intention was to follow the ordinary strict protocol. There was no reason for distraction.

“State your name for the records,” you requested, shuffling around as you worked on getting comfortable in your chair.

“Din Djarin.”

Din Djarin. It was a beautiful name. Your mind immediately went to pairing his last name with your first name, and then you cursed yourself for the inappropriate thought. 

“Din,” his name left your lips like the sweetest tasting honey. “Why are you here today? What would you like to confess?”

“I went to Corellia over the weekend,” he announced, his voice cold through the modulator. “The bad part— well, it’s all bad over there,” he corrected himself before continuing. “Got into some trouble gambling at Lady Proxima’s casino and a bunch of white worms surrounded me. So I killed them, all of them. I didn’t have to. But I did. I murdered them in cold blood.”

It was in that moment you learned how dangerous of a man The Mandalorian was. His beskar armour was just as cold as his heart.

“Wh— why did you kill them?” you asked timidly, almost afraid to know the answer.

“For the release. The adrenaline. The feeling of power. I can’t escape it. Have you ever killed?”

“N—no.”

Din scoffed incredulously. “Of course you haven’t.”

“What do you do after you kill?” you inquired, hoping to change the subject.

“Corellia has the best brothels… cheap too. I sought them out and look for a quick fuck.”

“Out of wedlock?” you pondered with a queasy frown.

Din laughed. “You’re asking if I’m married?”

He was right, it was a foolish question. 

“Do you enjoy your time at the brothel? Or do you regret it soon after?” you wondered.

Another laugh— and Maker, he made you feel terrible. Were you really that bad at this? 

“Yes, I enjoy myself. The girls there are pretty little things. Needy. Desperate. But— it’s not special, you know? It’s not… not exactly what I crave.”

“What do you crave?”

“To touch someone untouched. Pure. Holy…” the Mandalorian trailed off. “So, when I fuck the girls at the brothel, I tend to think of the Grand Bishop’s daughter.” He revealed, feeling his cock harden in the confines of his pants at the memory. You swallowed, a wave of heat immediately washing over you. You. He was thinking about you.

This was ridiculous. Was he messing with you? He had to have been messing with you. Sure, he’d seen you around before but neither of you had even held a conversation, prior to today. And he’d been thinking about you while he was sleeping with other women? You had to suck it up and remain professional, no matter how much it irked you. He was here to confess and you couldn’t let this become personal.

But it was so hard. Maker, why was it this hard? Was it because you’d thought about him too? Because you’d imagined his cock in place of your fingers, at night when everyone else is sleeping? You yearned to know more. You ached to know the details. Surely that was fair. He was speaking about you, after all.

You could already feel your panties begin to dampen with arousal. How could one man have such an effect on you? In your place of worship too. You wanted to punch him, kick him, take out all your anger on him. But most importantly, you wanted him. His touch. His hands on your body and his cock splitting you open. That’s what you wanted the most.

“What did— what did you think of?” You swallowed, anticipating the details. You were glad he couldn’t see how flustered and hot you were right now. It certainly wasn’t in the code for you to ask about details such as this but… surely one question would do no harm.

You could just about hear Din chuckle, from the other side of the wall, and it made your slick wet cunt clench around absolutely nothing. He was driving you feral. “I’d think about her ruby red lips and how they’d look wrapped around my cock. I’d imagine fucking her mouth, making her gag— wanting her to cry. I’d want to see the tears stream down her cheeks as I give her my all. And finally, I’d imagine her letting me cum down her throat.”

There was something about him talking about you, to you, in third person. Like you weren’t supposed to be there, listening. Like this information was not made for your ears.

Your panties were soaked at the thought. You couldn’t believe it. All this time, all these sessions of confession with your father, and it had only stirred him on more. He’d been going to confess, only to see you. 

“Tell me, princess. How does that make you feel?”

Shit. He could not be serious right now. You placed your palm flat against the wall and took a deep breath. “Mando, you’re here to confess. Not me.”

You tried to shut out his words, but your body ached for him. Ached to feel him… touch him. You wanted him just as much as he wanted you — but it would be wrong. It would be so wrong.

Another chuckle. You hated when he did that. As if all of this was some kind of joke to him. Did he even know what he was doing to you? It was like torture. 

“See, the Grand Bishop’s daughter… oh wow. She’s a vision. She dotes crimson red lips and she walks around as if she owns the place, her stiletto heels clicking against the floor. She’s bad, like the devil in disguise, and yet, I know her. She’s young and untouched. Her father will probably marry her off to some other minister in the outer-rim, ship her away for good. And she’ll be forced to deal with very mediocre sex for the rest of her life. Which is a shame, really, because she deserves better. You deserve better.”

“You have no idea who I am.” you spat out, feeling your cheeks burn with rage. How dare he make these assumptions about you and your family. This crude, older man with a tongue that could kill. How dare he. 

You wanted to be mad at him so bad. He couldn’t possibly get away with this. But he was going to. Because what exactly could you do? 

“She’ll never know how it feels to be stretched open by a real cock,” Din gritted out, dismissing your comment completely. “F—fuck.”

Din was palming himself through his pants, desperate for some kind of release. His sleuth, dirty words set a fire blazing in your core. You wanted it too. You wanted it so bad. You contemplated all the things you could do, all the actions and their consequences. You and the Mandalorian, both in the confession box. You couldn’t even see one another… the prolonged silence on your end prompted Din to get up and leave when he heard your honey velvet voice speak once more.

You had to say something.

“When the lights are out and everyone is asleep, I think about you,” you confessed, hating the way the croaky admission left your lips. You’d done it now. Din’s head snapped upwards to face the wall and oh how he wished he could see you right now. You were squirming around in your chair and when you heard the zipper of his pants become undone, you knew it was your queue to continue. “I touch myself. It’s hard to keep quiet… thinking about you. I imagine you touching me… running your gloved hands all over my body,” you bring your hand to your breast and give it a little squeeze. “I figure.. maybe you don’t take the gloves off. You praise me when you feel how wet I am, and I tell you that it’s all for you. I’m all yours. To use however you like. I want you to ruin me. Spoil me for any other man. Fuck me until I cant walk. Bite me, give me marks I have to hide during tomorrow’s mass.”

Din made a fist around his cock and began to pump as he listened to the dirty words that left your holy lips. His grunts and groans echoed throughout the box and went straight to your core. Oh how you wished you could see him right now. Peeling up the hem of your robe, you slid your fingers under the waistband of your panties and began to rub tight circles into your clit. 

“You’re a virgin?” he asked, although it came out more so like a statement. Like he already knew the answer. 

“Ye-yeah,” you whimpered, quickening your pace.

He was achingly stiff now, beads of milky white precum already dripping down his shaft.

“You want this?” He quizzed. “You want my cock right now? Think you deserve it?”

And in that moment, you made your decision.

Maybe this life that your father had given you, just wasn’t for you.

“Y-yes, oh God yes. I deserve it.”

A low and dark chuckle left Din’s lips. “You’ve been a child of God your whole life. But you want this, yes? You’ve been waiting for this?”

He was right. You had been waiting for this. 

“P-please Din, please. Wreck me. Ruin me.”

“In the chapel too?” he laughed, rising to his feet. “You really are desperate. C’mon then.”

In a fluster, you practically fell out of your side of the confession box.

The Mandalorian stalked towards you with his cock in his hand, jerking himself off as he got nearer and nearer. His eyes didn’t leave you once and although you couldn’t see his face, you could only imagine the predatory glint in his eye. Maker he was huge, and thick, and you wondered how you’d ever be able to take him.

You weren’t used to this— Maker, you’d never done anything like this before. There was no way your fingers would ever be able to compare to the size of the Mandalorian. 

“Are you sure you want this?” he grunted, releasing his cock and grabbing your throat, giving it an experimental squeeze. You nodded your head desperately and subconsciously licked your lower lip. “I must know. If I start, I won’t be able to stop. Do you want me to claim you?”

Just like Hades claimed Persephone? You shut the absent thought out of your mind and agreed to his proposition.

“I do.”

If it was so wrong, why did it feel so right? You had dreamt of this moment. How could you ever deny him? 

He pinned you against the altar and tapped at your thigh, gesturing for you to open your legs up. His eyes dropped straight to your dripping core and he had to hold back a guttural moan.

Din wasted no time and rubbed his cock along your slick wet folds. For a second you were afraid he’d knock over the many burning candles that you had lit earlier in the evening, before your little confession session had begun. But, to no surprise of your own, the Mandalorian had extremely good coordination. 

“Oh f-fuck, such a pretty little thing. So warm, bet— bet you feel so fucking good.” Din mumbled utterances of praise, his grip tightening around your wrists as he propped you up. 

Every now and again the bulbous tip of his cock rubbed over your clit and the sensation practically sent you into orbit. You were touch starved, having never experienced intimacy like this with anyone before. “Do you want me to fuck you now, huh? Want me to fuck that pretty little cunt of yours?”

You whimpered a small ‘yes’ and Din chuckled darkly, tapping his cock against your cunt before sliding into you with one swift movement.

You let out a squeal, your fingernails digging into the muscles of his back as he seated deep inside you. Underneath his helmet, his perfect lips were parted into an ‘O’ shape as your fluttering walls clenched around him and made him feel like he was home.

“Fuck— so tight, so fucking tight. Just like I’d imagined.” He murmured, feeling like he was already seeing stars. 

Din thrust upwards into you, the curve of his cock stretching you open and pulsating inside of you. His movements were rough and bruising, as his fingers dug into the soft flesh at your hips as he held onto you for support. Just like you’d requested, he was completely and utterly using you. 

“How’s that?” his gasp rolled into an achingly long groan as his balls slapped against your cunt, creating the most obscene wet sounds.

It was uncomfortable at first. He wasn’t soft or gentle by any means, but you’d anticipated that. After just a few thrusts, the intrusive pain turned into bolts of pleasure that coursed through your veins. It clouded your vision like white noise— like what the red berry wine you’d drink during Sunday mass would do to your mind. Din grabbed at the thin cloth that covered your chest, and ripped it off, exposing your bare breasts to him. A sheen of glistening sweat glazed your skin like the most beautiful honey dew. The Mandalorian was tall and broad, and as he towered over you, he coated you in his dark shadow.

His large hands palmed at your breasts and you moaned at the sudden, unexpected contact. He continued thrusting, fucking you mercilessly. With every movement, he hit that sweet spot inside of you, and you knew he’d been doing this for a long time. He was definitely experienced.

He dropped his hand for your chest and lowered it to your clit, expertly moving his two fingers across your bundle of nerves. That feeling, combined with his thick cock, was enough to send you over the edge. 

“Oh yes, yes, yes,” you chanted his name like it was a prayer— and he felt powerful.

The Mandalorian grinned wolfishly under his helmet as he increased his speed. You were seeing stars and it felt like your whole body was trapped under a spell. His spell.

“I ca- oh I can’t, I’m close, I’m close,” you cried as he continued to rock his hips into yours.

You hugged his body into yours, wishing the pleasure would never end. With every twitch of his cock he watched you intently. He watched the way your body reacted to him, revelling in the way your face screwed up in heated pleasure. Din adored the way your brow knitted together and your mouth parted as the most angelic noises omitted from your plush lips. 

“Have you ever felt so alive than you do right now, with me inside of you?” Din queried with a grunt.

“No,” you answered, shaking your head profusely. “Please don’t stop.”

Your orgasm ripped through you like a tornado and without warning, The Mandalorian split his seed deep inside of you, his salty cum roping your perfect walls as they gripped down around his cock. Now he had marked you for life.

Din returned to confession a week later when your father had returned from the Festival of Lights. There was no reason for you to see The Mandalorian anymore. 

“Forgive me, Grand Bishop, for I have sinned yet again.” Din announced, his voice clear as daylight after discarding his beskar helmet. He ran a gloved hand over his face.

“Another kill?” your father inquired, but from the other side of the wall, Din could only smirk.

“I’ve met a woman. A holy woman. And she has consumed my every thought. When I think about her I feel more inclined to sin, over and over again.” 

It was true. Your ruby red lips, high heels, thin robes… Din had become completely enraptured with you. 

Your father spent a moment contemplating the Mandalorian’s words, finding that he was speaking a lot differently than ever before. Not as ruthless or dangerous— but almost genuine.

“Would you give your body to this holy woman, if she requested you do so?” The Grand Bishop asked, not realising he was speaking about you, his own daughter.

“I already have,” Din confessed, subconsciously licking a stripe over his lower lip, at the memory of your taste. “And I would do it again.”

-—-—-—���—-—-—-

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[silverglass83]

Magic is the life-blood of Krynn, or so those born with the will and drive to practice the Art will tell you. Very few become dedicated enough (or in many cases brave enough) to undergo the Test of High Sorcery. Those that do are changed forever.

The one known only as Yurielle was no exception to this rule.

...I come to the beginning of our tale - to when a young white-robed novice of Solinari walked into her Test of High Sorcery...

And walked out wearing the black robes of evil.

Here begins the story of Yurielle and how she altered the path of another influential soul in history: that belonging to the Archmage known as Raistlin Majere.   ~Astinus, Historian of the Great Library of Palanthas, Year 420 A.C.  Excerpt from ‘The Star and The Hourglass’  Volume I in ‘The Time of the Hourglass’ A companion piece to go along with my fanart sketch of Raistlin Majere

[southslates]

like an angry god

@kanejweek day four: darkness (corrupted ambition) / kanej / canon divergence - soulmates - one-shot - rated T / read on ao3! / 2007 words

Inej Ghafa comes to Ketterdam as part of a traveling circus. She doesn’t mean to enjoy the city, with its sharp architecture and cold edges, with its people who pray to kruge, but she does. There is something haunting in its corridors, something which whispers to her in its alleys. Inej is a gravity-defying girl, she is an acrobat and nothing more, but these late-night Kerch streets set fire to her bones. It is as if Ghezen has come alive to speak to her and tell her she could be more.

It's strange because she thinks she has everything. She also feels like she is missing something—not something that needs to be there, but some defining feature of her. She feels like she is spinning a wheel with a loose axel.

Ironically, she stumbles upon the Crow Club when Malik takes her in, wanting to try his hand at Makker’s Wheel. She indulges her cousin and lets him drag her into the lively business in the darkest hours of the night, knowing that they’re on break tomorrow. The Suli do not forbid fun, and they drink, Inej has drunk, but she does not want to in this strange city.

She ends up drinking anyway. She is caught up in the moment, caught up in the lights above the table, the large, large gambling hall, and almost in Salim, the friend Malik had brought with him to the club. Inej likes him, has always liked him, and the sight of him loosens her inhibitions. They loosen her inhibitions so far that she forgets him.

Inej wanders off across the hall, stopping to see the sheer variety of people who habit it: a white splatter of the upper-middle class of the Kerch, lazing away a Saturday; a collection of young children from Novyi Zem, laughing away in the corner; even a splashing of Fjerdans, staying away from alcohol and looking distrustfully at the numbers in front of them. It’s an experience, she can admit even halfway down her glass, eyes shining.

At some point she wanders over to a setting of Kerch men and women playing a game she doesn’t quite understand; they’re holding chips and laughing, cards dancing in front of their eyes. Inej has always been a quick study with these gambling games, though she detests playing; it’s something else the city has whispered into her mind, perhaps. It is the Ketterdam in her blood, though she’s certain she has never been here before. She has never been here before.

She sits at the table and picks up another glass. She will be fine; Malik and Salim are truly not that far away, she can see them from here. A women smiles at her with shark-teeth, daring her to down the cup in accented Kerch. Something in Inej does it, and then when she’s slid another one, she downs it again. Her eyes are uncharacteristically bright at the table, her head muddy.

It's only a moment later she’s in someone’s lap, between two people. It is the Kerch woman and another man, fitting her in the space between them. The woman’s hair is a rusty gold and the man has black hair and a gold tooth.

Inej may have drank too much, but she isn’t stupid. She blinks and sees that Malik and Salim are gone from her line of sight—then she promptly sits up, a bit more aware of her surroundings. This is not a situation she is new to; she’s almost been taken by slavers as a child. They had ransacked her family’s caravan near the Ravkan shore and would have stolen her away from her family had she not woken up early. She has learned to be suspicious of people, and she let her guard down. It’s this saints-forsaken city, she thinks briefly. It is affecting some part of me.

“Hey, sweetheart,” the man whispers with whiskey breath, and Inej pulls herself into the space between the bodies she is caged in, ready to pull one of her acrobatic feats—twist her body, do the unimaginable. But before she does and the woman’s vodka-laced breath rushes across her face, something hard clangs down on the table in front of her.

Inej is only human, so the sound makes her lurch. The tablecloth moves forward, and something shatters and then leaks onto her on the bench. She groans, because alcohol will not go well with the cottons she’d donned for a night out.

“Peter,” a voice says crisply. “Lotte. You are not welcome here. Did I not make that clear enough last time?”

The bodies next to Inej scramble away from her, and she looks up in her disorientation to see a man who can’t be much older than her, a cane in his hand bisecting the table and separating her from Lotte on her left. On her right, Peter has shifted away from her and is now standing up, raising his hands above him. “We didn’t mean nothin’, I promise—”

“I don’t give second chances,” the man says, and his voice is cold, so cold it almost crawls into Inej’s spine and then leaves her body, but icy enough that it wants to make a place there. His voice is the city’s whispers in her ears, the biddings of greed. She is buzzed, but she still looks at his sharp suit and glaring eyes and thinks: Who are you?

Or perhaps she voiced that thought out loud. No matter; the man ignores her, watching as Peter and Lotte stand up and try to leave the premises. Inej lets the whiskey on the table, cold as it is, leak into her shirt as she watches two large men grab the two vermin by their collars and drag them away to some corner.

“Wow,” she says out loud at the brief spectacle—some patrons have turned to see the two get carted off, but more seem unsurprised. “I was fine.”

���Who said anything about you?” the man bites. “There are no games here. There is no place for cheats.”

Inej is straightforward, and her filters are off as she wrings out her shirt. “You could at least pretend to be chivalrous.”

The man glares at her, his gaze dark and intense and dangerous—but for whatever reason, Inej doesn’t feel like it will cut through her. Maybe that is just the stupidity of being drunk. The longer he stares at her, the more she wants to laugh. “You cannot kill me by looking at me, you know.”

He says nothing, just takes his cane off the table and begins to limp away from her. Inej bites her lip and stares at his receding back—that moment had felt strangely powerful.

“Yer brave,” the girl next to her says after he has disappeared from sight, into a door at the club’s side. “To talk to Kaz Brekker like that.”

“Who?” Inej asks, and the boy next to her, keeping his distance after what had happened to the woman in his previous position, looks almost affronted.

“He is Kaz Brekker, Ja. They say he has played cards with the devil and won,” he says, like he is speaking of a myth, and not the twenty-year-old man with a ridiculous glare Inej had faced just moments ago. “He used to be better, ja, growing up on the streets. But he culled his boss right las’ week, he did. Hung his body from the lighthouse by First Harbor. They say he will commit any sin, without a price. Bloodthirsty.”

Inej leans in close to him, feels something lock into place, the gears of her heart. “Really?” she asks. “He just seems like a man.”

“He is no man, he is a demon. A quick thief, too,” the girl nods to her, and Inej grasps at her pockets. Her coinpurse is missing.

“An immature demon,” she says, stepping up, her head spinning just a bit. “Cheap tricks, for shevrati.”

Inej Ghafa leaves them there and takes the path that the man with the cane had followed; he couldn’t have gotten too far from her, with his disability. Ostensibly, she knows she should not be trying to pick a fight in the middle of the night with a man who just hung another in a public display, but the city is speaking to her; the club is, as though it has a heart. Inej believes in saints, and they are leading her a certain way, giving her the want to get her coinpurse back. It had a sizeable amount of kruge, and she refuses to be made a fool of.

The hallway is dark and she follows its walls to a set of stairs, and then walks up them. At the end there is a door, and to its side, when she moves her hand a certain way, another small alley; a trick alley. She follows that aisle to another door, wooden and locked and in the pitch dark. She shoves her body weight against it.

She doesn’t know what she is planning on doing. Do demons give you back your money if you ask them nicely? What is inserting this drive into her veins?

“What?” a voice roars from inside the room, and then a moment later, as Inej pushes herself against it, it opens. She almost trips onto a cold metal floor, but she doesn’t—she is an acrobat, even sheets to the wind. So she rights herself and turns to the man with the cane—Kaz Brekker.

“You,” he says, distaste coating his mouth. There is no good intent hidden in that word, nor in the hard lines of his face. Whoever this man is, he is not good.

“Me,” Inej agrees, then holds out her hand. “My coinpurse, please.”

“Your . . . coinpurse,” the man says, her face twitching. He is wearing a hat and a suit perfectly tailored to all his edges, a glass man. Inej wonders if she could break him. “Why would I have such a thing?”

“You do,” Inej insists. Of this, she is certain. She’s had it until he was just a foot behind her. “Give it back.”

“You’re very demanding,” he says. Inej wonders if he can feel a pull towards her, like she does for him. His face is surely not giving anything away. “You must be new.”

“I’m visiting,” Inej says, some sort of fear starting to creep into her voice. Perhaps the liquid courage has left her soul in a flush—perhaps the city is no longer with her. She can feel it drifting around her bones, maybe leaving. It is as though it has filled the strange place in her soul with something, not left her empty.

He leans into her—he doesn’t leer, not in a way that is lewd, but in a way that is certainly dangerous. “Well, then, my dear visitor,” he says the word like a curse, “you would do well to leave now, before I break your legs for coming to my office without permission.” His eyes scan her, perfunctorily, and Inej can only dream she sees something below the surface. “You need your legs. Or perhaps you can walk a rope with your hands,” he sneers.

Then he slams the door in Inej’s face. The city escapes her, returns back for its sins, disturbs her edges. I have shown you a story, she can feel it whisper, from the wrong end, wrong beginning.

She slides out of the secret corridor and down into the busy club. The Crow Club, it’s called. The largest building in the Stave. She wonders if the foundation was built on a demon’s work. She wonders why she feels like she should know, why there is a haunting space in her mind.

Inej wonders who Kaz Brekker is. She wonders why her saints guided her towards a demon, what they were trying to tell her.

She wonders how he knows she performs on the rope.

[mummybear]

Demon From My Nightmares - Part Two

Part One Here

Words: 6354

Warnings: Swearing, Smut, Sinful Amounts Of Dirty Talk, Degradation, Name Calling, Little Bit Of Angst, Restraints (Handcuffs), Edging, Orgasm Denial/Control, Choking, Slight Knife Kink, Angry Demon Dean ;) Yes that’s a warning! Think that’s it! :)

Pairing: Demon!Dean x Reader

Characters: Dean Winchester, Reader, Sam Winchester, Mentions Of Castiel

Summary: Dean doesn’t take too kindly to you letting Sam and Cas take him back to the bunker. When the two of you are alone he finds a way to show you just how pissed he is.

A/N: This is another square on my @spndeanbingo​ - Demon!Dean.

A massive thank you as always to my incredible beta for everything she does <3 @negans-lucille-tblr

Ko-fi HERE

You hear Sam close your front door behind him downstairs as you throw your duffle bag on top of your messy bed. Throwing in any of your clean clothes and underwear, along with the few pictures in your room. There’s part of you that wonders how you hadn’t realised that you didn’t actually belong here, you barely had anything in the house. How long would Sam and Cas have left you here if Dean hadn’t found you? Would they have expected you to wait until your memories came back on their own? How was it that your now demon ex boyfriend still cared about you more than two people you considered to be your best friends?

There was so much going through your mind as you finally tugged the zipper of your duffle closed. You knew you were probably being an idiot going back to the bunker to help Dean, but you couldn’t leave him. Not like that. The way he’d made you feel just twenty minutes ago…  he may be a demon, but you knew your Dean was still in there somewhere.

The ache between your thighs is still fresh and you can’t deny that you want more, you’d missed him so much. The way his hands had felt on your body, his lips against yours. That perfectly husky voice in your ear as he fucked you within an inch of your life. He always knew just what you needed. Then, of course, you miss everything after the sex, the way he’d pull you close and kiss the top of your head, soft touches of his fingers over your back until you fell asleep. His stupid jokes and a sense of humour which you’d always admired with everything he had been though. You needed to get him back, that fiercely loyal and protective brave man, the one that you loved heart, body and soul. 

You scold yourself as you leave your bedroom and head down the stairs, because you can’t stop thinking about how hot you find this version of him, no matter how dangerous he is and despite yourself, you want him to own you and make you beg for him.

Locking your front door, you head over to where Sam has the Impala parked on the side of the road, engine running while he waits for you. You take a deep breath before you pull the car door open, that familiar smell hitting you like a tonne of bricks. You may not have remembered earlier today, but now you couldn’t forget the way he smelled. Clearing your throat, you finally climb into the car and close the door behind you. 

As Sam starts driving you can’t help but be angry at him and Cas for the way they had handled this situation. Part of you is thankful that they caught him, but the bigger part of you is pissed as hell that they sidelined you so they could get to him, put you at risk without even talking to you, or giving you your own say. Surely they knew that you would say yes to anything that could’ve helped Dean, right?

“So are you just gonna ignore me until we get back to the bunker, Y/N?” Sam asks with a sigh, looking between you and the road. 

Rolling your eyes you finally turn to look at him, “Sam are you kidding me? You actually expect me to be okay with what you two did to me?” You ask incredulously, resisting the urge to throw your hands in the air from utter frustration.

You quickly see the guilty look that crosses Sam’s face as he shifts awkwardly in his seat. 

“Y/N, listen-” he tries, but you cut him off with a shake of your head.

“Don’t, Sam. You had so much time where you could’ve told me what was going on, I would’ve helped! You know that I’d do anything for Dean. What would you and Cas have done if Dean killed me?” You ask turning to look at him, he glances between you and the road and frowns as he runs a hand through his long hair. 

“Dean wouldn’t do that,” Sam tries to reason.

“No, you’re right. Your big brother and the man I love wouldn’t even consider hurting us. But this Dean is a demon, Sam, we’re just ants in his playground. You’re lucky things worked out the way they did, if he gets away from Cas or out of those chains you’ve got him locked up in at the bunker, then we’re all dead,” you tell him honestly and you can practically hear Sam swallow beside you. You know the reason he doesn’t reply is because he knows you’re right.

You turn away and shake your head, leaning against the cool window as Sam continues to drive.

You don’t know when you fell asleep but you had to have at some point, as Sam is currently shaking you awake. 

“Y/N, we’re home,” he tells you gently.

You sit up and stretch out your body, yawning as you wipe at your eyes.

“Okay, I’m up.” 

“Look, I am sorry. I understand if you never want to talk to me again, but I mean it and I’ve really missed you,” Sam tells you sadly, those damn puppy eyes making an appearance again.

You sigh loudly and finally look at him, “look, I’m pissed at you, both of you. But I’m not gonna disown you over it, Sammy. Just promise me, you’ll talk to me next time.” 

Sam smiles slightly giving you a small nod, “I promise.”

-

Dean’s inhumanly loud and animalistic growls had been filling the bunker for hours now, but he’d finally fallen quiet twenty minutes ago. Part of you knows you should stay in your room and wait for Sam and Cas to do what they need to. Then there’s the other part of you that wants to go and see him, you need to make sure he’s as okay as he can be. The ache between your thighs reminds you of how he’d made you feel, maybe he is still your Dean deep down. He had all of his memories at least, from what you could tell. Sure, maybe he felt his feelings in a different way, but the way he’d touched you, the way he’d made you feel was indescribable.

With your mind made up you slip off of your bed and out of your room, staying light on your feet, not wanting Sam or Cas to hear you. You knew they’d only stop you. Turning the corner quickly you find the door you know Dean is behind and to your surprise it opens without needing to be unlocked.

You step inside the darkened room and you swear you can feel his presence already.

“You just couldn’t stay away, could you sweetheart?” Comes the deep timber of his voice in the darkness. You swallow hard, taking another step into the room, your thighs squeezing together as a reflex of hearing his voice.

Another step and you’re standing by the light on the table, and you quickly flick it on. Your knees almost buckle beneath you at the sight of him tightly tied down to a chair, you can see how angry he is, it’s written all over his face. But there’s also a flicker of what you believe is amusement at seeing you standing in front of him. 

You stay silent as you walk those few extra steps closer, your feet staying just outside the devils trap. Safe to say you never thought you’d see Dean Winchester trapped in one of these things. 

You glance over at the empty syringes of blood that are scattered across the table by the lamp, his fingers are clenched into fists and you watch as he roughly tugs at the rope binding his wrists. The chair moves against the floor a little the more he struggles, and you can’t stop yourself from flinching. You look away from him and down at the floor when his sinister chuckle bounces off of the walls.

“Aww baby, what’s up? You ain’t scared of little ol’ me are you?” His voice is condescending to the say the least, when you look back up at him there’s a devilish smirk on his plump lips and his eyes flash black.

“N-No, I’m fine.” Your blatant lie and shaking voice is met with another laugh.

“Why don’t you come over here? I’ve got plenty more that I wanted to do with that fucking sexy body of yours.” It sounds like a threat and a promise as it rolls flawlessly off of his talented tongue. One which you’re more than aware he can fully live up to, and completely surpass, if you gave him the opportunity.

“I’m not an idiot Dean, you’ll just use me to get out. Believe me, the second you’re back to being the real you, you won’t need to ask twice.” 

He licks his full lips and leans forward in his seat, flashing you those pearly whites. He locks eyes with you as they flick from black back to the green ones you know and love.

“Really? So you’re tellin’ me that you don’t want me to fuck you like I did earlier? You’re gonna pretend you don’t crave being my dirty little slut? We both know you do, remember how you begged for my cock? Well, after this little stunt, sweetheart, you’re gonna have to beg a lot harder for it.” There’s a growl in his voice, and you can feel your panties getting wet from his words alone.

You just about manage to swallow around the lump in your throat. You watch him grin widely when you take another step closer, finally breaching the outer circle of the devils trap. Honestly, you don’t know what you’re thinking, other than that you would do anything to please him, anything to get him to make you feel the way you did earlier and this is what he wants, so you’re gonna give it to him. 

When you take another step forward Dean growls low in his throat and tugs harder at the ropes that bind him to the chair. You walk the last step towards him and he’s leaning so far forward in his chair, that you're surprised the ropes haven’t snapped yet. You tug at the hem of Dean’s flannel shirt that you’re wearing, very aware that what you’re doing is stupid.

“I shouldn’t be here. Sam said-” Your breathy words are stopped when Dean growls at the mention of his brothers name.

“I don’t give a fuck what Sam said. You’re mine. It’s about damn time you started remembering who you belong to. Now fuckin’ take that off.” Dean snaps, nodding at the plaid shirt you're still playing with.

Chewing at your bottom lip you finally meet his eyes again, “Dean I don’t think-” you practically stutter.

“No. You don’t think. You do as you’re fucking told, like the good little slut you are. Now, take it off.” His voice is practically a snarl at this point and leaves no room for argument, his eyes have gone black and his mouth is set in such a way that makes your stomach tight.

With shaking fingers, you reach up and start undoing the buttons. Watching as his eyes slowly return to green, he pulls his plump bottom lip between his teeth and you can see the grin just beneath. He’s watching you so intently that you make sure to take it slowly.

When the material falls to the floor, Dean groans. The bra you’re wearing is tighter and smaller than usual since your others are in the wash and it pushes your breasts together firmly. You step between his legs, a nervous smile on your lips when he looks up at you with a look that makes your knees weak.

“Look at you. My perfect little slut. You better untie me, you’ve got a lot of making up to do.” 

His voice is like a demand,but you know you can’t listen, that’s the one thing that would mean you’d never get your Dean back and you can’t allow that.

“I….I can’t Dean.” You practically whisper, feeling his knees close around your thighs when you try and back away.

“You wanna try that again?” Dean practically seethes, his hands clenched into fists against the arms of the chair.

You can actually feel your legs shaking now, from fear as well as the arousal you’d been plagued with since you’d left the house you’d called home.

“No Dean. I can’t, I’m sorry,” you whisper, trying to get free of the grip of his legs, “I should go to bed.”

When you turn away and finally free yourself, a loud crash fills the room and a hand wraps tightly and harshly around your wrist, effectively cutting off the scream with complete shock.

“What the fuck did you just say to me?” Dean spits angrily, pulling you forwards so roughly that you collide with his chest. 

You look up at home with wide eyes and your heart almost stops in your chest.

“H-How did you get out of that?” you ask quietly, tugging your arm free of his hold and stumbling out of the devils trap away from him.

Dean’s smirk is dangerous and you're frozen as he makes his way towards you, stopping at the very edge of the devils trap. Suddenly you’re very aware that you’re standing in front of him in only your underwear. 

“I think you know how, sweetheart.” His voice is low and husky and you visibly shiver as it causes goosebumps to rise across your exposed skin. 

“You’re about to get what you deserve, and this time no touching for you.” He’s grinning as he pulls out some cuffs from behind his back. He nods over towards the hook in the corner of the room and you gasp when he steps forward again, out of the devils trap and he forces you back until you collide with the wall behind you.

His entire body is pressed against yours, trapping you between the solid wall of muscle that is Dean and the solid brick wall behind you.

“Dean, please, can’t we wait until you’re better?” You try and reason, whimpering loudly when he presses harder against you and you can feel his hard cock pressed between you. The tip of his nose traces the line of your jaw up to your ear, breath ghosting along your skin.

“I fucking love how I am baby girl, never been better. If we’re being honest, my needy little slut, you love it too, don’t ya? You like me a little twisted. Just the right amount of fucked up to deal with you, ain’t that right?” he asks hotly, fingers moving over the damp patch on your panties. 

Your head falls back against the wall, but the only thing moving is his fingers, pulling harsh breath after breath from your lips. He has you so distracted that you don’t feel the cold metal lock around your wrists until the last second. 

Dean pulls you, stumbling over to the door when you both hear footsteps coming from the distance. The door is cold against your heated skin and your cheek is pressed tightly to it as the footsteps stop.

“Y/N? Are you in there? Is everything okay?” Sam calls suddenly, twisting the door handle but Dean grips it tightly and it stops moving. 

“Lock it. Tell him everything is fine,” Dean demands quietly, smirking against your neck when you suck in a breath, before his teeth drag over your pulse point and he wraps your hair around his fist and tugs harshly.

You just about manage to nod your head with the grip he has on your hair. “Yeah Sam, I’m fine. Dean and I just needed to talk,” You tell him as you lock the door, trying to keep the shake out of your voice.

“Okay, well I was just about to head out for some supplies, are you sure everything’s okay?” Sam asks as Dean pushes his hand into the front of your panties. His fingers drag back and forth teasingly through your slick heat. Your nails dig into your thighs as you try to keep the cuffs still, so Sam doesn’t get suspicious. 

“Yes, everything’s fine. You go, I’ll be fine,” you reply a little shortly, biting your bottom lip hard and almost drawing blood when Dean pushes two fingers inside of you easily. His chuckle vibrates against your neck, and you barely hear Sam’s reply as you snap back at Dean.

“Fuck you, you twisted demon dick.” 

His fingers are gone immediately and you slump against the door, “Oh baby, you know I love it when you talk dirty to me.” You can practically hear the smirk in his voice as he roughly pulls you away from the door by your hair and turns you to face him. You squeal in surprise when he picks you up and throws you over his shoulder, your arms getting trapped beneath you. Before you know what’s happening, Dean lowers you to the floor and pulls your arms above your head, securing the cuffs to the hook hanging from the ceiling.

You lift your chin from your chest and meet his eyes. Those cold, dark black eyes that fill you with a sense of dred and nervous excitement but most of all there’s that overwhelming sense of pure and unadulterated lust.

“Dean, come on, you know I had nothing to do with any of this. I just wanted you back, the real you.” 

You watch that smirk stretch across his perfect pink lips and you have to clamp your thighs together. His aftershave surrounds you when he steps closer, his breath fanning across your parted lips.

“Now baby, I thought we’d already spoken about this. This is the real me, the best me.” There’s a pause as he takes another step closer and lets his calloused fingers slowly drag down the length of your stomach, until the tips are sliding back and forth over the hem of your panties.

“Besides, do you really think I don’t know how much you crave me like this, that’s why you came in here tonight wasn’t it sweetheart?” he sounds so cocky, so sure of himself but your stomach is too busy rolling with arousal.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you’re voice isn’t as certain as you’d hoped it would sound, you sound nervous to say the least.

“Deny it all you want. It doesn’t matter. You’re gonna be begging for my cock when I’m done with you. Just like you did the last time. So desperate and needy,” Dean tells you quietly, letting his lips brush yours ever so slightly. You feel your breathing increase when you lean in and try and kiss him, but he pulls away just far enough so you can’t reach him, although his hand remains just above your panties. 

“You’re gonna have to work for it my little slut.” You whimper loudly, feeling the tip of a knife slip beneath the side of your panties, just barely digging into your skin, but the threat is enough to make more arousal flood the already wet fabric. 

Dean’s free hand grips your jaw tightly when you try to look at the floor and he kicks your feet apart with his booted foot. The blade is cold against your heated skin but he doesn’t move, his grip on your jaw tight as he meets your eyes again. 

“Dean, please. Just take the rest of your cure and we can do whatever you want all night.” You beg him through clenched teeth, wincing when his grip tightens.

“Why would I do that, hmm? I can already do what I want all night,” he chuckles gently tugging the knife through the side of your panties easily. “Who are you kidding here sweetheart? You fucking love being treated like a demons little fuck toy. You need it, don’t you?” he whispers the last part, voice husky and daring. As he drags the blade of the knife up your other thigh, not digging in enough to make a mark, hooking into the only remaining side of your panties and giving a rough tug. They drop to the floor and you can’t help but moan as the cool air in the room moves between your legs, making your throbbing clit tingle at the change of temperature.

“Look at you, such a fucking wet mess.” Dean laughs, letting go of your jaw, leaving behind an ache which manages to ground you slightly.

“Oh fuck,” you whimper feeling the blade just barely digging into your stomach as he slides it up over your soft skin. Keeping his plump bottom lip trapped between his teeth, as he makes quick work of cutting your bra from your body, letting it fall to the floor, a satisfied noise leaving his now parted lips at seeing you naked again.

The knife clatters to the floor and you quickly look up meeting his green eyes, full of lust and desire and it makes your heart jump in your chest.

“What is it baby girl? I didn’t think you wanted me, like this.” He all but purrs, standing impossibly close his fingers trail slowly down your stomach and between your legs. You whine his name as his fingers move through your slick, circling your clit gently before dipping back down and he slowly slides those same fingers inside your tight wet heat. His lips are pressed against your ear as your walls clamp around his fingers and he moans deeply, starting a slow deep rhythm that has you wishing your thighs would stop shaking, because your arms are already aching with the effort of keeping yourself up right.

“Such a tight wet little cunt, fucking perfect. Clearly I didn’t fuck you hard enough earlier. Is that what you want my little slut? You want it harder, faster, deeper? Want me to make you come until it hurts sweetheart?” Dean growls deeply, picking up the speed of his fingers until he feels you clamping down around them and he pulls them away.

You gasp for breath as your legs collapse beneath you and the orgasm slowly starts to drain away. “What the hell Dean?” You pant in irritation.

Dean laughs, circling your body until he’s standing behind you. “Like I said, you’re gonna fucking earn it.”

“Oh fuck you, Dean!” You spit out angrily. 

“You’ve got such a dirty mouth on you. I guess we’ll see how long you can keep that up tonight, I can’t wait to see just how long it takes for you to break.” 

-

You don’t know how long has passed or how many times Dean had brought you right to the edge of orgasm before stepping away, looking more and more pleased with himself each and every time. You were panting heavily, your entire body aches and feels weak, the pulsing between your legs has become painful. You’re so desperate for release and he knows it, but your voice is hoarse from your pleas for release. But he’d simply chuckled and sucked his fingers clean and he watched you huff in annoyance as the orgasm faded.

Your entire body is practically vibrating when he steps towards you again, even his breath against your skin makes you whimper in desperation. He stays close to you, still completely clothed, you can feel the slight brush of that damn red shirt against your skin as he circles you.

“Dean, please I’m sorry. You’re right, I need you, I don’t give a fuck if you’re a demon. I need you to make me come, please, I’ll do anything.” You beg him, unashamed and even more desperate than any of the other times previously, feeling the tears pressing against the backs of your eyes. 

Dean stops in front of you, eyes black and tongue pressing against his sharp canine and a smirk curling the corners of his perfect lips. 

“I’m sorry sweetheart, what was that? I didn’t hear you.” Dean mocks you, as the green fades back into his eyes you don’t miss the sparkle in his eyes, he’s enjoying this far too much.

A tear rolls down your cheek but you’re so frustrated you don’t even pay it any attention. You know he wants you begging for his cock, he loves to see how desperate you are for him, especially this depraved version of him.

“Please fuck me Dean, I need your big cock. Please, I’ll do anything you want,” you plead desperately, clinging to the chains that are wrapped around your cuffs.

You let out a shaky sigh of relief, hearing the tell tale sounds of his belt buckle clanging open. When he steps in close and pulls you down from the hook you fall against his chest, barely any strength to hold yourself up at that moment. Dean holds you up by your upper arms before you can fall, and for the first time in what your sure has been at least an hour, you feel his plump lips pressing against yours and you can’t help but moan against them. It doesn’t last nearly long enough though, he’s soon pulling away and pushing you down onto your knees.

He unlocks the cuffs and pulls your arms behind your back, he’s eerily silent, but you don’t care - whatever he wants he can have. You hear them click back into place and watch as he walks back in front of you again, that delicious smirk on his lips.

You look up at him with big, almost innocent eyes, biting your bottom lip when you watch him pull that perfect thick cock from his boxers and push his jeans down his thick legs. You swallow hard and lick your lips, watching as he strokes it back and forth, unable to stop the roll of your hips trying to find friction anywhere you can.

“Look at you,” Dean purrs, dragging his thumb over your bottom lip. “Such an obedient little slut all of a sudden, such a good little girl. You wanna suck my cock baby?” 

You whine at how sexy his voice sounds, every word he speaks sends you further into a place where only he exists. He almost sounds like the old Dean towards the end and you just want to please him. When you stay quiet, Dean bends down, so that his nose brushes against yours briefly, and you have to hold back the moan bubbling up in your throat.

“I really wanna suck your big cock Dean, please.” 

“Of course you do, baby. I bet you’re making a right fucking mess all over the floor right now. Just from thinkin’ about choking on my cock, I bet you could come just from that right now, couldn’t you?” He chuckles knowingly watching you swallow hard when he backs off, back to towering over you. 

“Yes, Dean,” you answer obediently, feeling the throbbing between your legs intensifying in anticipation.

Dean runs the angry red tip of his swollen cock over your parted lips, grunting quietly when your tongue gently laps at the pre-cum leaking from the tip. Pushing into your mouth quickly and gripping your jaw tightly, he takes you by surprise when the head of his cock nudges at the back of your throat, and you can’t help but gag a little. 

“You might wanna relax or this is gonna hurt.” Dean chuckles, pulling out slightly before thrusting his hips forward again. You try to breathe through your nose better than before, but find yourself gagging just as harshly, your throat tightening around the intrusion. 

“Surely you remember that though, a good little slut like you must remember,” Dean growls deeply.

You look up at him with tears starting to leak from your eyes, watching as he unlocks his phone a devilish smirk on those perfect lips and he aims the camera at you. He licks his lips and you see him tap the screen. Tossing the phone somewhere close by he grips the hair at the top of your head. Your nails dig into your palms, your jaw is aching from the grip Dean has on you as he starts to pick up a faster speed, practically fucking your face. The drool leaks from the corners of your sore lips, everything hurts in the best way as he uses your mouth for his pleasure. Every time you gag, Dean thrusts that much harder the next time. Your chin, chest and thighs are soaked from the spit leaking from your mouth as his grip tightens on your hair and your jaw. He’s right though, because even choking on his cock has you close to the edge. Dean pulls himself free of your lips with a growl when your eyes start to roll,and you just about manage to choke out his name, wanting to warn him, so that you don’t come without his permission, you didn’t need another reason to piss him off more.

His hand drops from your face but his grip remains just as tight on your hair. 

“Guess I was right, hmm? Almost came all over the floor, just like the desperate little slut that you are,” Dean taunts,  knowingly.

Hauling you up onto your shaking legs with the grip he has on your hair, you fall against him with little to no balance. You melt against him as his lips roughly claim yours once more and you can feel him backing you up, until a table hits the back of your legs whilst his tongue continues to intertwine with yours perfectly. 

His mouth is suddenly gone from yours all too soon, and you whimper at the loss as he turns you quickly in his hold and slams you down onto the table you’d bumped into. You wince at the forcefulness behind it, the cold wood makes your nipples painfully hard, and you wish you could grip onto the table edges for support when Dean kicks your feet apart. The cold air on your soaked and exposed pussy makes you shiver, and you moan loudly, finally feeling his thickness slide through your dripping folds. 

“I need your cock, please. I can’t take any more teasing Dean, please.” Your voice comes out hoarse and breathy. 

A harsh slap comes down on your ass cheek and you whimper his name loudly, gritting your teeth hard as another slap comes down on the opposite cheek, just as hard as the first. A loud growl echoes around the room as Dean thrusts into you in one rough thrust, and you cry out in surprise, unable to grip the table like you want to as it screeches across the floor.

“Such a tight little cunt,” Dean groans, gripping your ass cheeks in his hands and squeezing them tightly, as he pulls them apart, and you can feel his eyes on you.

He withdraws his thickness from you slowly, so that you feel every glorious inch. 

“Oh fuck! Yes Dean!” You scream, as he slams back inside you hard and fast, the pleasure and pain blurring the lines. With every snap of his hips, Dean starts to pick up a steady pace, which has the table continuing to screech across the floor, the sound mixing with Dean’s pleasured grunts and your whimpering and moaning. 

“Can I come Dean? Please, please. I can’t hold it anymore.” 

The harder you beg, the faster his movements get, he releases his grip on your ass, one hand gripping the chain joining your cuffs together, the other gripping your hip bruisingly. The clap of your ass as it bounces against his hips joins the filthy sounds in the room.

“Fuck, you dirty little slut, come on then, come all over my cock. But you better fuckin’ scream for me,” Dean grunts,moving the hand that was on your hip to between your legs, rubbing your clit with the perfect amount of pressure. 

You gasp for breath, a faint squeak of Dean’s name passes your lips as your orgasm hits and your eyes roll, white completely fills your vision, but Dean’s pace doesn’t falter. Not even when you soak the floor beneath you, the wet noise of your pussy gripping his cock is like nothing you’d ever heard, and it only turns you on even more.

Dean doesn’t give you time to come down from one of the most intense orgasms of your life, before you know it you’re being pulled back against his clothed chest and he wraps his hand around your throat, squeezing tightly. His lips press against your ear and he growls deep in his throat.

“I’ve got a fuckin’ good mind to make you clean that mess up with your tongue. But you’d probably just enjoy it, wouldn’t you, huh?” Dean asks, chuckling to himself. You can only bring yourself to moan out louder when he drags his teeth across the sensitive spot just under your ear.

You can feel Dean’s blunt nails digging into the side of your neck.

Suddenly the door almost comes flying off the hinges. Dean stills behind you but doesn’t seem surprised, like he knew it was coming, it's like you can feel him smirking as he pulls his lips away from your neck.

Sam stands in the doorway panting hard, clearly he'd been trying to get in for a while. But you hadn't heard a single thing.

"Can we help you with something, Sammy? Or are you just here to play the peeping Tom?" Dean asks, that condescending tone thick in his voice.

"Dean what the hell are you doing?" Sam asks angrily, his eyes flicking between you and his brother.

"Y/N, are you okay?" 

"I'm giving this little slut what she wants, ain't that right, sweetheart?" Dean asks, snapping his hips forward harshly and making you scream. "Fucking answer me, don't be rude in front of my brother," Dean demands, with another snap of his hips he pulls a whimper from your lips, but you can still hear the laughter in his voice.

"I'm great, Sam. Can you go? We're kinda busy here," You mutter under your heavy breathing.

Sam ignores you and looks at his brother. 

"Then why is she cuffed?" Sam questions and you bite your lip as Dean turns you to face him with a harsh grip on your jaw, his hips moving every time he speaks.

"Because she's a kinky little bitch. Likes it when I fucking ruin her and she can’t get away - wants it, over and over again. She was begging for my cock, little brother, you should've heard her, so desperate, just wanted me to fucking own her." You can't help but smile as Dean looks right at you when he's talking, though there's a blush rising in your cheeks. 

Sam is trying to focus anywhere that isn't on the two of you.

"Take them off, then Sam can go and we can finish. I promise I won't move Dean, I'll be a good girl," you purr quietly against his lips.

Dean smirks and tugs your bottom lip between his teeth. Bending down he grabs the key from his jeans pocket, you whimper as he stands again and his cock slips fully back inside you. Undoing the cuffs they quickly fall to the floor, Sam looks at the two of you, surprised to see you haven't even tried to move. Chest still rising and falling quickly, as you look into Dean's black eyes.

"Now could you kindly fuck off, I’ve got business to finish, Sammy."

The door slams shut and Sam doesn't even bother replying.

"Look who's learning. Such a good little slut for me," Dean groans as your pussy flutters around his cock.

"Guess you earned yourself a treat, you get to choose where I come. You want it all over that pretty little face, or do you want it deep inside you, leaking out of this perfect little cunt for the next few days?" Dean asks huskily, starting to pick up his thrusts again, the sounds echoing off the walls.

"Wherever you want baby, use me." You moan, feeling his hand wrap tightly in your hair as he tugs hard. 

"That's my girl. Just how I wanted you, all mine. Finally broke you, just fucking beautiful." He praises you with a chuckle, fucking into your tight wet heat like it's the last thing he'll ever do. 

The air feels like it's been stolen from your lungs as he uses your body to get himself off. But whatever he's doing, whatever he's saying is working for you in the best way.

"Gonna….come," you manage to choke out.

"Do. It. Fuck! Do. It!" Dean growls each word followed by a particularly hard thrust that hits your sweet spot repeatedly.

You can't manage to utter a single word this time as you fall apart, in fact you completely black out.

You wake up with a warm comfortable bed beneath your sore and tired naked body. You jolt up when you hear him scream again. You jump out of bed on shaking legs and wrap your robe around yourself.

Running down the hall to where you know he should be. You walk into the room without even thinking, just in time to see Dean strapped to another chair, he looks up, right at you and you watch as the black fades from his eyes and he blinks hard. When they open again he's still looking at you, but with those beautiful green eyes, with only a look in them the real Dean ever had, the human Dean.

"Dean? Are you okay?" You ask in shock, ignoring all eyes on you except his.

He looks a little off, but he nods regardless.

"Yeah, I’m okay. It's me. The real me," he confirms shakily. You sigh with relief, and you try to ignore that tiny pit in your chest. You were happy he was cured though, because you loved him so much more when he was human.

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[themadauthorshatter]

I'M BACK!

So, like I said in my break announcement, I got some ideas for Toppat!Henry, but that unfortunately happened AFTER I posted Part 4.

I was thinking of ideas like this:

Everything remains the same after the chase with RHM, rather than getting captured, Charles pulls a Bold Action Man and jumps off the building. Or so we think, because we'd switch to Henry watching 'Charles fall' and shoot to his feet and shout, "NO! CATCH HIM!"

Funny thing about Bold Action Men: they're plans work. They horribly mangle themselves, but their plans work.

Charles actually landed on a window cleaning lift, which kind of broke when he landed on it. His phone, however, wasn't so lucky.

The lift breaks and Charles catches himself before he falls for real, swinging and climbing into an open window so he can then roll to the floor.

The supplies, including a heavy coat, all fall to and hit the ground; the phone's absolutely fucked, by the way.

Right rockets down to see if Charles actually died, and Charles sees him fly down.

When Right's gone, Charles groans and sits up, opening his jacket to see that he caught himself a little too well, evidenced by a gash that's opened on his ribs, right on the side that was already injured, too.

He groans and stands up, stumbling to the wall.

With Right, we see him hiver over the ground and report back to Henry that Charles did not fall at all. It was just a bunch of supplies and a spare coat. Henry, on the orbital station, sighs and falls back into his chair, silent for a second before he orders them to look inside the building they're on, in case Charles slipped inside to escape.

With Charles, TV perspective, we'd follow a blood trail to see him stumble through an office space, panting and light headed; he's walked down a couple flights of stairs and reached the office to try and look for an elevator, and that gash he has is doing nothing to help.

A wave of exhaustion washes over him and Charles catches himself on a desk, dry heaving as a whistle catches his attention.

"Don't look so good there, pilot. Heh, guess what they say is true: a Nine'-to-Five' does get you killed."

Charles demands the owner of the voice reveal himself, and he obliges.

Hope you remembered him from the "epilogue" in the secong Henry Stickmin Headcanon post, because, ladies and gentlemen, you know him, you either love him or you hate him, please welcome with open arms the worst leader in Toppat history: Terrence Suave

Before they can make proper introductions, Terrence grabs Charles and pulls him behind a wall, into that rec-room in the office space for coffee and food, and puts a hand over his mouth as he shushes him.

Right flies around each floor to survey and find Charles. He does try to get in the window, but the group has to leave and report back to Henry while the beam is hot and ready.

Right flies off and, once he's sure they're gone, Terrence lets go of Charles, who immediately backs away from him, which makes his wounds worse.

Charles doesn't exactly recognize his face, but asks why he's there, all things considered.

Terrence only laughs and admits he likes THIS version of Charles, bold, brave, confident even with a wound, and not an absolutely mindless psychopath working for or with the Toppat Clan- "Well, not as long as Right or Henry get a hold of you."

Upon seeing Charles's confusion, Terrence backtracks and says he'll explain later as he helps Charles to an elevator, grabbing a stapler on the way.

"What... What's that for?"

"Well, I can't really have the fireworks expire before the show begins, now can I?"

Charles shakes his head. "I don't know what you're saying."

"Don't worry about it. Let's just get you back to your government friends."

They enter the elevator and leave, Terrence admitting that he hopes Charles is in that numb state of shock as he knocks him down, lifts his shirt to reveal the gash and then pulls out the stapler. "Try not to move to much, pilot. This might sting a little."

At the base, the twins are getting a HUGE scolding and shout-at by Galeforce, who's very angry that they didn't tell him or anyone else about what Charles was doing, or the fact that Henry had called him.

They're still sorry, but, when asked, admit they don't know where Charles went, only that he was in a hurry and wanted to go alone. Again, Henry had called him, so maybe he had something to do with Charles running off.

Galeforce rubs his temples as Canterbury admits that Charles has been breaking his rank a lot recently, even blindly and stupidly wondering if he's a Toppat spy.

The twins, Galeforce, and Rupert all gkare at him for this, and he holds up his hands and admits he got the idea from remembering how slippery Henry is.

Rupert politely disagrees, as the government is all Charles has. Sure he's broken rank very often, but that's out of impulse and drive to stop Henry without anyone getting hurt. And before you say Charles is being a martyr, his sole goal is arresting Henry and making him call a total surrender for the Toppats. He can't take the clan all at once, and he won't because the government is on his side. He doesn't really care about taking out the clan as a whole, but he does want to stop Henry; and he's focused on Henry the most because of the failed airship mission and the still raw wound Henry left behind. Yeah, he took that very personally.

Regardless, just as Rupert offers to go and look for his friend, the phone rings and Galeforce answers.

"Ch... General? Are y-you there?"

"Charlie!? Where are you right now!?"

In the phone booth, leaning against the wall and paler than Snow White, Charles fights a gag. "Mid... Midtown. I-I got chased. They tried... They to kidnap me. Or-or kill me. I don... don't know, but-..."

Charles groans and slumps down, the pain fading, adrenaline wearing off, and exhaustion catching up to him.

Terrence catches him and sets him down, sitting him down as he takes control of that phone call.

"General Galeforce, I believe I've found your pet pilot for you. Thank goodness, too, he's injured. Bad."

"WHAT!?"

He shrugs and waves a hand. "Don't worry, a couple staples solved that." He turns to Charles. "Right, Charlie?"

"Screw you," Charles spits.

"Don't tempt me."

"Where is he?" Galeforce demands. "Wherever he is, bring him back!"

"Relax, Hubert. He's fine. Just needs a doctor andsone rest, that's all."

Galeforce, tired and just wanting to see his boy, tells Terrence to meet at the base, and to get there as soon as he can.

Terrence agrees and hangs up before helping Charles up and getting him in the car Terrence is "borrowing from a friend😈" and setting out.

On the orbital station, Henry paces as Right and Reginald explain what happened, admitting that they didn't see Charles fall all the way down. Just a little bit. If they didn't know better, they'd say he vanished into thin air.

Right also informs him that he saw Charles's phone fall, but there was nothing there when he went looking for Charles. Reg even explains that on the way up to the roof, the door jammed for a second, having been barred by an old screwdriver.

Apparently whoever was there just wanted to distract them for just a few seconds.

Henry notices this and growls, slamming his fist against the table.

Back with Terrence and Charles, the half cybernetic man is tapping Charles every now and again to keep him awake, in case he checks out for good.

Charles is sick and tired, but also extremely confused as to what just happened.

"I don't... Who are you?"

"Terrence Suave. Nice to meet you, Charles Calvin."

"How d'you... how do you know-... Are you-"

"Before you call me a stalker, just think of it like this: Are you religious, Charlie?"

Charles cringes at Terrence calling him a nickname only Galeforce uses or is allowed to use, but still shakes his head. "That's none your business."

"Fine. Believe in spirits? The afterlife? After some folks die, their souls are free to do whatever they please only catch is they can't DO anything because they're, you know, dead."

Charles only stares at him incredulously.

"I'm basically a spirit, kid. I see just about everything. I see things and I know them."

Charles shakes his head and asks, "How'd you know I... I'd be in the city?"

"I guessed. Good thing I was right."

"W-... Who-"

Terrence waves off the questions and tells Charles to stay awake as long as he can, so they can get him help.

They get to the base just as Charles passes out, Galeforce, the twins, and Rupert all rushing over to catch him.

Terrence tells them not to worry because he just passed out, even admitting he really shouldn't have used staples to close the gash.

Galeforce berates him and demands to know who this crazy bastard is and what he's doing, and Terrence reveals the bits of Charles's phone. "Give the kid a fossil. It'll be harder to track and tap."

They get him to the infirmary, Charles murmuring about keeping the twins safe and that they're after him, they being the Toppats, and he needs to leave town.

Galeforce hushes him up for this and tells gets him to the infirmary.

As Charles is carried away, Terrence watches, amused and perky as he smiles.

Slight gore tw, he then sighs, takes out his glass eye, cleans it off, and then puts it back in, groaning about how finicky it is.

Once it's back in, Terrence sighs and relishes in the fact that he's probably giving Henry a couple migraines

Again, this is just a possible revision, and if you guys like it, I can continue Part 5 off of this

Sorry for being away, I'll try to be more consistent now

Either way, thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed!!!!

[jilljoycearts]

The Golden Queen, II

Every story has its end.

Fandom: Enderal: Brave New World | Post-Canon

Characters: Sigrid (Enderal prophet), Tharael

Warnings would be spoilers, but mature content

I wrote the second part this spring but never actually posted it. I might have missed some ESL mistakes, you are welcome to point them out!  If you’ve missed the first part, I’m leaving the corresponding tags. Also, this one artwork was kind-of illustration to the one of the scenes of the second part:

She finally dares. Coils of black smoke trail after her hand, breaking the outlines of the already fuzzy silhouette.

She tries again. And again. And again.

She never quite succeeds.

Her own spell ties her hands, so she comes up with a decision. To free the soul from a perfect body, she creates a new one. Even better. Almost flawless. It holds the might she holds herself, if not even more, yet it’s being controlled by nothing but her will. It costs her another few hundred years. It costs her almost nothing.

It’s the third time he finds himself in an artificial shell. But it’s the first time it does not obey him at all. Black smoke still shimmers in reflection when the Queen beckons him to the mirror. Only the eyes now gleam with a violet sheen again. He looks at it and does not recognize it. He looks at the reflection and does not recognize himself. But he still looks, trying to make out at least anything familiar. To look is all that is left for him.

The Queen throws a ball. The most exhilarating, most luxurious and generous that the Golden Palace has ever known. Hundreds of servants rush after hundreds of guests, hundreds of tables burst with food. Hundreds of soldiers in golden armor guard their peace.

This time the Queen will join her people. She rises from the throne and descends into the ballroom. Her eyes fall shut and almost all of the lights go out.

She raises a hand. Black smoke swirls around her and she feels a firm grip of his palm. Something aches under the ribs, painfully and bitterly. She smiles.

Hundreds of people step back in awe as the Shadow takes shape. Hundreds of people bow their heads. The Queen opens her golden eyes and waltz begins to play. Hundreds of people part as the gods spin in their crazy dance.

The Queen returns to the throne, catching her breath. Now the guests dance. She is happy, for a moment. But the Shadow stands beside her, indifferent and vacant. For some reason, it’s starting to burn inside her eyes. She brings her hand to the face – a single drop of water runs down the golden claw. She does not recognize nor recall of what it is. The Shadow puts a hand on her shoulder, obeying her will. She brushes her cheek against it. It feels warm, if only a little. It feels bitter, more than anything. The Queen closes her eyes and the Shadow falls apart with coils of smoke. She clenches her fists, piercing the palms with her claws. Red drips on the gold, drips on the silk, stains anything it touches. No one dares to make a sign they notice it.

They stand in front of the mirror. “Aren’t we beautiful?” she asks, resting her head on his shoulder. She made him tangible again. She made the smoke form clothes she wishes to see him wearing. She made him do what she wants. She made him a puppet. But she can’t make him talk. So the Shadow remains silent. Yet she asks again. And again. And again. Until her smile cracks and he disappears, dissolving in her arms.

The Queen knows she doesn’t have much time left to do what she planned. As moons pass, she doubts more and more. To set him free is to be left alone, after all. Yet as moons pass, it hurts more and more to have him by her side. Any her wish is granted, any fantasy comes true dare she only think of it. What she ever wanted becomes what she hates. What drives her mad. And what she fears, eventually. So the day comes and the Queen disappears from her palace.

They stand above where once was water. A world-old tale brought her here. A tale about war and love. A tale about human happiness. A tale about them, which none of them really remembers. Her hand shakes as she caresses his cheek. It feels bitter, if only a little. It feels burning, more than anything.

She makes him step closer, grinds her teeth and embraces him, hiding in his arms one last time. “Go, my love,” she whispers.

An impulse passes and the Shadow takes a deep breath. His first one, since the New world started.

He raises a hand. Black smoke swirls around him and he feels a familiar weight of a hilt. Something aches under the ribs, painfully and bitterly. He smiles.

He smiles as the dagger drowns between her ribs, as the blood pours down, as her body weakens in his arms. She only hugs him tighter.

He waits a moment and steps back, watching the Queen falling to his feet. He feels nothing again.

The wind brings cold air. A few apple blossom petals dance in it, catching his sight. He takes another deep breath. His last one, for this time.

He exhales and dissolves into coils of white smoke. The wind catches him, caring and gentle. The petals float carelessly, blurring his sight and bringing his mind to sleep. He finally finds peace.

[werezmastarbucks]

Blunt hook

Kai Parker x fem!reader smut

gif not mine

that’s like the first and the last smut I ever write ugh yeet

also I wrote this very cool thing on psychological analysis of Kai’s head bugs. check it out, it’s on my main blog. I love it.

word count: 2788

choking (light), fingering, dom!Kai, female reader

The reader had helped Kai escape hell, so now he’s trying to get her to side with him in everything else, too. However, Y/N is too stubborn, and not afraid of physical pain. Thank f*ck Kai always has a plan B.

The sky was full of Perseids and sound. Kai was taking his time and never hurried himself, but still found it was rather curious how long it takes to get used to a new form of living. Every. Damn. Time. It’s been a couple of months since he got out of hell, and every single day now he was amazed, unmistakably, by the air. I mean, can you imagine? It actually flows right into your nose and then down your throat or whatever. And it tastes so good! Being a vampire sure enhanced all the sensations, too. He was practically happy every day, agitated, even. The only thing was…

He shrugged, distracting himself from the stars and the comets flying ahead in white blinding flashes. What a beauty, he thought, what an unexpected beauty he thought he could never appreciate.

Then he saw her. And the idea came to him. All he needed at this point of being out of hell was a tiny little detail for the ascendant. It was maddening to think that virtually everything he needed was in his hands, except for this teeny-tiny metal hook less than a pinky nail in size, shiny and blunt. Without it, he could not travel back to the prison world. Without it, he could not get the reaper out. Without it, the devil would not let go of him and let him be. And the Boring Faces took it away from him. How insensitive of them not to take his lust for life into consideration.

But her. She might be of use and help. She went out of her way to open the gates of hell to let him crawl out. She went through being tortured, which means he won’t get anything out of her by inflicting pain. Kai had something on his mind though; she was wearing a dress.

Y/N was standing with her head tilted back, almost falling, looking at the cluster of the burning comets shooting through the horizontal line.

A light gust of wind brushed her hair, and then a hand grabbed her by the forearm. Y/N swayed, but managed to stay on her feet, and then she was pulled aside. Kai shot her a mad glance and walked, casually but fast, and she had nothing else to do but follow him, trying to move her feet as quick as possible.

Stalling would take a considerable amount of wit, so she started thinking right away, clutching her purse out of nervousness. Nobody considered her feeling for this nut job. Nobody. N/Y, hold him off as long as you can, but no sweat. Forget what you’ve gone through for him and lie to his face while we betray him yet again. Just stay here between the two flames, nothing special.

She sighed, trying to wiggle out of Kai’s grab, because his fingers bit into her flesh like burning coals. Kai looked back at her, dropping speed a little bit, but his eyes said nothing.

“What?” she gasped, trying to loosen his fingers. Kai didn’t give in, dragging her on towards the shade of trees. People were stepping away politely as they walked, like none of this seemed strange to them. Y/N finally levelled with Kai, but he still didn’t let go of her arm, clutching on her like she could vanish in thin air.

“Talk”, he commanded, throwing her to the side of a tree. He looked out from the shadow, making sure all the lights and the babbling people were left aside, blind to their conversation here. Their noise was still nearly unbearable, but Kai was getting better at focusing every day.

She caught herself, pressing her back to the trunk of a birch tree, and held onto it. Kai’s face as white in the shade, silvered by the faint moonlight and the rare specks of golden light from the bonfires. His eyes seemed completely black, the pupils enlarged, like he was on the verge of screaming form all the smells, and sounds, and the most of all, impatience.

“Start talking, Y/N. Where is it?”

“I don’t know what you’re on about”, she tried to make her smile seem innocent and failed, unable to hide the slow excitement that was rising in her. That. That is why she’s completely useless in things like that. She already forgot where they hid the dam detail even if she knew.

Kai grabbed on her purse, pulling on the strap. She barely managed to bend her head to let it slide off her shoulders. One second later, and she would’ve been choked, or beheaded. The vampire opened her handbag, thrashing it with sharp movements. She let out a giggle as he threw it aside, half empty.

Blood ran to her face as the vampire stepped up, closing a shadow on her. His arm flew up and rested on the trunk just above her head, and she felt comfortably caged. Kai licked his lips, trying to hold from acting right away, trying to come up with the most gracious way to get it out.

“Damon and his brother, they hid the last detail from my ascendant”, Kai elaborated,

“Come on, Y/N you know well what I’m talking about. Don’t make me hurt you”, he stared deep into her eyes like a snake charmer.

“I don’t actually want to hurt you”.

“I don’t know where it is, Kai. They don’t tell me. They know…”

Y/N paused, wondering if he could hear her heartbeat. Of course, he could. Irregular, quick, like a little puppy jumping and twisting in her chest, sending bright sparkles to her eyes, because she just can’t hide how much fun this all is. When fear goes away, there’s just fun.

Kai felt, this was the moment she could say something. He shifted; stooping above her, cupping her face with his palms. Soft hair was brushing the backs of his hands as he held her, pleading:

“They know you don’t want me to go back. Right? You don’t want me to go back to hell, do you, Y/N?”

She smiled sheepishly, thinking, what a bastard. He is one manipulative bastard with his blackish eyes and his perfect American chin. He tilted his head like a robot, knowing that was his best angle. Nothing worked. Kai felt her warmth, the hot spasms coming out of her skin, her desire was so obvious it was ridiculous, and yet she stood there, immovable like he didn’t matter. She was good, this one, stamina like a real fighter. Well, he guessed, torture and being alone for some time does that to people. Their skin touched and yet nothing happened, although he could practically hear her insides warming up, he could see the pupils of her eyes widening hungrily, and it made him feel weird, like he was hungry, too.

Y/N kept silent, thinking that would drive him mad enough out of a simple reason. She didn’t really have a plan. After all this is done, she thought, I’m moving the hell out of this cursed hole. She was as tired of the Boring Faces as Kai was, she just hid it better.

“Well”, his face hardened as his hands let go of her face. Kai looked at her, familiar violent glimmering dancing in his eyes. It was hard to tell in the dark whether he was smiling or grimacing. Maybe it was time to run, she couldn’t tell. Before she could decide anything, his whisper cut her ears like a razor.

“Maybe you’re hiding it somewhere here. Under your dress”.

Then his hand slid down so quickly she only felt it when it already was on her left thigh. Warm finger caressed her skin lightly, tracing its way up, until his palm lurked under the skirt. Y/N’s brain screamed: that feels not bad at all. Evident attractiveness of this undead heretic was burning her eyes. She was torn between staying prideful and keeping him at her side – for whatever reasons.

“Why aren’t you fighting me?” his voice brushed her face, she could almost taste its timbre. She bit her lower lip from the inside not to blurt out anything. Let him entertain himself, she’s not going to do his work. This man, this crazy type in front of her, manipulative, always with a plan, awoke a feeling in her, a desire to stand up to him, even if in this weird, submissive way. Well, she’ll figure that out, she thought. It’ll all unfold by itself. Right now, she just knew, she wouldn’t brush his arms off, no matter what he does, or how hard he does it.

Kai gasped comically.

“Are you my distraction?”

A boyish, excited smile brightened his face. It lit with amusement and anticipation.

“What am I supposed to be distracting you from?” Y/N asked in a thin voice.

“Bae, everything”, he blurted readily.

His palm moved just as his eyes narrowed again. There was a shift in his mood. Like a kitten, that’s too young, he really did get distracted. The ascendant detail is important, sure. But there’s this one, propped up against a tree, and he’s curious as to why she’s not running, not giving in. She’s just smirking, almost brave enough to show him what she really wants. Fortunately, he can almost read her mind.

There was hunger inside of him, not only for blood, but an eerie sensation of dryness in is throat; the light-headedness when he realized he’s watching Y/N, but she doesn’t see him. When he’s just an invisible observer, and all she does is his by all means. Being in the crowd, really stop seeing people. Kai did the opposite, and he chose her. If you rid yourself of self a little bit – excuse the pun – you’re free to watch whoever you want. Kai’s seen way more than anybody else. The tip of her tongue snaking in the corner of her mouth, and the curves of her hips as she walked, the wild glimmering in the corners of her eyes. The slender fingers crooking on her cheeks, caressing her own neck. The softness of the earlobe pierced by the golden earring. The thin delicate skin on the inside of her elbow. Her cocky posture, ever-ironic grin letting out deep sigh of her tired, unamused voice.

The hidden soul of that girl was not pure. She was not pure. Kai was wondering if he’d contributed to that.

His hand touched the fabric of her underwear, and he felt comfortable. He pressed his thumb on her pubic bone, wondering, how hard would be too hard.

“Hands on the tree”, he ordered, and her palms were glued to the trunk in a second. Y/N pushed her back against it, trying to move as little as possible. Her thighs moved forward as she leaned backwards, the wings of her shoulder blades colliding with the tree. Kai towered over her like a leopard over a cheetah cub.

“Let’s see if it’s there, do you mind?” he murmured, and Y/N bumped the back of her head against the hard trunk. His fingers pulled her panties down and pressed on her clit persistently. Y/N neck went hot. Kai watched carefully as her nostrils flared a little, like he didn’t know what he’s doing, like it was something alien he was touching. He was trying to figure out the connection between the hunger he was experiencing, and the warm, welcoming wetness of the inside of her. Y/N was thinking about how smooth his skin was. It was so fucking smooth, seemingly perfect to touch. She opened her mouth to say something, but Kai’s other hand immediately pressed on her face, covering her mouth.

“Nah-uh. Keep quiet. Do as I say”.

He made himself horny saying that. He didn’t expect these words out of his own mouth, just as his fingers slid inside of her, and he felt Y/N sucking on the air from underneath his palm. She tried to bite the skin lightly, but swayed, obedient, never looking away. Kai’s eyes were dark and calm, like oceans of Malivore, hypnotizing, eyes with a trace of tragic smile deep inside.

Y/N wanted so bad to raise her hands and weave them around his neck, to hang herself onto him, shifting all the weight, and ride his hand. Keeping still made all her muscles sing a tense melody of pain, making pleasure all the more even, sending it like sharp flashes of color all down her body. She begged to god that she wasn’t shaking, because she really couldn’t tell anymore; she was throwing all her might into not moaning as his three fingers were moving inside, rubbing the sensitive skin, sliding in and out, pinching and pulling. Her right knee gave in, and she swayed again, nails clawing into the bark; Kai took his palm off her mouth and wrapped it around the girl’s throat; her whole neck went into his fist like it was carved for it. He propped her up and squeezed her throat, lightly first, then tighter and tighter, until her mouth opened a little, and his own jaws separated as he looked inside. His tongue pressed against his canines violently, bursting the tip of it and bleeding into his mouth. The hot blood pumped into his face and nose, and he grabbed her by the clit, immersing his fingers inside down to the first knuckles. He was fucking her, they both realized, with his hand, and that was one way to do it. Y/N propelled her hips, giving in to her own screaming body, because that movement was the only one she could think of. The ultimate goal of that one moment was to string herself onto his hand, deeper, deeper, harder, so that he could destroy her, tear her apart.

Kai loosened his hand on her throat just a little, to hear her whimper as her eyes rolled. Biting shiver shot through Y/N’s body, but she was glad to see she stood; trunk of the birch tree was hurting her head, so she tilted it forward a little and gasped for air as Kai’s hand let go of her. Both his hands, to be precise. He rubbed his right hand on Y/N’s thigh, leaving a hot trace of cum on her skin in gentle touches. He couldn’t help tracing the sharp bone of her hip, drawing circles around the tip absent-mindedly. The only way he could now relieve himself was to grab and squeeze her hip possessively, making her groan softly. There was supposed to be hurt. He usually hurt someone as a result of… the process. The normal pattern of events was him standing with his hands covered in thick dark blood in the end of the picture, gratified deeply by the seizing screams, calming his beast down. Pain. Was it something like that? Kai looked deep into her face and read her. He saw that orgasm was pretty much like physical pain, only, it made her show her teeth in a smile.

It was over, Y/N figured; blood was pumping in her ears, and even if he said something, she couldn’t hear. She wrapped her hands around Kai’s neck and rested on him, locking her fingers on the short, soft hairs on the back of his head. Just for a moment, he’s going to belong to her, while he’s whispering his hot threats in her ear. His voice, the scent, the breadth of his shoulders – all hers, just for now, as he’s holding her against this very tree.

“Come on now, Y/N”.

Kai knew he had like three seconds to slither inside of her mind while she’s fragile. While she’s messed up, sweet smell of pleasure and indolence pouring out of her like a syrup; he could as well just lick it off her skin.

“Where is it? Where is it”, he pressed his face against hers, listening to her deep, erratic breathing. He was keeping up with his own noise, confused by the sudden outburst of eagerness and a boner. He had to be focused, but he couldn’t but admire a little this oily, feminine beauty. Her wrists pulsating with blood were so close to his face the smell flooded him.

The bravery of her, though, as she lifted her face and looked him in the eye. Pupils expanded, glistening with lust and mischief. She said:

“I really don’t know. Why don’t you try it with you mouth next?”

The smile curling her lips made the groan wake in the depths of his chest. Kai let the hot air out of his nose, clenching his jaws. He brushed off Y/N’s arms, pushing away, and stepped out of the shadows with an audible roar. The sound of her laughter was ringing in his ears.  

[amandlas]

swear they smell the blood on me

shatter me | aaron x ella, fix-it fic, untimely inappropriate smut (ao3)

this fic takes place during imagine me and contains spoilers don’t say i didn’t warn you

[takes place during imagine me. title from “blood on me” by the sampha]

***

He unbuttons my shirt, his deft hands moving quickly even as he kisses my neck, my cheeks, my mouth, my throat. I cry out when he moves, his kisses shifting down my body, searching, exploring. He pushes aside the two halves of my shirt, his mouth still hot against my skin, and then he closes the gap between us, pressing his bare chest to mine, and my heart explodes.

Something snaps inside of me.

Severs.

A sudden, fractured sob escapes my throat. Unbidden tears sting my eyes, startling me as they fall down my face. Unknown emotion soars through me, expanding my heart, confusing my head. He pulls me impossibly closer, our bodies soldered together. And then he presses his forehead to my collarbone, his body trembling with emotion when he says—

“Come back.”

***

It is gone.

The blinking blue light is gone, rid of it, snatched out from my forearm like a parasite. Yet the blurriness remains.

I am screaming to get out.

There is someone inside of me clawing at the edges, fighting for freedom.

Who? Who?

Who is he?

The boy kneels next to me. I am still bare on my front. He made sure of that, when he ripped my shirt open. When he pressed his naked heart to mine.

And I want it back.

Because that touch, that heat, it woke me up. Rippled my soul until whichever girl lives within my skin figured a way to reach out, to yell. I need it.

“Touch me again.”

Green eyes, emerald glitter, widen at me. He breathes hard, and the heat of his body might as well still be on me.

I don’t move from where I sit, petrified. Blood oozes down my arm but the cut heals quickly. I need him with a desperation I’m not sure I’ve known before. “When you touched me, I remembered something.” He tugged me out. He is the answer, the key to help me unlock the Juliette trapped inside. My eyes turn supplicant. “Please.”

Please help me climb out.

His name, I search for his name when he smoothly crosses the few inches between us, grips my arms, pulls me to him, and kisses me again. One after the other, he kisses me like

like

the edge of the world

and I remember it. The tether. The line connecting us. He is the only emotional through line in my life that ever made sense. He's the only constant. I thought this once.

Him. His name.

I kiss him harder, whimpering against his lips, begging for myself to claw out. He hears me, pulling back to gasp and look into my eyes.

“You,” I say with tears. It is all I have, and he understands.

He nods. I notice his eyes are glassed over. With impressive strength, he swoops me into his arms and stands at the same time. My eyes fly open while he moves us back to the metal table, lays me on my back on it.

“You,” he whispers back to me. A hand runs down my neck, across my collarbone, at the side of my breast and down to my hip. His movements are not soft or exploring. He knows me. Each place he touches flares up.

My voice is meek when I whisper: “Help me.”

He presses down on me again, and a bird with golden feathers flies through my mind. Both his hands go to mine, putting them over his thundering heart. “Home,” he says, and he’s said this before, and he’ll say it again. As many times as it takes for me to remember.

“Home,” I repeat. My hands are shaking.

He kisses my wrists, one after the other. When our chests meet for the second time I welcome it more openly.

There is static on my mind, that slight shift in sound when you’ve hit very close to a channel, to voices. Close, but not quite. It comes back to me, a second name, not his but mine.

Ella?

She is Ella. I am Ella. Caged.

I gasp.

The boy (mine shouts a thought) clutches me so tight it’s hard to breathe. “I’ll help you,” he promises. “Anything for you love. Anything. The world.”

My eyes water. The thin veil draped across my memories is breaking my heart. “You.” You are the world, shouts the voice within me. “More.”

I shatter him with a single word. More, I asked him. He trembles, arms vibrating against my sides. I hear him cry out and before I know it, his mouth is traveling down from my neck, my collarbones, falling into a familiar path. His lips close around my breast, sucking on my skin.

My entire being is on fire.

The meld of sensations has me losing my mind, crashing common sense, and I’m not sure if his hand going down my pants are an illusion or reality. He knows my body better than I do right now, and how can that even be?

He’s been here. He’s always been here.

The brave hand of his strokes me in such a way that leaves me breathless, eyes and mouth open as I keep staring at him. His face is pleading, begging, lustful. “You know me. I’ve been yours for as long as I remember.” His fingers send a jolt through my body and I jerk, pressing my nipple back into his mouth. He takes the opportunity to suck it again, in earnest and I go blind.

Training rings. Linen sheets and soap.

He moans with pleasure against my body, drawing another mewl from me. His hand, it’s making me go crazy. My groin is drenched, my body electrified as I come closer to the edge.

He stops kissing my chest to look up at me. “Who am I?”

I want to know. So badly.

Our gazes meet, where he sees I don’t yet have the answer. My bottom lip trembles. His eyelids fall closed, pain etched on his face. His fingers stop, and I’m left dissatisfied, abruptly abandoned.

“Don’t,” I beg. I guide his hand back down my body with my own, desperate for him. But he doesn’t resume.

He kisses my lips, my jaw. “I’m right here.” I’m not at all prepared when he bites down, marking my throat and filling me with a cocktail of desire and pain. When I look down to see his face, I notice he’s undoing his pants. My eyes spring open.

Green irises nail me into place, forcing me to feel his movement as first his pants lower down, then as he works on my own. “Who am I?” he demands, his voice deep and close to me. He tugs down my clothes, taking every article, leaving me naked to his touch.

“I...” I begin, “You... I know you.” And the utter hopelessness I feel at this stupid cloud over my thoughts brings water to my eyes.

He says no more, perhaps afraid to. But our bodies are singing, more than ready for each other. This, I realize, is where I belong. My mind’s racing but my legs don’t hesitate to widen, to open for him and pull him close. My arms wrap around his back, my forehead touching his. My soul screams Who are you? Give me the key.

“Please,” he utters against my lips. “Come back to me.”

He slides inside me and I feel one of his tears hit my cheek.

And it resonated with me, harder than before, what he meant.

Home. This, us together, my body welcoming his, making room to fit inside, this is what he meant. It was a fact as undeniable as sunrise.

We gasp in unison, overwhelmed with heat. I’m blazing within, heat sparking where we touch. Ella climbs her way out, close to being free.

I moan, letting him hear it. My mouth drops open, perpetually open, my eyes never breaking from his.

When he thrusts for the first time, I know then that we are synonyms. Pertinent to each other, the impossibility of naming him without me. We fit perfectly.

A frenzy overtakes us, rapid fire traveling across the place where we’re together. He moves into me with intent, hitting the right places as if to mark me. To show me just how well he knows me. His forehead digs into mine, and his eyes close briefly as he grunts, keeping the pace slow but steady.

The feeling of him gliding in and out of me is flooding my nerves with sensation, with joy and ecstasy and ear-shattering screams to remember, remember, remember. I can’t remember ever feeling this incredible.

He hits a certain spot inside me that makes me jolt again, losing my senses, but when my head moves from the dizziness he won’t let it. My face is trapped by his hands, the strength of him keeping me from moving. He won’t let me go, won’t let me look away. He wants me back.

Him. It comes back to me.

A cold room and a warm embrace. White walls, his warmer arms around me.

And

I think my heart is going to explode.

Ignite, my love. Ignite.

My heart is yours. Please don't ever give it back to me.

Aaron.

Forever, Aaron. Of course.

When I start crying his eyes turn hopeful.

“Aaron,” I say it with the finality of fate, with the love that unravels from my heart at the sight of him. “Aaron.”

There is rapture, there is joy, there is relief and love in his face. “Yes.” He clutches my face harder, digging his forehead to mine.

He won’t meet my eyes anymore, the feeling too intense. Sobs keep coming from me, the mess of my memories swirling and tripping out.

“I remember you,” I cry into his face.

He starts fucking me harder, deeper.

My voice shakes the next time I say it. “I remember you —  Ah!”

My words drive him mad, drive him to move into me more fiercely. “Yes. Aaron.” Even though his movements are hard, his voice is pleading. “I’m Aaron, love. Your Aaron.”

I want you to call me Aaron.

How could I not have known? So many times?

He and I, we meet again and again, and it was always bound to end like this.

I start to fuck him back.

Aaron meets my every shift, synchronizing our bodies flawlessly. He hits that place, the one that ignites a high-pitched sound from me, over and over. Soon I’m a shrieking mess, the slap of our skin creating a rhythmic clapping that lulls me over the edge. I break apart, laid bare, my hips curving to his as I ride it out. During that bliss, that small taste of nirvana, another memory comes barreling to me. An important memory.

Oh my God.

Aaron pauses, slowing down. He breathes hard into my cheek, smiling. The look on his face tells me he’s not done yet, confirmed a second later when he flips us over. I must wear shock on my face at being on top, by the look he gives me.

“What else?” he asks. I know what he means. What else am I?

He doesn’t lay back, doesn’t expect me to take the reins and pleasure him. Instead Aaron stays close, hugging our fronts together as he sits on the table with me straddling his lap. Hearts hugging.

Close. Close like that night, at the tent home.

Marry me.

If there were any tears left in me I would’ve shed them. I run a shaking hand through his hair. His gaze roves over me like I’m his only salvation, like I alone command sunlight and miracles. One hand runs down my spine, the other planted on the table behind him to steady him. He starts to move, to thrust into me from below. The sensation destroys me.

“My husband.” I suddenly find those tears, feel them drip down my face. “You wanted to be my husband. You asked me to be your wife.”

Ella. You’re going to be my wife.

She comes soaring out, the girl I used to be, the Ella and Juliette hidden under this skin. I gasp and throw my head back, screaming once.

He hugs me through it, through the greatest moment of clarity I’ve ever had, and only after do I register the heat. Building up for a second time, clenching my stomach. Sparks course through me as he urges me to make love to him back. As I comply.

My hips press down onto his, following the rhythm. We kiss hard, desperately, my tears and his mixing and wetting our faces but we do not care. I sob again, from the pain of losing him and the joy of having him back. Soon I’m panting hard, pressing my cheek to his, letting him hear what he does to me. I swing my hips back and forth, back and forth, making us both groan, making me see colors in my field of vision and beg for this not to end. He feels so good. He’s thick, long, and hard inside me as he pumps, as he fills me completely each time. I might be losing my mind after all.

He grunts loudly, pressing me closer to him and quickening the pace. “I asked you to marry me. And what did you say?” he asks. His breath hits my collarbone.

The change in pace leaves me breathless. “I said...”

He takes the opportunity to thrust into me even harder, even quicker. His hands behind my back and at my hip move me so I can only surrender to this, to us. It’s not long before I start screaming.

“Yes!” I go. “Oh, yes. Yes!”

I yell it, shout it into his shoulder as we come together with floor-shattering perfection. He shakes harder than me, his entire spirit revealing itself as he clings to me, as he keeps calling for me.

“I love you,” he whispers into my chest as we breathe hard together, recovering. “My one and only. You came home.”

[loveforpreserumsteve]

So, You Wanna Learn About Alphas, Betas, and Omegas: Handbook to the Omegaverse

Urban Legends

Disclaimer: these are going to be a mix between urban legends/myths that exist in our world and what legends I think would exist in an omegaverse. I'm not sure if someone has written any a/b/o myths, but I was having writer's block and decided that I might as well get creative and flesh out the omegaverse(s) that I'll be creating a little more.

So, let's begin, shall we?

Black-Eyed Pups: Non-threatening seeming pups, but with something inherently off about them. Typically coming off as polite and well-mannered. Seeming more mature than their guessed ages. Usually, the pup approaches an unsuspecting individual at a supermarket, asking them for something. A ride home, some change for a gumball, or to use their phone.

However, if the person indulges the child(ren), they should expect to hear banging on their door in the middle of the night. The pups will appear aggressive as they attempt to enter the person's home. Under no circumstance should the pups be invited inside.

Usually, the target will feel a chill down their spine while goosebumps litter their skin. They can usually sense something is very wrong with the pups, and then they catch a glimpse of black eyes. No whites visible at all, no irises existing, just complete blackness.

Bloody Mary: Historically, the ritual encouraged young omegas or beta girls to walk up a flight of stairs backwards holding a candle and a hand mirror, in a darkened house. While gazing into the mirror, the individual performing the ritual was supposed to be able to catch a glimpse of their future mate. However, there would be a chance of seeing a skull -- the face of the Grim Reaper -- instead of their intended mate, meaning that the individual would die before mating.

Today, an individual or group looks into a mirror in a dimly-lit or candle-lit room while ritualistically chanting out the name, "Bloody Mary." Some traditions have the individual(s) having to chant the name thirteen times, but most often, only three times is required. Allegedly, the apparition of Bloody Mary will appear. Sometimes described as a corpse, witch, or ghost. Traditionally, Bloody Mary is deemed to be evil in some capacity and is often covered in blood. If she is "seen", she will either try to scratch one's eyes out, scream at the individual(s) that invoked her, attempt to strangle them, or steal their soul(s).

Camp Frenzy: Legend has it that during the 80s, a young alpha snuck out of his summer camp cabin and went for a moonlight stroll. On his exploratory walk through the wilderness, the boy heard a rustling coming from a nearby bush. Assuming that it was other campers trying to mess with him, or two camp counselors getting it on, he decided to head back for camp.

Unfortunately for the young alpha, it was neither campers nor counselors. Instead, it was a wild beast-man. Worse than a feral alpha, this man was more animal than human. Covered in actual fur from head to toe, the creature attacked the young alpha.

The change was instantaneous. His limbs elongating, nails and teeth sharpening, fur -- actual fur! -- sprouting from his skin. His mind reverting back to hindbrain with hunt, mate, and kill being his main priorities as he returned to camp.

Unable to control himself as he attacked the other campers. Each person that he attacked, quickly transforming into a creature too and attacking more campers. The whole camp devolved into an area filled with feral creatures who craved blood and tore the counselors apart to feast on their bodies.

Some claim that their howls and cries can still be heard.

Lifeless Lake: Story goes that during the late 1800s, a beautiful omega man mated a wealthy alpha man. The alpha doted on the omega for years. Giving them everything they wanted and more. The alpha was a jealous man, however, and spent his free time trying to keep the omega at home. All the omega wanted was to go swimming. After many arguments, the alpha agreed to take his omega to the local lake.

The omega, being the looker he was, gained a plethora of attention from the other attendees. With each new curious glance or inquisitive sniff, the angrier the alpha became. When one beta woman got too close, the alpha couldn't take it any longer. Acting on pure instinct -- going completely feral -- the alpha ripped out the throats of alpha, beta, omega, and child. Leaving the soil around the lake drenched in innocent blood.

In the alpha's feral craze, he pulled the omega close. Despite the omega's protests and squirming, the alpha just held tighter. Growing frustrated with his own omega, the alpha didn't even realize that he ripped his bonded's throat out until pain flared in his own neck.

Lifeless, the omega's blood poured into the lake. Legend has it that nothing grows around the lake. No fish reside there. No life whatsoever. It's been said that if you go to Lifeless Lake, any alphas in the vicinity will become aggressive and territorial. Meanwhile, any betas will get a pain in their necks until leaving the lake. For omegas, they will be overcome with a desperate sadness.

If an individual is particularly brave enough to attempt swimming in the lake, they may feel tugging on their limbs. One beta man reported to feeling as though someone was trying to cling to him for their life. While an alpha woman claimed an aggressive force tried to drown her.

Rose Red: In 1918, an omega woman fell in love with an omega man. Although it was illegal, the woman wanted nothing more than to marry and mate the man. Devising a plan to trick everyone into believing that the man was an alpha, so they could wed, she spritz the man with a musky alpha cologne and surrounded him with perfumy flowers. As a florist, the woman had a plethora of plants to choose from and made boutonnieres for her love every day.

The plan had gone off without a hitch. The two omegas in love were about to marry. Only, the day of the wedding, the omega man went into heat. His scent overpowering the fragrance from the flowers. In her attempt to protect her betrothed, she stood between him and the compatible alphas who had gone into rut.

The wedding became a blood bath. With alphas fighting one another and putting down any individual who came in their way. When one rutting alpha woman victoriously approached the two omegas, she didn't think twice about fighting the omega woman.

With the omega woman being physically weaker than a rutting alpha woman, the omega didn't stand a chance. Fighting the aggressor tooth and nail in hopes of protecting the man she wanted to marry. Eventually, the alpha won, and took the omega man. Leaving the omega woman to bleed out in the church, staining her white wedding dress. Turning the bridal gown the same color red as the boutonniere her love was wearing.

The Beast: Allegedly the wild offspring of a feral alpha and a bear. The beast is aggressive in nature, and will murder pets, livestock, and any person that it crosses -- if they don't want to mate that individual, of course.

The Feral Alpha: Allegedly, in the 70s, an alpha man was having a particularly difficult time in college. Being on the Dean's List was more stressful than he had assumed, but he needed to keep his grades up if he wanted to keep his scholarship. Not being able to do anything but work on his exams in solitude, he began slowly losing his mind.

Deciding to clear his mind, and in an attempt to win out over his hindbrain, the alpha went for a hike in the woods. Getting lost, he traveled further and further in while scouting for a way out. With the daylight gone, the alpha was having even more difficulty.

Eventually, he went feral as his hindbrain won out. His hindbrain would know how to protect him. Now, he lives in complete solitude. Disguising himself with animal furs and snatching omegas who wander too far off the trail.

So, pups, listen to your parents and stay on the trail.

The Hook: Two teens, one beta boy and one beta girl, are driving through an unfamiliar area on a deserted dirt road late at night when the boy has to use the restroom. Pulling off to the side of the road, he exits the vehicle to relieve himself in the surrounding forest, out of sight from the girl.

While the girl waits, she turns on the radio to distract herself. Over the radio, a report is broadcasted about an escaped mental patient, an alpha man with a hook for his hand! Unsettled, the girl quickly turns the station. As she tries to focus on the song, she hears a scratching at the back of the car. The longer the boy is, the closer the scratching gets to her. Moving all the way up to the passenger door.

Frightened by the report and the peculiar scratching, the girl jumps when the boy returns to the car. Demanding that the boy take her home. Eventually, they make it back to town and when they stop at the girl's house, the beta teens are terrified to find a bloody hook, hanging from the handle.

Whimpering in the Woods: One afternoon, an unbonded omega decided to take a hike through the forest. While on their afternoon hike, the omega set up to have a picnic in a scenic meadow. While opening their sandwich, the omega heard a distinct pup whimper.

After looking around for the culprit and assuming that some pup had wandered too far from the path, the omega went searching for the pup. Hoping to return the pup to their worried parent, the omega hiked further into the forest, using only the whimpering as their guide.

As the forest started to grow dark, the omega thought about heading back towards the path. Only, they had entered too far into the woods and was too lost. Then, they came face to face with the whimpering pup.

Going to comfort the pup, the omega realized that it was a feral pup. Before they could leave, however, the omega turned to find them surrounded by a pack of feral pups. The pups attacked the omega, ripping the omega apart while they feasted on them.

[hozierandco]

Imagine Hozier x Reader: The Trench

[A/N]: Set during WWI, this AU imagine presents Hozier as a soldier during the First World War. Irish, he serves for the British armies and while on leave meets a woman that could possibly change his life for good.

Andrew Hozier-Byrne was a brave soldier, had been from the very first day he signed up a paper making official the decision he put his mind through: he was to serve for Britain. Not that he particularly appreciated the country that had repeatedly humiliated his native soil nor did he particularly like bellicose times but in Ireland, he was an idle young fella since no work was given to him. In fact, Ireland shared a common point with the United Kingdom it so harshly tried to take distances from: both countries were elitist, assigning the proper jobs to always the same people, the better born, the most likely to get a job. For other men, war felt like a relief, an opportunity for them to prove their value to the world, no matter what the cost of that sacrifice could be.

When he was given a number to which he must reply by now, Private Hozier-Byrne realized the whole process of making canon fodder out of the loud host on its way to fight because one archduke had not been lucky and got killed. The talion law had never been that cruel before. All those men willing to die to have their corpse being prayed upon by all those politicians who would never take one tenth of the risks taken just to keep on living. Naturally, almost organically, Andrew started scribbling words that soon became sentences, sentences becoming journal entries day after day. Those notes were supposed to give a face and a name to the men he would meet, those he would fear, those who would give him absurd orders and those he was supposed to hate.

In order not to drive insane with the unhealthy humidity that brought the days of November and the unidentifiable insects milling about in the trenches, Andrew wrote verses that were seemingly only written by his zeal for living, verses that could have easily made his superiors die of the sorrow caused. Ignoring that many other men, such as Private Wilfred Owen followed the same destiny, Andrew could not help but to write, sometimes wasting the rare sleep he was given the permission to get. That exhausting process was here to fill something he could possibly not have, something that scarce crumbs of stale bread cannot replace: the company of someone that was, like him on the lookout for the next assault against the Germans. He was craving for an ear he could talk about the tough hours of waiting for something, even a wee thing, to happen. About the tears he would shed when the twilight would eventually fall over the cliffs, leaving him thinking of the sweet coast of Ireland he had left behind. Simply about life and death being so close from one another and the harsh fight to keep away from the latter. The weight of his riffle against his thorax, he would dream of the armistice and of a brighter future for him in Ireland, if he was ever to return.

By chance, his name was to serve him once. His surname being Hozier, it soon captured his sergeant's attention. Indeed, not less than Clementine Hozier who by marrying Winston Churchill - a promising politician who, in despite of some men who saw in him an opportunist, had already showed to the world his temper a few years before - had become a socialite and thus, an important woman in the British society. Sergeant Mooney, a fierce Irishman proudly wearing medals he had gained by the past on a grim green outfit strongly believed that amongst his men was a relative to Clementine Churchill, a nephew perhaps. If it was not even remotely true, as far as Andrew was aware, if he kept mum, he could possibly leave for a while the dire fields of blood. Which he did on February of 1915 when some respite was offered to the soldiers who were for some fighting since September on end.

Through the cold streets from the North of France, Andrew ended the short period of his leave in a distillery in the region of Lille. Very early in the morning, he was to take a carriage that would inevitably put him back to the front. He had had three days that he spent getting drunk, trying to forget that he was a soldier now. He had had three days that he spent writing hollow letters that he could resolve to send to his parents and to his brother who had remained in Ireland. Although the French government tried hard to stop the spreading and the sale of the Green Fairy, many bars were still offering that poisonous comfort for broken men, prone to despair and nihilism. It is in that context that Private Hozir-Byrne had discovered the holy beverage. He was about to order another glass when all of a sudden, he heard, from behind him a sweet voice he thought to be belonging to his imagination:

"That thing's gonna kill you", a woman it was. She had such a tenderness in her features. Her age was difficult to guess, she could have been fifteen or forty. If Andrew could not tell what her age was, he could tell that a woman was a beautiful one. He put the glass back on the counter and introduced him, his hand reaching out for the woman's.

"I'm Andrew, dead man walking", those three last words had escaped as an Austrian psychanalyst had written ten years earlier as the expression of his repression. If Sigmund Freud had studied his case he would have drawn the conclusion that Andrew Hozier-Byrne, so zealous to live a few months ago was now wishing that he was dead. Now that he had someone to talk to, even for just a couple of hours, would he change his behaviour?

"I'm Y/N, sutler for the soldiers in Neuve Chapelle", the woman replied with a candid voice that made Andrew's face white.

"Nice to meet you!", Andrew replied to that sordid encounter. Y/N nodded as to say that she too was glad to have met the man at that time of her life. Volunteer like Andrew, Y/N had no skills enough to be a nurse but was to get involved in the Great War, one way or another. Her father had been a soldier too, she could understand more than anyone what it means to fight for one's country, but above all for freedom. She had become a sutler on September of 1914, giving a hand to more than one soldier in the villages of the Marne and now in the North of France, since the dreadful battle of Arras and then Ypres, in Belgium. She had seen bodies scattered, plundered from their weapons, making them appear to be gawkers when they had been brave, making them look sad when they died happy, happy to have been part of that humongous fight.

That meeting was doomed to no outcome, which made it even more intimate. Knowing that they would not see each other after that night, they could talk about everything with no fear. That is how they started talking about the war freely, the lost hopes, the victory that was so difficult to imagine once amid the stifling dust and the mice. If Y/N had been a spy or if any malevolent soul had listened to the conversation, Andrew would have easily been charged for treason against his country, or at least the country he served under the flag for. But even then, Andrew would not mind. If he was to be hung, at least he would have been honest doing so. His neck attached to a noose could not be as revolting as what he had been witnessing for months.

After a whole hour of a heated discussion about silly orders men were told to follow and about the beauty of the Irish coast, Y/N was called by the owner from the other side of the bar. "And now, may I introduce you to the gorgeous Y/N", he said in a strong French accent. Andrew looked at her as an improvised stage was now floodlit. Y/N advanced on the minuscule promontory and began a little speech that she concluded by: "To all the Irish soldiers, that song dedicated" and on that looked at the distraught man. With eyes closed and the voices dumb around her, Y/N sang heartily The Wind that Shakes the Barley, thus echoing to the morbid taste Andrew was given in as well as his melancholy towards his country.

Tears were forming on Andrew's canthus as the words were so precisely describing his feelings. Between the moment Y/N had started singing and the moment she sat back next to Andrew, the latter knew that singing was his own destiny. If he was to come back from the war, he would be a singer. He congratulated Y/N when she sat back. The two of them spent the night together, aware that the world was coming to an end, trying their best to delay the deadline.

By seven in the morning, Y/N woke up in an empty bed, hers that an angel had blessed during the night. During the rest of the fight that had torn apart Europe, Y/N did her best to get informed on Andrew's fate. Has he survived? She hated herself for she had not asked his surname, which would have helped far more than to look for every single Andrew fighting in the trenches.

She had no information when the armistice was signed and started losing hope as to see him again. She was still living in the North of France, thinking that if Andrew wanted to see her again, he would seek in the region, making things easier for their reunion. Which was a great option since that happy day happened.

By December of 1918, almost a month after the war had ended in Europe, Andrew wished to go back to Ireland. He still had some papers to sign to make official his departure from the army. In Ireland, a new fever impregnated; men who fought during the war now wanted their young wives and their future children to be called Irish, and not British anymore. Andrew wanted to take part in that fight too, with the same strength that he put into the Great War. From the fields to Ireland, Andrew had to cross the region in which he had met Y/N. He prayed that she was still there. When the two gathered, it felt just like they had never stopped seeing each other.

Three months later, the two moved in together in the venerate Ireland that only a year later became independant, far from the mud of the war.

[gvnbreaker]

CHARACTER SURVEY || Aja Hyskaris

@yascaret​ edited/removed some of the questions to make this more FFXIV-friendly. I made a few of my own changes as well.

RULES.  Repost, don’t reblog! Tag 10! Good luck!

TAGGED BY.  @yascaret​ and @wood-warder​

TAGGING. If you’re reading this, you’re tagged!

BASICS. FULL  NAME :   Aja Hyskaris

NICKNAME :  None (yet?)

AGE :  Appears around late 20s/30 by hyur standards

BIRTHDAY :   Midsummer

GENDER : Non-binary; she/they

ETHNIC  GROUP : Viera (Rava)

NATIONALITY :  Ivalician (?)

LANGUAGE / S : Common

SEXUAL  ORIENTATION :  Homosexual

ROMANTIC  ORIENTATION : Homoromantic

RELATIONSHIP  STATUS :  In a relationship with Lofn Yascaret & Pjel Qoet

HOME  TOWN / AREA :  The Hyskarian Deepwood, Golmore

CURRENT  HOME :  A small house in Shirogane.

PROFESSION : Mercenary. Bounty/monster hunter & occasional bodyguard.

PHYSICAL. HAIR : Vibrant red, wild, curly, falling to mid-back; undercut. Sideburns and widow’s peak.

EYES :  Amber.

FACE :   Square with a sharp jawline. High cheekbones, thick, arched eyebrows, and a prominent, aquiline nose. Often smirking insufferably or flirtatiously, prone to great expressiveness and wide smiles but just as easily brooding. Sharp teeth.

LIPS :  Full. Her smiles are crooked to begin with and deadened nerves on the left side of her mouth add to the effect.

COMPLEXION : Deep brown with warm undertones, lighter palms and soles of her feet, a lighter smudge underneath her nose and around her nostrils. Freckling around her shoulders, arm, the tops of her thighs and her lower back.

BLEMISHES : None of note.

SCARS :  Covered in scattered scars of varying age, depth, and severity, particularly on her left side and near her prosthetic arm. Ceruleum burns on torso; old, ringed scar around throat; vertical scar on left corner of mouth; small scar across nose; edge of left eyebrow; three scars beneath right eye.

TATTOOS & PIERCINGS :  Blackwork tattoos around forearm and legs, among others (design with art to come); white tattoos (curve, three dots) beneath eyes; Several gold rings along outer shells of ears; gold septum ring

HEIGHT :   Just under six fulms, not counting her ears.

WEIGHT :   Average.

BUILD :   Muscular and stocky, with broad shoulders tapering to a strong waist and thighs. [body type reference]

FEATURES :  Her left arm, from the start of the bicep, is a mechanical prosthetic, appearing to be of magitek-or-close make.

ALLERGIES :   None that she knows of.

USUAL  HAIR  STYLE :  Worn loose and wild, not so much a style as a thick mane.

USUAL  FACE  LOOK :  Bare-faced, wearing tinted red pince nez. Smirking, grinning, flirting--generally looking like a complete asshole.

USUAL  CLOTHING :  Loose, open shirts, trousers, long coats, heavy, knee-high boots, leather jackets.

PSYCHOLOGY. FEAR / S : Imprisonment, isolation, drowning, Garlean war machina.

ASPIRATION / S :  Stability, helping others, belonging. In her younger years, she had romantic visions of knighthood, but those have since quieted with the years.

POSITIVE  TRAITS :  Adventurous, Passionate, Brave, Charismatic, Strong, Empathic

NEGATIVE  TRAITS :  Cocky, Bull-headed, Self-destructive, Reckless, Impulsive

MBTI : ESFP

ZODIAC :  Leo

TEMPERAMENT :  Sanguine

SOUL  TYPE / S :   Warrior

ANIMALS :   Wolf

VICE HABIT / S :   Brooding, drinking to excess, recklessness, impulsive decisions, using sex as validation.

FAITH :  She spares it little thought.

GHOSTS ? :  Yes.

AFTERLIFE ? :  Maybe.

REINCARNATION ? : Hopefully.

ALIENS ? :   When she met her first hyur man, she knew aliens were real.

POLITICAL ALIGNMENT : Garlemald bad, fuck cops.

EDUCATION  LEVEL :  Average for a viera of her village. She's taught herself to read between the lines better after being conned out of a full hunt reward once or twice in her early days in Rabanastre.

FAMILY. FATHER :   Fleeting contact a lifetime ago.

MOTHERS :  Still in the Wood.

SIBLINGS :   Several, no contact. She was close with one, but has made peace with never seeing any of them again.

EXTENDED  FAMILY :  Still in the Wood--as far as she knows.

NAME MEANING / S :  Aja, from the Hyskarian Deepwood

HISTORICAL  CONNECTION ? : She was born in Golmore, but as far as she knows her name has little meaning.

FAVORITES. BOOK :  Adventure stories and romance novels. She’d never admit it, but they can be found hidden in her satchel or underneath or inside other things.

DEITY :  She tries not to think about them.

HOLIDAY :  Moonfire Faire, ????

MONTH :  Summer

SEASON :  Summer & Fall

PLACE :  A grassy field. The back of a cycle. On top of someone or between someone's legs.

WEATHER :  Thunderstorms, rain showers, clear skies and bright sun overhead.

SOUND / S:  Rain, thunder in the distance, the soft breathing of a woman asleep.

SCENT / S :  Metal, cedar, rain, leather, girlfriend ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

TASTE / S :  Meat, whiskey, curry, girlfriend ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

FEEL / S :  Furs, leather, grass, rain, girlfriend ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

ANIMAL / S :  Cats, coeurls, dogs.

NUMBER :  7

COLORS :  Red, browns, black, gunmetal

EXTRA. TALENTS :  She's a blunt instrument, so beating the shit out of things. Flirting. Fixing things, usually the mechanical variety. Making friends. Diffusing social conflicts as often as she creates them. She's a good cook, but it's suitable really nowhere else but over a fire with a beast's flank in one hand and a metal spit in the other.

BAD  AT :  Love. Understanding and accepting her feelings. Has a chronic case of Foot-in-Mouth Disease. Has a long fuse, but her temper can spin out of control when pressed. Terrible at restraint and not being reckless and impulsive.

TURN  ONS :  Stockings, especially with the seam up the back. The nape of a woman's neck. Banter. Compliments. Smiles. Give her a smile and a coquettish eyelash flutter or make her feel strong and she's useless putty in your hands.

TURN  OFFS : Flirtatious men, cowards, cruelty, Garleans.

HOBBIES : Fishing, tinkering, gambling, trying new foods, sparring and training, exercise.

TROPES :  You Can’t Go Home Again, Badass Longcoat, Dark-Skinned Readhead, Cannot Spit It Out, Hot-Blooded, Scars Are Forever, Everyone Can See It, Artificial Limbs, Berserk Button, Unusual Eyebrows, Dark and Troubled Past, Rage Breaking Point, Cool Bike, Hot-Blooded Sideburns, Fiery Redhead, Red Oni Blue Oni, Gun Blade, La Résistance, Spell Blade, Love Epiphany, Bruiser with a Soft Center, Didn’t Think This Through (Gonna stop now or I’ll be here all night)

QUOTES : “Ah, fuck.”

MUN QUESTIONS. Q1 :   If you could write your character your way in their own movie,  what would it be called,  what style would it be filmed in, and what would it be about?          

A1 :  John Wick mixed with Final Fantasy VIII mixed with Drive but with Garlean soldiers, turncoats, gay bro content, a sorceress, and also heaps of gay in general.

Q2 :   What would their soundtrack/score sound like?          

A2 :  Chromatic rock, Nightrun, hair metal, a lot of Deftones, Tool, the Weeknd, indie and acoustic rock for angst.

Q3 :   Why did you start writing this character?          

A3 :   When viera were teased at Fanfest, I lost my mind and have been unable to concentrate on any other character since. Aja was actually going to be a hrothgar, but when they genderlocked them and the model and general design didn’t fit her body type, well… plans changed.

Q4 :   What first attracted you to this character?          

A4 :   Much like @yascaret’s answer, getting my gay hands on viera in FFTA and being obsessed since then. I wanted to write a warrior, a little battered but unbroken despite everything. She came out differently than originally planned, but in a good way. She’s just an even bigger himbo now.

Q5 :   Describe the biggest thing you dislike about your muse.

A5 :   I worry about Flanderizing her too hard, because while she is a big flirtatious himbo idiot I also want it to come across that she has depth.

Q6 :   What do you have in common with your muse?          

A6 :   Not a lot. I guess we're both stubborn idiots with very long fuses that nonetheless eventually explode and/or destroy whatever is on the receiving end. Also what's gender precious

Q7 :   How does your muse feel about  you?          

A7 :   She probably wouldn’t acknowledge me at all, but we might bond over spicy noodles.

Q8 :   What characters does your muse have interesting interactions with ?        

A8 :   Lofn and Pjel are the obvious choice, but… Lofn and Pjel. I really love writing her alongside and against them because their personality traits both complement and chafe against one another, often in the same scene. Also I love their chemistry and look forward to how that plays out.  ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Q9 :   What gives  you inspiration  to write  your muse ?        

A9 :    B u n y  d e a t h  s q u a d. Just in general seeing my RP partners and roleplayers I haven’t interacted with yet writing and posting content for their characters really inspires me. As far as writing Aja, I take a handful of aesthetics, design elements, and themes and smash them together until something clicks. Listening to music and rolling through a prompt generator usually kick starts me into writing a drabble or developing something, and the FFXIV Write challenge has been great for that this month.

Q10 :  How long did this take you to complete ?          

A10 :  About an afternoon and part of an evening. I fell into TV Tropes a little too hard near the end.

[two-plus-two-is-four]

The lovely @thelordofshadows suggested that I answered every question, probably after recognizing how hyped I was about Apaera, so here I go!

Answers under the cut because this is going to be a loooong post.

01. What is their favorite food? Overall, she prefers fruity sweets like baked apples. She especially likes anything cinnamon flavored. If desserts don’t count, then a fish stew.

02. Do they have a fear of an animal? If so, what animal? Not really. Unless the animals are corrupted somehow.

03. What do they wear to bed? Pants and a loose long sleeved shirt. Might layer a nightdress underneath for extra warmth.

04. Do they like cuddling? She’d be caught dead before admitting it to anyone, but yes and that says a lot.

05. Do they have a secret handshake with anyone? She prefers absurd questions or phrases, to identify people in disguise.

06. What do they look like? She has pitch black skin and hair. Her eyes have a silver iris and she is usually shrouded in darkness.

07. Do they like chocolate? LOVE chocolate!

08. What are their good and bad traits? Her good trait is her empathy, for most things living. Her bad trait is her stubbornness.

09. Do they have any artistic talent? Not quiet artistic, but she does know how to play a few melodies on the flute.

10. What is their favorite room to be in, in the house  they live in? The tallest part of the tower where she can gaze out from

11. Do they believe in luck? Yes, and she actually considers herself to be quiet fortunate. Lady luck isn’t always sweet to her, but she respects the ups and down as a bigger part of the chaos she thrives in. (As answered previously)

12. Can they do magic? Yes, she can cast the spells she’s blessed with. Usually illusion magic.

13. Do they believe in dragons? It’d be harder not to.

14. What is a pet peeve of theirs? When the person she is talking to vanishes.

15. What was the last thing they cried about? Besides from pain, the loss of someone important enough to stir up emotion inside her.

16. What is their sexuality? Generally uninterested, both sexually and romantically, so asexual aromantic. Before her transition to the being she is currently she hadn’t given it much thought.

17. Do they have a best friend? If so, who, and what makes them their best friend? Life long friendships are difficult for her. Besides the few she connects with during their life, probably someone with the same lifespan as her. A certain tiefling comes to mind.

18. Have they ever been in a romantic relationship? No, since her crush short of died, unfortunately. Her feelings are quiet numb either way.

19. What does their relationship with their family look like? Are they close? Distant? Ect. Her family by blood, she has long lost contact with. She doesn’t really recall them anymore, besides her little sister who she still thinks about from time to time. Her found family she is quiet close to, despite all of them having their own paths in life.

20. Do they have a pet? She had a few pets in their earlier years, but it was apparent to her that her lifestyle wasn’t really suited for an animal.

21. Do they have a familiar? Not for a while, no.

22. Are they a supernatural being? Yes, quiet a strong one too. A shadow.

23. How do they usually wear their hair? Short, with the sides shaved. Sometimes on a little horse’s tail.

24. Can they play an instrument? If so, what instrument and what can they play? As previously mentioned, she knows how to play the flute.

25. What type a high schooler are/were they? If she ever went to high school, she’d be a mix of a jock and a goth.

26. Have they ever been in a physical fight before? If so, with who? Who won? Quiet a lot, actually. Some she has won, some she has lost, but she survived all of them but one.

27. What is their favourite holiday? Midnight.

28. If they could have one wish, what would they wish for? Depending on her age, either for her soul to be complete again, or, after certain events, to aid a certain someone in which ever way they’d need, if you catch my drift.

29. Do they wants kids? If they already have kids, do they want more? She doesn’t want kids of her own, but she does like taking care of kids and spending time with them.

30. Do they have a job? She has worked quiet a few jobs here in there over the years.

31. Do they know how to drive? Like a cart? A carriage? Nope, but she can ride a horse.

32. Do they get stressed out easily? Quiet the opposite, if she is stressed out then shit are really going down.

33. Did they ever dye their hair before? If so, to what colour? Did they like it? As part of a disguise, perhaps, but never permanently. She didn’t really mind it.

34. Have they ever broken the law? Never, I swear to Cyric.

35. Do they own a plant? A little pot with a nocturnal lily.

36. Have they ever rode a horse before? Yup, in quiet a few trips.

37. What is their favorite gif?

Is there a reason for this? Yes, absolutely.

38. Do they get along with others easily? Yes, when she doesn’t tease around and poke at them

39. Do they have any tattoos? Not yet, not against it thought. Perhaps once she finds something special enough to her.

40. If I wanted to draw them, what would be distinct physical features that I would have to know to draw them correctly? Her eyes, the whites are actually black while the silver iris has a purple tint to it. Other than that, her nails, which she uses as a martial art’s weapon. Like claws.

41. What is their favourite breed of dog? All dogs are good dogs, but if she was to pick one, she’d go with something fluffy, like a samoyed or a husky.

42. Do they live with anyone? If so, who? She used to live with the people that trained her, then those that she trained. Monks and other shadows.

43. Where is their dream vacation? Somewhere across the great sea. Exploring is an acceptable vacation activity, no?

44. Do they know more than one language? Other than common, she speaks halfling and dwarvish. Over the years, she has also picked up thieves’ cant  and hand cant

45. Are they a quick learner? When survival depends on it. Though her wits are sharper than her memory.

46. Have they ever won a contest before? If so, what for? What did they win? Contest for worst sacrifice ever?

47. If the world were to end in 24 hours, where would they be and who would they be with? If the world was to end in 24 hours, that means someone’s plan went terrible wrong, so naturally, she’d be by someone’s side, trying to stop the world’s end.

48. What does their room look like? Unmade bed, desk filled with papers, pens, ink bottles, a half melted candle. Lot’s of clutter, spell components everywhere. Cloaks, hats and boots, all organized neatly in some corner along with other equipment. Little trinkets with emotional value pilled up high next to the gear.

49. If they could have an extinct animal for a pet, what would they have? Not an extinct animal, but she wouldn’t mind a pseudo-dragon.

50. If they got called out by someone, what would they do? Admit her mistake an try her best to correct it as soon as possible.

51. Have they ever shot a gun before? Prefers crossbows.

52. Have they ever been axe throwing? A few times, not their weapon of preference.

53. What is something that they want but can’t have? Her feelings to be returned by their crush and her soul to be whole again.

54. Do they know how to fish? Yes, she finds it quiet relaxing.

55. What is something they always wanted to do but too scared? Confess, though it wouldn’t make any difference. She is convinced that he already knows.

56. Do they own their own baby pictures? Nope, but she has an idea who would if she ever wanted them.

57. What makes them standout among others? The shadows leaking from her skin. Now if we are talking about other shadows, her empathy.

58. Do they like to show off? Perhaps..

59. What is their favourite song? Choir Noir - Shadow Moses Beneath the Mask (Cover by Adriana) Leonard Cohen - You Want It Darker

60. What would be their dream vehicle? Doesn’t really have one, teleporting through shadows is fine with her.

61. What is their favourite book? Lot’s of favorites over the years, couldn’t really name one.

62. Who, in their opinion, makes the best food? Anyone willing to cook instead of spawning food with magic.

63. Are they approachable? It depends on what she is doing at the time, but most times, yes.

64. Did they ever change their appearance? She sees no point to it, besides disguises.

65. What makes them smile? Hanging out with humans, listening their tales, about their lives, their every day worries. Old friends.

66. Do they like glowsticks? .. Doesn’t need the light exactly.

67. What is something that is simple, but always makes them smile? Dogs.

68. Are they a day or night person? Night person. 110%

69. Are they allergic to anything? Nightbringers and all other worshipers of Shar.

70. What do you, the creator of this OC, like most about them? Her unbreakable will and the tendency absolutely wreck havoc where that is needed. To be sacrificed to a cruel god who feeds of your pain and misery and at that instance decide that instead of caving in your misery, you will instead become the worst sacrifice they’ve ever received by laughing at their face.. Idk man, I think that takes some balls. (As previously answered)

71. Who is their ride or die? Again, a certain tiefling comes to mind.

72. Do they currently have a significant other? If not, are they going to get one later one? I mean, a girl can hope.

73. What attracts them to another person? Freedom, knowing that the people around her will never hold her back.

74. Who is one person that can always make them laugh? Drasek Riven, he doesn’t even have to say anything. He can just be there.

75. Have they ever partied too hard and their friends had to take them home? Yes, not a fond memory of hers’.

76. Who would be their cuddle buddy? Whoever would be brave enough to recognize that she is actually touch starved.

77. Who would cheer them up after a long day? Usually, she is one to stay alone, so when she is in need of company, she’ll just start up a conversation with a stranger.

78. If they had a nightmare, who would they run to? By now, she is used to nightmares, but if she could, her brothers and sisters are who she’d go to. She wouldn’t say anything, their company is enough to calm her most of the times. When not, meditating in an empty dark room usually helps calm her down.

79. What object to the care for the most? It’s not the object it’s self but the information in it. A small book with maps of all the places she has visited.

80. Do they like other people’s children? Yes, love to hang out with them and love to look after them. The little sprouts are really entertaining.

81. How would they react if someone broke into their home? Three stunning strikes? They are bound to fail at least one. Questions will be asked afterwards.

82. Does anyone make them have butterflies in their stomach? Nope, surely not, she is a coldblooded thousands year old being. Of course, there is no one in this plane that makes her feel that way.

83. What is something that they are good at? Taking care of others, listening, paying attention to their reactions.

84. What is their neutral expression? A little scary, but she usually smiles.

85. Do they like to cook? For herself and for others.

86. What is something they can’t leave home without? Her mask.. Even if worn around her writs, she still needs the security of being able to cast spells.

87. Who is someone that they rely on? The asshole who gives her her spell slots.

88. Do they liked to be tickled? Hard pass. Dislikes when people touch her out of the blue.

89. Have they ever been a sword fight before? Is it considered a sword fight if she wasn’t holding a sword?

90. What is a joke that they would find funny? -Then perish- jokes.

91. Do they have a place that can go and turn off their brain? Usually any room without much light, otherwise, a closet will do.

92. What was their childhood like? She doesn’t remember a lot of it, but she know she was happy. One of her few memories is of her and her little sister playing explorers in their mother’s garden. The years after turning to a shade she also considers a short of childhood or at least teen hood as she had to readjust and find new balances in her life. It took her a while to figure out how to care for people again when she could hardly feel anything, but little by little she managed to give up her spite. Those years were the roughest for her.

93. What are they like as an adult? After her second “puberty”, she learned to be quiet more free spirited, relaxed and easy going thought with certain events that happened in her life span, her spite towards a certain group of individuals reignited.

94. Do they take criticism well? Most of the times. She wants to generally improve herself.

95. Have they ever jumped out of a plane? Well.. Not a plane, no. But I can imagine her jumping off of a floating city.

96. Who do they like to make jokes with? The bastard that gives her her assignments.

97. Have you ever drawn them before? If you are comfortable with it, would you post a picture?

[dark0angel13]

Rescue Me

The days pass by like nothing happened, but the pain eats away at her. It weighs heavy on her heart, sucking what little spirit she has left in her until the only thing that remains is a shell of who she once was. Food is bland now, colors seeming faded and dingy compared to the bright vibrant shades of blues and reds that sparkled in her eyes like diamonds. Her job is just that, a job. A menial task of punching a time clock that doesn’t jolt her soul with a thousand volts like it used to. It’s the same thing day in and day out. Patrol, reports, the occasional arrest, but even that doesn’t have the affect on her that it used to.

She feels shattered, like the world around her has crumbled into pieces and there are too many for her to pick up. It’s overwhelming some days, and just getting out of bed seems like an impossible task, but she does it anyway, because that’s what Simon would have done. If she concentrates hard enough, she can hear his voice in the back of her mind, bitching at her to get her shit together and move on because the job never stops. He’s right—even if he’s only a figment of her imagination—but being able to move on without him, was like asking her to breathe underwater. He was her best friend, her partner, her confidant and rock when she needed one. He was her soulmate, if she had to put a word to it. Not in the romantic way, though he did try a few times. No, this bond went deeper than romance, deeper than friendship. Without him, Erza feels like a part of her is missing, and she’s terrified that she will never find the piece she needs to feel whole again.

Mira, bless her heart, she tries so hard to be there. To support and care for her when the nightmares become too much to handle, but there is only so much sex can do to cover up the pain. In the moment, its bliss, a high she never wants to come down from. But when the high ends and she’s left to face the demons that hide behind her eyelids, she’s in a losing battle.You could have done more. You should have done more. You should have waited. He’d still be alive. The scene plays out in her mind every night like a movie and the more she sees it, the more she hates herself. His death is on her shoulders, and though no one says it outright, they all know she’s right. The fake smiles and pats on the back do nothing but add salt to her already wounded heart. They felt bad when it happened, but since the funeral, it’s like Simon never existed, and she hates them all for it.

“Erza?” her name—in the form of a question—draws her focus back to Jellal, and the look of concern on his face startles her. He isn’t known for showing much emotion after all.

“I’m sorry, what were you saying?” a twinge of guild festers in the pit of her stomach, threatening to lurch up her throat but she holds it back.

“I wanted to know how you’re doing,” he sips his coffee—cool as a cucumber—and Erza can’t stand that he can control his emotions so damn well. She wanted to be able to do that. Hell, she would sell her very soul to not feel so broken inside. The guilt, the pain, the raw melancholy that eats away at her psyche daily, is almost enough to drive her mad. “I’ve noticed you’re not your usual self lately.”

“How do you think I’m doing?” she scoffs when a sigh leaves his lips.

“I know you and Simon were close, if there is anything I can do, please let me know.” He pauses as if he has something else to say, but his eyes drift back to his coffee and he doesn’t speak again.

“You can bring him back.” she knows that’s impossible, but ask stupid questions, win stupid prizes.

“I wish I could, but you know as well as I do, that he’s gone.”

“Then why did you ask?” Why is she giving him such a hard time? He doesn’t deserve this.

“He was my friend too Erza…” his face deflates, and she knows she’s hit a nerve, but she’s drowning in her emotions and the surface seems to only get farther from her grasp. “I miss him too.”

“How am I supposed to work without a partner?” the question hangs in the air for a moment before Jellal pushes her a folder.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. The commander signed off with his approval to make me your new partner.”

The world around her stops and her vision zeros in on the manila folder sitting in front of her, mocking her. Daring her to open it, if she’s brave enough.

“Why would he do that?” she doesn’t meet his gaze as her body moves of its own volition. Sure enough, signed at the bottom of the document, is Makarov’s signature.

“He knows we have history and work well together.” A simple answer to a simple question she supposed, but it’s an answer she isn’t satisfied with.

“Why though? We’ve never worked together.” She raises an eyebrow as she slides the folder back to him. “Simon and I were always partners.”

“Simon was your partner because I didn’t want to fight him for the position.” His words are a haze in her mind, and she feels her heart race in her chest. When she doesn’t speak, he continues, voice soft. “I knew Simon loved you Erza. I wanted to give him a fair shot. When he asked to be your partner, I didn’t challenge him because I wanted what was best for you.”

She stands abruptly, ready to walk out of the café but stops herself. She’s stiff, knuckles white around the edges of the table as she stares him down. “Why?”

“Why what?” his confusion only serves to piss her off more.

“Why tell me this now?” she all but screams the words and he stiffens in his chair. “If you wanted to be my partner, why didn’t you fight for it back then?” If you were my partner, you would have survived…

She gasps at the thought, tears welling in her eyes and she’s out the door before he can stop her. She doesn’t even remember getting home. The entire drive is a blur in her memory, and only when she shifts into park, does her focus snap her back into reality. Did she really think that? Did she just betray her best friend?

“Dammit!” her anger is palpable, and she beats the steering wheel until her hands are bruised. Truth be told, Simon was an amazing cop, but he didn’t hold a candle to Jellal. He was always faster, always a better shot, even if he was arrogant. Why now though? Why was she suddenly comparing them now?Because if it had been Jellal that day, he would have lived…

“No!” she buries her face in her palms, bloody from clenching her fists so tight, and fights the conclusion in her mind. Jellal would have stopped her from pushing to breach. He would have waited for backup or had taken more precautions. He would have been there to talk her out of being rash and making spur of the moment decisions. She wants nothing more than to disappear from this world. To let the blackness swallow her whole, or to let the waves push her under. Someone rescue me…

“Erza are you okay?” Mira is suddenly everywhere and Erza does her best to focus on her. On the hands that grip her own tightly as if to tether her back to the Earth. On the cerulean orbs filled with concern and tears. “Talk to me honey.”

“I can’t do it anymore Mira…” I can’t fight anymore.

Mira doesn’t speak as she pulls Erza from the car. She doesn’t speak when she all but carries Erza up the stairs to their apartment. She doesn’t even speak as she gently washes to blood from Erza’s palms. The kitchen is eerily silent but the warmth radiating from her has Erza on the verge of collapsing. Her hands are soft, her breath even and calm while Erza hyperventilates until breathing is impossible and Mira is there to calm her down.

In one swift movement, Erza feels Mira envelope her in her arms and carry her to the bedroom before gently setting her down on the bed. There is no exchange of words, simply light touches that leave fire blooming across her skin like erotic flowers, but there is something different about these touches. Mira undresses her, but she doesn’t touch her, instead reaches for the tank top she usually wears to bed and Erza raises a brow in confusion.

“You don’t need sex right now,” Mira dresses her as she speaks. “You’ve been focusing on the physical aspect of coping, but you need to come to terms with the fact that he’s gone. So, I’m here to take care of you while you get it out of your system.” The smile that Mira flashes breaks the dam on her eyes and the tears flow unhindered as Erza grips her best friend for dear life.

Just like that, everything within her explodes, and the emotions she’s been keeping bottled up for so long escape like air from a balloon. Her entire body is shaking but Mira only holds her tighter, hugging her like a longtime lover, hands rubbing patterns on her back in soothing motions. It hurts, Erza realizes through strangled cries. The grief, the emptiness, it hurts like nothing she’s ever felt. Like her entire essence shattered into pieces. The fact that he’s gone, that her best friend has left this world, hits her like a bullet and while she screams obscenities about life not being fair, and about it being her fault, Mira doesn’t speak.

When the agony ripping its way up her throat burns like whiskey, and Erza feels like her very existence is on the verge of imploding, Mira is there. To tether her, to anchor her to a physical body while she battles for control of her emotions. Mira is warm against her, a solid heartbeat echoing in her ears next to the pounding of her own erratic pulse. A soft humming sounds when the screams stop, and Erza is left sucking mouthfuls of air around her tears as the melody sinks into her very pores. It’s a song Mira has sung for her many times, but tonight—when she feels like her life is spiraling out of control—it sounds different. The usual happy noise that leaves her lips is slower, reserved even—if Erza had to put a word to it—and it’s entirely too long before she figures out why. Mira knows she’s grieving, so the melody is matching the emotion.

Erza doesn’t know how much time passes while she calms down, but Mira never speaks, never moves, and never stops humming. She’s there when her vision refocuses, when air leaves her lips in slow breaths. She’s there when Erza relaxes against her, content to fade into the heat that surrounds her like a safety blanket, and she’s there when Erza feels sleep approaching in the form of soft fingers across her head, smoothing out her hair and tucking it behind her ear.

“Thank you,” The words are a whisper and Erza isn’t sure Mira hears her.

“When it gets too painful to deal with, come find me. I’ll put you back together no matter how many times you shatter into pieces.” Lips meet her temple and she feels Mira pull the blanket up. It’s there, in the way she holds her, warm hands on her back and lips caressing her head as soft humming meets her ears, that Erza realizes she’s in love with her roommate.

“I love you Mira.” Its so quiet, Erza isn’t even sure she said it out loud or just thought it, but Mira’s hum falters for a heartbeat before it resumes and Erza feels a finger lift her chin. There, in the stormy depths of those big blue eyes, is the emotion that fills her soul with something she never thought she would find again. Love.

“I love you too Erza.” Her lips are soft when they descend and Erza feels her pulse quicken in her veins but all too soon Mira pulls back and resumes her humming. Is it possible to have two soul mates? One to connect with on the very basic level, that makes you feel complete without needing romance, and one to feed the soul that yearns for a release only sex can bring? Erza doesn’t know the answer to her question, but as she drifts to sleep in Mira’s arms, she can’t help but think yes, it is possible. Simon was her soulmate in the same way twins would bond. She loved him and will always feel a piece missing. But with Mira, that piece doesn’t seem so monumental anymore. With Mira, her soul sings when they are together. Mira knows what she needs, and when she needs it, and when she brings her to the edge of ecstasy then pushes her over it, Erza feels like she’s drowning, and Mira is the air she’s been needing.

Mira was there when she shattered, and Mira is the one to rescue her, and Erza can’t think of anything better than that.

END

This is a sequel to Shatter Me, so I hope you enjoyed it because I loved writing it! Let me know what you think!

@fuckyeaherzaxmirajane