#dissolve all borders

[bandofchimeras]

content: religious imagery from Christianity

haven't tried to meditate for a long while. a lot has happened both personally and in the wider world and holy god...the weight of everything now. accumulated. the rapid aging of witnessing suffering and going through life alone.

it's like the only choice is to close your eyes and let your heart die entirely and trust it will born again from that death. there's no mental battling it. for the first time I understand the necessity of a higher power, not as a nice convenience, but a psychological and spiritual necessity. some force to surrender to, give over the weight of the world instead of carrying it. Christ in the garden of Gethsemane. sweating blood.

it isn't the suffering of innocents so much as the impossible reality of brutal violence. the hands falling in helplessness - how do I respond to this iniquity? what are we beholding!?

I have never really dealt with my Catholic baggage. It's present now, the reality of martyrdom and execution and forgiveness and wrestling with G-d.

The question: what is it, to carry the cross - the humiliation and the weight of exile and derision? looking the sins of the world in the eyes, feeling your old self die. Surrending to the rending of the earth as you know it.

it doesn't seem dramatic anymore, to wail and gnash teeth. To keen and collapse and screech yet the display is also what would restore health - but here now, it is compacted inside. silence, suffering, sweat turned to blood.

when you see the worst things that could possibly be done to or by a human being. it breaks you, some naivete or arrogance or pride in humanity, rational humanism, to be a witness to that. Hell makes sense. Gehenna. my body turns to soft worn denim, water flows through me where once there were dams of ego, ideas. There's no ground anymore, the cosmic void opens and in it I hear a thrum, a singing from the heart of the world like waves in a night black ocean.

Horrible horrible stories flash in my mind, barely can be grasped, image of a long white arm stretching through history the death cult - Christofascists and white supremacists and Roman and British imperialism and corruption and betrayal - reaching up through wounds of scapegoat and Shoah into the shape and words of wearing fhem like a puppet, fingers playing through the stories of prophets like Yeshua, playing a story of self fulfilling prophecy: Armageddon centered in the Holy Land publicly recrucifying Palestinian men and innocents to please. ..to please who? It cannot be G-d.

Is it G-d?

who does this horror please? What kind of question is that to ask?

What is this?

the mind can't answer. Attempts at words wash away in the waters of the sea but the blood cannot be removed. There is stain, and grief and the pale march of gentrifying colonial HORROR so false and plastic gives way to dry rot, the spell it casts of luxury and wealth broken like a cheap dinner plate, unworthy of fixing, waste, clogging the waterways, an utter unforgivable mistake.

and they said never again we said never again what is memory? who keeps it?

the earth swallows us in forgetting in gentle glacial time but still a tremor of violence echoes. the only thing remaining to want is to lie against a beloved and rest. to feel the sun again and close my eyes and allow it.

Weariness beyond words. I give this up, this rationalist project to comprehend and inscribe the whole world. It is beyond knowing. I understand though how Yeshua said of his killers even as he was suspended in unimaginable pain, they know not what they do. What else, what else are you to say?

And the Temple was split. What is this, what is this story? That has held not only my psyche but our collective imagination, in a vise? What are we reckoning with?

G-d, where and who are you?

But a drumbeat and a quiet song in the deep. Buried under the rubble, a cry of love.

[algrolo]

Im getting irrationally annoyed at the concept of international borders right now while surfing on google maps like. This is just all made up stuff! Why cant people just go where they want.

[ohproserpine]

ix. deer dolly

see all chapters here apologies for the delay! this SHORT chapter is all about the long-awaited reunion, filled with steamy scenes. no plot points, just pure passion. if this portrayal isn't your cup of tea, feel free to skip to the next chapter: to be posted in a few days. tags: fem! reader, alastor being demisexual/demiromantic, allusions to marital activities, steamy bordering smut, mention of blood and injury, religious symbolism, love as a fucked up obsession

As you shut your eyes, the world around you dissolves into swirling shadows. The darkness envelops you, cocooning you in a sense of weightlessness. Pressed against Alastor, you bury your face into his suit, your cheek brushing against the smooth silk of his tie. The decrepit, torn building fades away, replaced by the crisp, clean ambiance of a hotel room. The air feels fresher, devoid of the musty odors that had clung to your senses before. Light streams in through the windows, casting delicate patterns on the walls that dance and sway with ethereal grace.

"Cher."

Rough lips press tenderly against the side of your temple and a heave escapes your chest, tears tracing silent paths down your cheeks, their presence unnoticed until they meet the fabric beneath your eyes, staining Alastors suit. The noise of your own blood rushing in your ears drowns out all other sounds, leaving you isolated in a world of agony.

Suddenly, the pain in your ankle resurges with a vicious intensity, sending waves of agony coursing through your body. A whimper escapes your lips, barely audible amidst the overwhelming sensation. It feels as though your very being is folding in on itself, ribs straining against flesh, breath catching in your throat. With the adrenaline long gone, every ache and throb becomes magnified, threatening to consume you whole.

"Al, it hurts," you manage to utter, your voice strained with anguish.

Alastor remains silent, his dilated, frenzied eyes locked onto your shaking form. His hand reaches up, lingering where your throat meets your jaw, the sharp points of his claws pressing down with a calculated pressure. You feel a sharp nip, and a bead of blood begins to seep from the small wound, a crimson offering that seems to stir something primal within him.

His mouth waters, and he swallows audibly, his gaze fixated on the trickle of blood.

"Sweet girl," he murmurs softly, the words a stark contrast to the hunger in his eyes. His thumb moves to gently swipe away the tears that streak down your cheeks, his touch oddly tender despite the predatory gleam in his gaze.

Leaning down, Alastor presses a tender kiss against the small wound, his lips a soothing balm against the raw edges of your suffering. A rush of conflicting emotions floods through you—pain, longing, and a desperate craving for his touch. With a soft sniffle, you raise a trembling hand to press against the back of his head, your fingers threading through his hair.

Alastor responds to your desperate craving, his hands flying to your hips as he lifts you effortlessly and lays you down onto a nearby chair. One of his shadows encircles your ankle, causing you to tense instinctively. However, instead of pain, you feel a cool sensation spreading through your skin, soothing the ache and tension. With a sigh of relief, you close your eyes, allowing yourself a moment to relax into the chair.

All the while, Alastor's gaze pierces through you, his eyes dark with desire and desperation.

You're right in front of him, vulnerable and exposed, a temptation too potent to resist. The taste of your blood still lingers on his tongue and he longs to sink his teeth into your soft flesh, to taste the sweetness of your essence as he consumes you with a fervor bordering on madness, leaving marks that brand you as his and his alone. Every fiber of his being yearns to ravage and possess you, to consume you in a frenzy of passion.

But he understands that to yield to his desires would mean risking further harm to you, and he cannot bear the thought of causing you any more pain.

And so, with a tortured soul and a heavy heart, he fights against the primal instincts that surge within him, denying himself the one thing he craves above all else.

As the minutes pass and the pain begins to dissipate, you find yourself panting softly, your chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. Exhaustion and relief wash over you in waves, mingling with the lingering ache that still echoes through your body.

Gazing up at Alastor, you smile, your hands instinctively moving to rest on his lower abdomen, seeking the reassuring warmth of his touch in the dimly lit room.

A silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating.

Alastor's hands remain clenched at his sides, the strain evident in the way his claws dig into his palms, threatening to break through the surface of his flesh. The protection of his gloves is the only barrier preventing the sharp tips from drawing blood.

His intense gaze, like twin flames burning in the shadows, enveloped you in their fiery embrace. Crimson eyes, almost glowing with intensity, held you captive, trapping you in a cage of his unspoken desires.

With each passing moment, it became increasingly apparent that he was relinquishing control, leaving you with the reins in your hands and him at your mercy.

Straightening yourself, you let your nails graze over his abdomen before landing on his beating chest. The rhythmic pulse beneath your touch erratic. Finally, after what feels like an eternity to Alastor, you break the stifling stillness with a voice barely above a whisper. "On your knees."

Alastor's gaze darkens, a predatory glint flashing in his eyes as he pauses for a moment, as if considering your request. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, your husband obeys, sinking to his knees before you.

Wasting no time, you seize him by the collar, pulling him close as your lips collide in a fevered kiss. The red lipstick you wear leaves its mark on his mouth, staining and smearing across his lips, cheek, and jaw. A low growl escapes him as he tugs off the jacket to his suit before his claws are grazing down your legs, leaving a trail of destruction as the fabric of your stockings tears with an audible rip.

With a breathless whimper, his name rolls off your lips, and Alastor freezes in place. It's as if something inside him shatters, a floodgate bursting open to release the pent-up longing and passion that he's kept restrained for so long.

Suddenly, his arms tighten around you, pulling you closer as he responds to the urgency of your kiss with equal fervor. With a low, primal grunt, your husband pushes against you. Every brush of his lips against yours, every press of his body against yours, speaking of a hunger that can no longer be contained. It's a hunger born of years of yearning and longing, a hunger that demands to be sated here and now.

Both of you lean back, lost in the intoxicating frenzy of desire. The chair beneath you groans and creaks ominously under the strain before finally giving way with a loud snap.

You yelp in surprise as the ground rushes up to meet you, but before you can hit the hard floor, Alastor's arms wrap around you protectively, catching you in a tight embrace. With a swift motion, he pulls you up into his embrace, effortlessly supporting your weight as he holds you close.

With deliberate steps, Alastor guides you to the edge of the bed before gently lowering you onto its soft surface. You land with a huff and a thud, the mattress embracing you like a comforting embrace.

As you settle onto the plush bedding, Alastor follows suit, hovering above you with his arms caging your head. Leaning down, he presses a trail of kisses down the valley of your breasts, each touch igniting a fire within you.

The straps of your white silk dress are tugged down, revealing the curve of your chest as you melt into the softness of the mattress. Your body instinctively arches towards his touch, every nerve alive with anticipation. As his hands explore the contours of your body, your mind succumbs to a blissful haze, thoughts dissolving into a fog of desire and need.

"Al..."

Alastor continued his ministrations, each kiss a fervent prayer offered up to the goddess beneath him. A reunion long overdue, it felt akin to a sacred ritual. With each tender touch of his lips, he sought to worship you in the most unholy of ways, offering himself up as a devoted supplicant at the altar of your desires.

[p0orbaby]

The Lion in the Jungle Shows No Shame

summary: you go into labour

warnings: some minor mention of contractions but that’s it

a/n: rich!reader is me; not the rich part, but the so over everyone part

word count: 1.7k

-

The boardroom at the training ground is frigid, an oppressive sort of sterile, painted in a corporate beige so calculatedly devoid of warmth it borders on offensive. The colour has clearly been chosen by a committee, signed off by no less than five department heads, all with the express goal of sapping any ounce of levity from the room. The walls bear only the club’s logo in gleaming gold, catching the light like a freshly polished trophy, austere and daunting. You’re seated at the head of the table in a chair meant to look sleek and modern but which you’ve always thought resembles a throne, albeit a minimalist, joyless one. You take pride in this spot, preferring the vantage point of a monarch observing her court, where each word, each glance can be read as an unspoken directive. A panel of finance officers sits to your left, expressionless and obedient, while the marketing strategists and department heads to your right wait, perched on the edge of their seats, eager to impress, or perhaps, not be dismissed. You’ve made your mind up on all of their fates already, but they don’t need to know that.

You sit back, legs crossed, and let your gaze drift to the person currently holding court—a sponsorship officer droning on about a potential partnership with an energy drink. The whole affair is tedious, but you feign interest, allowing only a flicker of annoyance to register as you twist the cap of your Montblanc in slow, deliberate turns, a small, repetitive comfort amidst the boredom. The sponsorship officer is yammering on about margins and high-profile market share. You nod, keeping your expression intentionally neutral, a carefully cultivated mask of polite detachment.

Nine months pregnant isn’t ideal, but that doesn’t mean anyone gets a pass. If you’re still here, they have no excuse for underperforming. You’ve kept every meeting, every review, every grueling evaluation on schedule, so there’s no room for them to slip up. Your presence is a reminder that leadership doesn’t come with compromises or concessions—not even now. Alexia might have opinions about it, but she knows better than to question your commitment. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

Then, there’s a twinge—a faint prickling in your lower back. You tell yourself it’s nothing, just the sort of trivial discomfort you’ve brushed off for weeks now. You shift slightly, adjusting in your seat. Subtle, hardly noticeable. But someone—some unfortunate junior in marketing, possibly fresh out of his MBA programme and clearly untrained in discretion—glances over. He catches it, the flicker of discomfort. There’s the faintest suggestion of concern on his face, a furrowed brow, a hesitant question half-formed before he thinks better of it.

Good.

You meet his gaze and reward him with a smile—half genuine, mostly a warning. He gulps, as if he’s swallowed something sharp, and turns his attention back to his notes.

Then the pain intensifies, sharper this time. It tightens low and fierce, radiating like an overstretched muscle, and you have to will your expression to remain steady, blank, entirely unaffected. Your eyes fixate on the PowerPoint slide, as if by staring hard enough you can dissolve the discomfort into the soulless white glow of the projector. But no, it’s there, settling in like an uninvited guest who intends to stay.

The marketing intern glances up again. This time, he actually manages a look of pity. He’s hardly subtle about it. You almost laugh—almost—except the contraction twists hard enough to force you to hold your breath, and your fingers press a touch too hard against the table.

The finance officer drones on, oblivious, his voice a steady monotone against the quiet hum of the air conditioning. Someone in the corner clears their throat. The sound cuts through the room like a scalpel.

“Ma’am,” he says, hesitant, looking anywhere but at you. “If you’d like to take a break—”

You wave him off with a flick of your wrist. “I’m perfectly fine. Let’s keep this moving, please.�� Your words are clipped, precise, the kind that leave no room for doubt. You feel the weight of the room’s collective discomfort settle around you, like fog gathering, thick and stifling. The intern looks at you again, wide-eyed, uncertain, and you catch his gaze with a look so cold he almost recoils.

“Of course,” he mumbles, fumbling with his laptop, frantically tapping keys as if the sheer speed of his typing will save him from your wrath.

The next contraction slams into you with a ferocity that makes your breath hitch. A sharper, hotter pain spirals down your spine, and you grip the edge of the table, harder this time. The finance officer is rambling about revenue share and high-growth potential, but his words are disintegrating, merging into the mechanical hum of the fluorescent lights overhead, until they’re nothing but a dull, meaningless drone.

“Ma’am?” The intern speaks again, tentatively. “Are you sure you’re… alright?”

You turn to him with a look that could shatter glass. “Do I look unwell to you?”

His face drains of colour. “No, of course not,” he stammers. “Just… checking”

There it is again, that shift. It’s slight but palpable, a crack in the air. Power slipping. The assistant to your left, normally so silent and obedient, dares to glance your way with what might be concern. Another staffer coughs, hiding his expression in a notebook, though you can see his eyes darting nervously across the table. They’re all shifting now, uncomfortable, glancing at each other in a silent exchange, a web of tension growing thicker with each stolen glance.

You grit your teeth, willing the pain to dissipate, willing them all to get back to their work and stop—just stop looking at you like you’re some fragile artefact about to shatter.

Then, your assistant, Julian, a man so dependable you’d have trusted him with your life savings, makes the first move. He stands, smoothing his tie, clearing his throat in a way that’s maddeningly self-assured. “I think we need to get someone,” he says, his voice gentle but insistent, like a fatherly reprimand. “Just… in case”

Your eyes narrow into slits. “Sit down,” you say, your voice a low, dangerous murmur. “Now”

He hesitates, and the silence stretches, taut as a wire. Then, inexplicably, he defies you. “I’m calling Alexia,” he says. His voice is barely above a whisper, but it cuts through the silence like a blade.

The shock is visceral, immediate. You can feel it rippling through the room, see it in the furtive glances darting across the table. You, the unassailable chief, suddenly vulnerable, and worse, defied. You hear murmurs, soft but unmissable, as if they’re collectively holding their breath, waiting for you to explode.

Alexia. Coming here. The idea sends a fresh wave of mortification rolling through you, sharper and hotter than any contraction. Alexia, with her bluntness, her inability to mince words. She’ll walk in here, she’ll see you, and she’ll say exactly what she’s thinking, in front of everyone.

The finance officer clears his throat again, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “Maybe we should… reconvene another time?” He avoids your gaze, wisely. His voice is tentative, as though he’s testing the air for danger.

“Absolutely not,” you bite out, voice like ice. “We’re finishing this meeting. Right now”

But it’s too late. The tension is too thick, the unease in the room too palpable to ignore. You can feel their eyes on you, hesitant, searching, a quiet mutiny blooming under their skin, as though you’re something fragile, a rare beast they don’t quite know how to handle. You grip the edge of the table again, willing the pain to subside, to vanish, anything to regain control of the situation.

Then, the door swings open, and there she is: Alexia, in her training kit, her hair damp with sweat, her eyes blazing with a fury so palpable it sends a ripple of shock through the room. She locks eyes with you, her expression a lethal blend of exasperation and concern. The silence deepens, everyone watching with barely concealed curiosity.

“You’re still here,” she says, each word clipped and loaded, a statement more than a question. It lands like a slap.

You force a smile, though it’s tight and strained. “I’m fine”

She sweeps a gaze across the room, her eyes taking in the faces of your subordinates, each one frozen in various states of unease and fascination. When she looks back at you, her expression is a mix of incredulity and… pity. She almost smirks, as if to say, Look at you now.

“You’re in labour,” she says, loud enough for everyone to hear, her voice filled with a quiet, unmistakable fury. “And you’re… what? Leading a meeting?”

You can feel the weight of their stares, the barely-concealed smirks, the disbelief. You, their fearless leader, brought low, bossed around by your own spouse in front of them. You can already hear the whispers, the knowing chuckles that will ripple through the ranks for weeks, the stories that will morph and grow.

“I really don’t think this is necessary,” you manage, but your voice is weak, a mere shadow of its usual authority.

“Necessary?” Alexia repeats, crossing her arms. “You think it’s not necessary to go to the hospital when you’re about to give birth?”

Someone stifles a laugh—an intern, no less. You shoot him a look that promises retribution, but it’s lost amidst the pain that surges again, more intense, unrelenting. Then, Alexia’s arm is around you, firm yet gentle, steering you toward the door with a resolve that’s unyielding.

You give one last, desperate protest. “There’s no need to make a fuss. Really, I—”

“Enough,” she says, and her voice is a balm, a force, something that both steadies and infuriates you. Her arm around you is warm, grounding, and for a moment, your frustration melts, replaced by something softer, something you won’t allow yourself to name.

As Alexia guides you out, you catch a final glimpse of the boardroom, your staff looking back at you with expressions ranging from bemused pity to unspoken amusement. You know, with chilling certainty, that this will be the story of the month, if not the year. But with Alexia’s arm wrapped around you, her presence beside you, that irritation begins to fade.

The door closes, sealing you from their whispers, from their smirks. Just this once, you let it go.

[r3starttt]

MARKING KINK

PAIRING: sub!vi x reader

CW: kinktober | mommy kink. praise kink. fingering. cannibalism and pomegranates as a metaphor for love type of shit

Your hands cradle her face, fingers trembling with a reverence that borders on worship as Vi's eyes flit across your features, her expression soft yet full of hunger. Her lips, slightly parted, are a breath away from yours, her warm exhale teasing your skin, sending shivers of anticipation down your spine. The small sighs she lets out are a quiet symphony, intoxicating you with their softness.

Your thumb hesitates over the mark on her cheek, tracing the delicate contours of the "Vi" etched there with slow, deliberate care. For a moment, your gaze lingers on it—an intimate acknowledgment of everything she is—before locking eyes with her again. Her gaze is molten, filled with need and desire as your fingers glide down her jawline, savoring the texture of her skin. You follow the curve of her lips, your touch feather-light, until they part slightly in response, inviting you in.

You hover, just close enough to feel the heat of her breath against your thumb, the sensation pulling you deeper into the moment. Finally, you close the distance, your lips meeting hers in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly deepens into something more raw, more primal. Your saliva mingles, the taste of her sending a spark straight through your core.

Your thighs press against hers, anchoring you to her lap as her hands wander beneath your shirt, fingertips brushing over your skin with a desperation that matches your own. She grips you as if afraid you might slip away, her nails digging into your back, the sensation sharp but grounding. Her touch becomes more urgent, tracing patterns over your lower back, down your thighs, as if memorizing the feel of you.

Your hips grind into her, the motion slow but deliberate, each movement perfectly in sync with the rhythm of your tongues, swirling together in an unspoken dance. Your hands slide to the back of her neck, tangling in her hair, pulling her closer, needing her closer. The kiss turns frantic, messy, full of passion and heat, the wet sounds filling the space between you.

Vi's mouth opens wider, a moan escaping her as she struggles to form words between kisses, her need palpable. There's something desperate in the way she holds you, something almost pleading in her touch. She clings to you, her breath ragged, her body tense with how much she craves you. She needs to feel every part of you, to taste you, to keep you as close as she possibly can. If she could devour you, she would—just to keep you with her.

It doesn’t take long before Vi’s mind dissolves into a haze, her thoughts slipping away, her body yielding entirely to the overwhelming need to have you. She’s desperate—aching to feel you, to be consumed by you, to become one with you. The hunger between you is raw, feral, and all she can muster is a soft, pleading "Please..." But before she can say more, your lips crash into hers, silencing her with a kiss full of fervor. You don’t need her words; the only sounds you want are those sweet, helpless moans that escape her lips, delicate and needy, meant for you alone.

Her voice trembles as she repeats, “Please,” her breath catching in her throat, and it’s enough to make you pull back, abandoning her lips to explore lower, letting your desire lead the way. Your hands slide down her neck, tracing her chest, feeling the heat of her skin as your fingers squeeze the soft, bare flesh beneath them. You savor the vulnerability she offers so freely, every touch claiming her in ways that words never could.

Your teeth graze her neck, nipping at her skin, the sharpness of your bite sending shivers through both of you. She arches into it, her body offering itself with every tremor, and the soft gasp that escapes her lips drives you further. You relish in the slight sting that blooms where your mouth lingers, her skin slowly turning shades of red beneath your touch. You’re painting her in your colors—red, violet, green—the hues of her pleasure and pain blending in perfect harmony. It's as if each bite, each mark, is a testament to how deeply you crave her, how much you need to claim every inch of her.

Your fingers trail down her stomach, nails dragging lightly over her skin, leaving faint, tantalizing scratches in their wake. Her body responds eagerly, her stomach rising to meet your touch, aching for more—more pain, more pleasure, more of you. Every breath she takes is shallow, trembling, as you push her further into the realm of sensation, your lips never straying far from her neck, leaving a trail of kisses, licks, and bites that burn in the most exquisite way. You mark her shoulders, her collarbone, branding her with your love, until all that's left is the red of her skin, each spot a declaration of your hunger for her.

Your hands dig into her sides, pressing into her with an intensity that borders on possessiveness. You pull her closer, your nails raking down her back, feeling the heat radiate from her body as she melts beneath your touch. The soft cries that spill from her lips—those quiet, trembling sounds of pain and pleasure—are the sweetest music to your ears. Each plea for more, each whispered “Please,” only fuels your desire, pushing you to touch her deeper, to bite harder, to leave no part of her untouched by your love.

The need to rip her apart, to tear her open and devour her, courses through you like wildfire. It’s all-consuming, and she feels it too, her body surrendering to the same madness, the same longing. Vi’s hands find their way to you, pulling at your clothes, stripping you bare, leaving you just as exposed, just as vulnerable as she is. She’s frantic, desperate to touch you, to feel you under her hands, her nails mimicking yours as they dig into your back, dragging up your spine, grazing the nape of your neck.

Together, you lose yourselves in the heat of it all—biting, touching, loving each other with a fierceness that words can never capture. It’s a storm of pleasure and pain, an endless cycle of need that neither of you can escape, as if no matter how much you take from each other, it’s never enough. You both savor the way you hurt, the way you love, lost in the beautiful chaos of it all.

“Gonna be good?” you murmur softly, your lips hovering in the valley between her breasts, each word a brush of heat against her skin as you move lower. Your eyes flick up to meet hers, watching the way her breath catches in her throat, the delicate knot of tension that forms between her brows, pulling them into a soft frown. The way her nose scrunches slightly adds to the tenderness of it all—this woman, so big, so strong, so fierce, and yet here with you, she’s something else entirely. Vulnerable, open, beautiful in her quiet surrender.

“Yes…” she breathes, her voice steady and sure despite the overwhelming emotions building between you. There’s a confidence in the way she nods, a promise. She’ll always be good for you, always what you need—gentle if that’s what you desire, or rough if that’s what you crave. For you, she’ll be anything. She’s yours, every part of her, waiting for you to decide.

You give her a slow nod in return, a silent acknowledgment, before your fingers leave the soft curve of her stomach, traveling lower, tracing the powerful lines of muscle that define her thighs. The way her body responds to your touch—her thighs parting instinctively, inviting you in—is intoxicating. Your fingers move gently, caressing her with soft, lingering strokes, each one full of reverence for the woman beneath you.

Your lips follow, pressing warm kisses against the firm flesh of her stomach, retracing the path of red and purple marks that bloom under your mouth. Every kiss, every touch, is a brand of love, desire, and something deeper. You paint her skin with your affection, each press of your lips a reminder that she is yours, that this moment belongs to both of you.

You move yourself up again, intertwining your legs with hers and pressing- aligning your bodies as your arm comes in between fo be the little and only separation. "Breathe, be good for mommy" your voice hits the delicate of her face, and she obbeys with a nod. The breath that was about to hit your skin suddenly cut by your fingers in between the wet of her thighs. Small circles rubbed against her clit that turn her into a mess, desperate and hungry and turning her brain into nothing but you.

The little gasp that leaves her lips is the prettiest sound that could ever exist. And they just keep on longing and coming out more and more and more each time the pads of your fingers follow a new pattern, a new speed. Each time you press harder on her, each time her hand grasps deep into the flesh of your lower back to keep you closer. Each time she feels the need in your own body, simply pressed over her- it's not enough. "Violet..."she needs you. "Please...." Her pretty lips are parted open, hitting the skin of your neck directly, those eyes that shine with a hungry adoration now looking up at you, unless the pleasure blinds her and commands her to close them. She wants to look at you, to remember if you're ever gone.

"My pretty girl" your fingers scissor her folds, playing with the slick of them, the wet that you've created with little nothing. Her moans cut, bucking her hips up as it that'll give her any more friction. It doesn't.

You can sense the pain of it, the craving. Your free hand comes to brush the pretty red strands of hair aside, pressing a kiss on her forehead to cup at her cheek briefly, leading her closed eyed face to kiss you once again. But she can't, she needs to breathe and grasp for air in between those small cries. "Mommy..." it was meant to be another quiet plead, but her mind felt overwhelmed and it became a gasp, a loud desperate plead.

You finally slid your fingers, curling them with ease. "So wet for me, mhm?" her hips moved at an instant, following your rhythm. It was too much, how your fingers were curling so deliciously inside her. The wetness and obscene sounds filling the space between both along those pretty whines you adored. Her stomach clenched at the pure sound of your voice, your quiet praises and guidance. Her fingers gripped tightly at the fat of your hips, letting the pleasure invade both your bodies.

"Cum for me babe" you asked her, grabbing her pretty face once again. Your hand coming dampened after each thrust into her pussy, ridiculously wet. "Can't- Can't, fuck-"

TAGLIST | kinktober: @lewd-alien @greysontheidiot @jolyne @sapphic-ovaries @prwttiestbunny

vi's taglist: @tlouloser @ilovetaylorrr @imdrowningindispair @rkivedpages @crispers @softlikesilk-chiffon

[em-ontv]

Need some space — d.w.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x lover!fem!reader

Summary: Dean could never keep his hands off of you, latching onto you whenever he could

Content: fluff, established relationship, clingy/touch-starved Dean, not proofread, English is not my first language, mistakes should be present, sorry!

Word count: 912

Dean was a lot of things—sharp-tongued, reckless at times, stupidly brave—but you hadn't expected "clingy boyfriend" to be added to the list.

Yet somehow, here you were, flipping through dusty books with his head in your lap, eyes half-closed like an oversized housecat. He shifted to a more comfortable position on the couch, clearly uninterested in the research you were trying to get through.

"Dean," you sighed, nudging the book away from where it almost brushed against his face. "How am I supposed to read with your giant head in the way?"

"Don't mind me, sweetheart." he mumbled, eyes closing and voice bordering a purr. "You're doing great. Keep it up."

You gave his forehead a flick, earning a dramatic groan. He swatted half-heartedly at your hand but refused to move an inch. Instead, he stretched his legs out further, making himself even more comfortable.

"Seriously? You're not even gonna pretend to help?" you glared at him. "You know, I'd really appreciate it if you started flipping through some books too."

"Helping," he said lazily, cracking one eye open and giving you a smirk. "Emotional support."

Without waiting any further, he reached up, took your hand, and pressed it to his head. Your fingers tangled in his hair instinctively, and he melted under your touch like butter on a hot pan.

When you stopped and started to pull your hand back so you could flip a page of the book, he let out a pathetic whine, pushing your hand back against his head, like he’d die before letting you go.

"You're such a baby. I have to get this done before Sam comes back." you muttered, squishing his face between your fingers, making him pout.

"Cut it out," he grumbled, frowning up at you, though the way his frown dissolved when you laughed said otherwise.

"If you're not gonna help, you're not gonna complain either." you said, and he retaliated by kissing your wrist, peppering soft, warm kisses all the way up your arm.

You rolled your eyes, biting back a smile. Dean's touchy-feely tendencies had only escalated since you started dating. Take the case last week, for example.

You'd been interviewing a witness at a diner, trying to keep your questions subtle and professional. Dean, however, had other ideas.

"So, you're saying the lights flickered just before you heard the noise?" you asked the frazzled waitress.

"Uh-huh," she nodded, glancing nervously between you and Dean.

Before you could respond, his hand found its way to the small of your back. Not a casual graze either—nope—it was a slow, deliberate caress, his fingers curling just enough to make his presence known. You froze, shooting him a warning glance, trying to shrug him off, but he was already leaning in closer, the picture of shamelessness.

"Sweetheart," he murmured, low enough that only you could hear. "You're doing amazing. Keep it up."

"Dean," you hissed through a forced smile. "Go sit down."

"What? I'm just keeping an eye on you," he replied, all wide-eyed innocence, grinning like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

The poor waitress looked like she wanted to crawl into the freezer.

And then there was that time in the library when you'd been deep into research, scanning page after page. Dean had sauntered in, plopped down next to you, and proceeded to rest his chin on your shoulder while humming AC/DC under his breath.

"Keep reading, sweetheart. I’m comfy." he murmured when you tried to shoo him off, knowing he'd just distract you. His arm snaked around your waist, and before you could protest, he was already pressing slow, feather-light kisses along your jaw.

Or the night you snuck into the kitchen for some quiet time with a PB&J. Five minutes later, Dean appeared in the doorway, his hair sticking up in every direction. He looked half-asleep, his brows pinched in sleepy frustration.

"What are you doing?" you asked, mid-bite of a PB&J.

"Couldn't sleep," he said, padding over to you with a frown. "Why'd you leave?"

"Dean, I was gone for five minutes."

He made a noise of dissatisfaction, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind, nuzzling lazily into the crook of your neck. "Come back to bed with me." he muttered, his voice soft and heavy with sleep.

It was ridiculous. The same tough-as-nails hunter who'd taken on demons, monsters, and literal death couldn't go five minutes without missing you. But as much as you teased him for it, it brought a certain warmth to your heart.

Because for all his bravado, Dean was just a guy who'd spent most of his life terrified of losing the people he cared about, loved. His over-the-top clinginess? It was his way of making up for lost time.

"Alright, fine," you said, swallowing the last bite of your sandwich and dusting your hands off.

He grinned—smug at first, but it quickly melted into something far softer. He let out a content hum, nuzzling closer.

"Right now, please." he murmured, his voice heavy with drowsiness.

"Alright, just don't fall asleep on me in the middle of the kitchen." you said, rubbing his arm, leading him back to the comfort of your shared bed.

Under the covers, Dean curled up against you, his arms wrapped around your body, his face buried in your neck. His breath was gentle and even, warm against your skin. Just before sleep took him, he murmured faintly, "Love you, sweetheart."

[franavu]

While the Archheart's plan seems completely in character for a chaotic god who just wants out of their current situation (kudos to Abubakar), it's also an absolutely terrible idea. Let's say the absolutely best case scenario is going to happen. In that best case:

Imogen and/or Fearne can control Predathos enough that they're not completely erased (this would be the least important part in the grand scheme of things.)

When Predathos is syphoned from the moon it only takes the energy and doesn't cause the moon to crack/explode/implode, causing it to rain chunks of moon down on Exandria.

All the gods actually leave. This is not a certainty as per Taliesin the Wildmother has invested so much of herself in the world that she likely can't leave. I would imagine that that means that the Lawbearer is sticking around as well. Not to mention what would happen to the Chained Oblivion, it's not the same as the other gods, and as far as I know it only showed up sometime during the schism. (Is it even prey for Predathos? Is it of the same species? Would there be a Chained Oblivion Predathos Kaiju battle, with Exandria as the battleground? Who knows?)

On the way out the lower and higher planes get locked down so there is no extraplanar invasion. (The biggest worry would be demons/devils but I can imagine planetars etc. can make a problem of themselves if they see a good cause)

On the way out Predathos doesn't decide to snack on lesser divine beings/things (Uk'otoa, parts of the Luxon, etc) leaving its mutating properties behind. (see the Savalir wood)

The bloody bridge gets dissolved and doesn't tear Exandria's magic apart.

Now, in the absolute best case scenario, none of the above is going to be a problem. Regardless, what is going to be a problem:

Divine magic is going to be weakened at the least. The number of divine healers is going to tank, and while there are lesser beings that can grant divine magic, and it is possible, but difficult, to wield it without any (see Calamity). That's going to take a while to sort out, and in the meantime there's going to be a lot less healing.

A lot of things that got out during the Solstice are still out, like the Phoenix thing that is similar to Uk'otoa (which is probably out again as well) and they are a lot more difficult to seal without divine aid.

There is also still a significant invasion force of Ruidians that are going to be a problem, not to mention the Ruby Vanguard

With the gods gone, a lot of semi-divine powers, whether good or bad, are going to be empowered through new followers and/or warlock pacts, without anyone to keep them in line (again, see Artagan or Uk'otoa)

Vasselheim, the oldest city in the world, is going to have massive issues of at least morale, and is likely not going to be in a state to do anything outside of its own borders.

Other political entities are also going to be looking inwards, consolidating their own resources, and shedding their pereferies. I'd say that, for example, the Dwendalian Empire is likely going to shrink. Countries that are less effected by the loss of the gods, may very well go to war. Places that have been protected by the gods are going to lose that protection, Niirdal-Poc and the other cities which were protected by the Wildmother are probaly going to be run over by the Iron Authority.

Outside of actual war, demagogues, warlords, cult leaders, etc. are going to spring up in the chaos, with various degrees of violence.

And finally there is the biggest problem, wizards. Since long before the Calamity the holy grail of magic was ascension to godhood, and now the thrones are empty. A whole bunch of wizards are going to try for them, and in the best case scenario they fail and only take a chunk of empty countryside with them. In the worst case they succeed, seeing that wizards who's ambition is godhood absolutely should not have it. And now there is no divine gate or other deities to curtail them. So there'll soon be a new, worse pantheon.

So the Archheart is right, there will be a new balance, but as that usually goes, the new balance is going to be built on a pile of corpses, and is likely going to be worse than the previous one.

But hey,

[thatswhywelovegermany]

November 9, the fateful day of the Germans in history

Nov 9, 1313: Battle of Gammelsdorf - Louis IV defeats his cousin Frederick the Fair marking the beginning of a series of disputes over supremacy between the House of Wittelsbach and the House of Habsburg in the Holy Roman Empire

Nov 9, 1848: Execution of Robert Blum (a german politician) - this event is said to mark the beginning of the end of the March Revolution in 1848/49, the first attempt of establishing a democracy in Germany

Nov 9, 1914: Sinking of the SMS Emden, the most successful German ship in world war I in the indo-pacific, its name is still used as a word in Tamil and Sinhala for a cheeky troublemaker

Nov 9, 1918: German Revolution of 1918/19 in Berlin. Chancellor Max von Baden unilaterally announces the abdication of Kaiser Wilhelm II and entrusts Friedrich Ebert with the official duties. At around 2 p.m., the Social Democrat Philipp Scheidemann proclaims the "German Republic" from the Reichstag building. Two hours later, the Spartacist Karl Liebknecht proclaims the "German Soviet Republic" from the Berlin City Palace.

Nov. 9, 1923: The Hitler-Ludendorff Putsch (Munich Beer Hall Putsch) is bloodily suppressed by the Bavarian State Police in front of the Feldherrnhalle in Munich after the Bavarian Prime Minister Gustav Ritter von Kahr announces on the radio that he has withdrawn his support for the putsch and that the NSDAP is being dissolved.

Nov 9, 1925: Hitler imposes the formation of the Schutzstaffel (SS).

Nov 9, 1936: National Socialists remove the memorial of composer Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy in front of the Gewandhaus concert hall in Leipzig.

Nov 9, 1938: November Pogrom / Pogrom Night ("Night of Broken Glass") organized by the Nazi state against the Jewish population of Germany.

Nov 9, 1939: The abduction of two british officiers from the Secret Intelligence Service by the SS in Venlo, Netherlands, renders the British spy network in continental Europe useless and provides Hitler with the pretext to invade the Netherlands in 1940.

Nov 9, 1948: Berlin Blockade Speech - West Berlin mayor Ernst Reuter delivers a speech with the famous words "Peoples of the world, look at this city and recognize that you cannot, that you must not abandon this city".

Nov 9, 1955: Federal Constitutional Court decision: all Austrians who have acquired german citizenship through annexation in 1938, automatically lost it after Austria became sovereign again.

Nov 9, 1967: Students protest against former Nazi professors still teaching at German universities, showing the banner ”Unter den Talaren – Muff von 1000 Jahren” ("Under the gowns – mustiness of 1000 years", referring to the self-designation of Nazi Germany as the 'Empire of 1000 Years') and it becomes one of the main symbols of the Movement of 1968 (the German Student  Movement).

Nov 9, 1969: Anti-Semitic bomb attack - the radical left-winged pro-palestinian organization “Tupamaros West-Berlin” hides a bomb in the jewish community house in Berlin. It never exploded though.

Nov 9, 1974: death of Holger Meins - the member of the left-radical terrorist group Red Army Faction (RAF) financed in part by the GDR that eventually killed 30 people, dies after 58 days of hunger strike, triggering a second wave of terrorism.

Nov 9, 1989: Fall of the Berlin Wall - After months of unrest, demonstrations and tens of thousands escaping to West Germany, poorly briefed spokesman of the newly formed GDR government Günter Schabowski announces that private trips to non-socialist foreign countries are allowed from now on. Tens of thousands of East Berliners flock to the border crossings and overwhelm the border guards who had not received any instructions yet because the hastily implemented new travel regulations were supposed to be effective only the following day and involved the application for exit visas at a police office. Subsequently, crossing the border between both German states became possible vitrually everywhere.

[poisonlove]

The Addams curse³

Pairing: wednesday Addams X reader

A/n: this sucks!

Wednesday walked slowly toward her room, the desire to consult Nathaniel Faulkner's diary fresh in her mind. After the tumultuous ball at Raven'N, the attack on Eugene and her surprising visit from Uncle Fester, she had finally found the answer she was looking for: Hyde. The creature that had harmed her friend Hummer Eugene was indeed a Hyde.

Now she was determined to learn more and stop this threat.

“So... Cara Mia?” a mocking voice echoed behind her filled with an irony that was now all too familiar.

Wednesday stopped abruptly, shutting her eyes tightly to hold back the warmth that threatened to color her cheeks. She couldn't forget the moment they had shared after activating the curse, nor the confession she had made to Y/n in the library the following day. But now she couldn't let those thoughts distract her; Eugene was in the hospital and a revenge plot was to be planned.

She turned, striding decisively toward Y/n, her back straight and the dark heart pulsing wildly at the sight of Y/n’s eyes.

“I already explained it to you the other day,” she replied in her monotone voice, though the tension in the air was palpable.

“I know... but it’s so absurd,” Y/n murmured, her cheeks flushed as her eyes analyzed Wednesday from head to toe. The scent of Y/n had become almost unbearable for Addams; she couldn’t ignore this damn connection.

Wednesday placed a cold, firm hand on Y/n’s shoulder.

“It’s not hard to understand that you are the object of my curse,” she whispered, her deep gaze shimmering with dark amusement.

“I know,” Y/n admitted, her voice a breathless whisper full of resignation.

“So... if I were to reject you, would you be doomed to suffer for all eternity?” Y/n asked, her voice trembling, betraying palpable nervousness.

Wednesday nodded, her gaze now intense full of a ferocity that seemed to penetrate Y/n's soul.

“It would be my desire: to live a life of suffering,” she declared with a seriousness that made the air thick and charged.

Y/n wrapped her hands around Wednesday’s waist, a jolt of energy coursing through both of them like lightning. Y/n’s fingers gripped tightly at the goth girl’s hips, pulling her close with a force that made Wednesday’s heart race. She looked up, their eyes locking with intensity.

Her soul bound to Y/n’s by the Addams curse vibrated with a frenzy she had never felt before.

“For your misfortune, I like you,” Y/n whispered, her voice low and seductive as her face moved ever closer to Wednesday’s. Their noses brushed and the goth girl felt a wave of heat wash over her. The pounding of her heart echoed in her ears, a frantic rhythm speaking of desire and an attraction that was impossible to deny.

“It doesn’t work like that... My soul is bound to yours for eternity,” Wednesday mumbled, her voice trembling as her fingers moved along Y/n’s shoulders, gently gripping her neck. The other hand rests on one of her cheeks, a perfectly manicured black-polished nail scratching the skin.

Every touch felt like a spell, infusing life into every fiber of her being.

In that moment the boundary between them dissolved and Wednesday felt herself swept away by an uncontrollable impulse. The curse was not merely a sentence; it was an obsession, a burning desire to possess Y/n completely. With a decisive move, she leaned in, their lips meeting in a deep and voracious kiss charged with passion and intensity that seemed to border on the obscene.

It was an explosion of sensations: the warmth of their bodies, the intoxicating scent of Y/n enveloping her senses and the weight of the moment felt charged with palpable energy. The kiss was a hymn to life, a gesture of rebellion against the fate that bound them. Y/n’s lips were a fire consuming her, their sweet and salty taste an irresistible mix.

Wednesday felt the outside world fade away in replaced by a sea of overwhelming emotions. Every second of that kiss amplified her obsession, the desire to possess Y/n and to be possessed, to connect completely so that no force in the world could separate them.

When they finally broke apart their breathless gasps filled the air and neither could ignore the echo of the curse that bound them. Wednesday knew that nothing would ever be the same; their story was only beginning and the power of the Addams curse would amplify every moment of that bond, turning their passion into something unbreakable.

“We should do this more often,” Y/n murmured breathlessly, a smile plastered on her lips.

Wednesday gripped Y/n’s uniform collar tightly. “Oh, Cara Mia... we are destined to do this for eternity. We have all the time in the world and there’s nothing more delightful than sinking into the abyss of our obsession.” Her gaze sparkled with restless joy. “But now we need to continue the search,” she added in a calm tone.

She pushed Y/n away from her.

“Okay?” Y/n blurted out in confusion.

Wednesday opened the door to her room and the sight that greeted her was a nightmare: the room was in complete disarray, the table overturned, the beds tossed about and the silence filled the air.

“Things?” Wednesday called, her voice heavy with apprehension.

Her worries quickly turned to panic as she noticed drops of blood on the floor. Tension rose as she hurried toward the source of the tragic red. She stopped abruptly, her heart racing at the sight of Things lying motionless on the floor.

“What the hell happened?” Y/n exclaimed, cautiously approaching Things.

Wednesday crouched down, her face contorted in a mask of worry. “If you die, I’ll resurrect you and kill you again,” she threatened but her voice betrayed a deep concern. She couldn’t imagine a world without Things, her faithful and incredible friend.

Y/n knelt beside Things, her eyes shining with determination. “We have to help him,” she said, placing a hand on Things’ wound. Immediately small electric jolts coursed through Things as Y/n tried to assist him with her abilities. “Please, Things, stay with us,” she implored, her voice filled with anxiety.

Wednesday, while maintaining her facade of icy calm, felt her heart constrict. “You’re an idiot, Things. You can’t let anyone hurt you that easily,” she said, frustration evident in her voice. “You have no idea what we’ll have to face if you don’t survive this.”

After a moment that felt like an eternity, Things moved his fingers slightly but remained still. Y/n let out a breath, her breaths quickening as a relieved smile spread across her face. “Done,” she whispered.

Wednesday wipes away a tear that had fallen down her cheek.

Addams stood up, a mix of relief and fury coursing through her body. “But who dared to do this?” she asked. Things, despite his condition, struggled to rise and with trembling fingers painstakingly signed a message in the air: Hit from behind.

“I swear I’ll kill him,” Wednesday muttered through gritted teeth, fury igniting in her eyes.

[thebenjiblackwoodexpress]

The Blackwood Knight prt.4

Disclaimer: Back to my usual shenanigans with another installment of Benjicot angst. The stakes are getting higher. Plus the start of the crossovers Victoria and I have planned with the Jump then Fall series.

Description: In which the Blackwood Knight bends the knee before his Queen.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Playlist:

One Thing~ One Direction

Risk~ Gracie Abrams

Only Girl (in the world)~ Rihanna

I think he knows~ Taylor Swift

A silver moon shone through the casement of the turret window of Raventree Castle Benjicot leaned against, staring out across the expanse of Blackwood vale towards the borders of Bracken lands. His arm raised above his head, leaning against the wall, soft candle light cast shadows over his disconsolate expression. Never had he wished to cross such an expanse before, so long had he been the arbiter of the very border which he now wished to dissolve. Raised as he was to inherit the Blackwood estate and lands, he was equally set to inherit the duty to further propagate the ancient enmity between the Blackwoods and the Brackens. A duty he had never railed against until now.

His thoughts turned to the lady whose beauty of mind and form had made him question all that had once seemed to him so certain. The very lady who he who he was determined to make his lady wife. He could not very well ask her to leave her whole life, her family, her House, to be at his side. He would not ask her to. Instead, he resolved, he would dissolve the very borders between them.

An amused voice broke his reverie.

“Oh look, it’s our resident troubadour, musing over his lady love.” Benjicot’s friend, Robb laughed at him, elbowing him in the ribs.

Turning to him with a bemused expression, Benjicot responded “And what if I am?”

Rob laughed again, turning to lean jauntily against the castle walls.

“I thought you were a man of action. Why don’t you just march down there, bend the knee and offer yourself in marriage to her. You bore me enough with your plans to do just that thing? Do you think she will refuse? I would if I were her.”

Benjicot pushed his friend in the shoulder, but his expression betrayed a hint of insecurity behind the action.

“That is definitely a concern. She is very shy and I cannot be sure that my love will be returned. There is also the small matter of our warring Houses. I would not merely be asking her to accept me, but also my House…and to forsake her own. I will not ask her to make such a sacrifice. I must instead find a way for both our Houses to resolve their differences. If my world will not accommodate her, I must tear it down and begin anew.”

Robb met Benjicot’s gaze with his own incredulous one.

“Trying to get the Blackwoods and the Brackens to resolve anything without the use of extreme force is beyond belief. Just the other day I encountered that Bracken fellow you like to refer to as a peacock, attempting to move the boundary stones further into our lands and I had to restrain myself from making him eat the damn rocks.”

Benjicot’s eyes darkened slightly, “that fellow is incorrigible but he is also, I’m afraid, the cousin of my lady, so I can’t very well dispatch him…though I have thought of doing so…many times.” He looked off into the distance with an almost wistful expression.

“I would not direct my proffers of peace terms to such an idiot. The future Lord of Bracken Hall, Aeron Bracken could be more reasonable. He does not wish for further bloodshed and may be amenable to a settlement. A dispute at the border with his own lady has convinced me of this.”

A mist had swept over the Riverlands overnight, coating the grass expanse with dew drops, as Y/N walked towards the Brackentree, struggling to contain her excitement at seeing her knight. Her thoughts continued to turn on the events of the previous day, when he had spun her close to him and had gazed at her with a look that held something behind it that almost convinced her that he harboured the same feelings that she did for him towards herself. Almost, for she had convinced herself in the intervening hours after he had walked her back to the outermost borders of the Brackenwoods that he thought of her as just a silly girl with fantasies of chivalry that he entertained only to be kind. This didn’t seem right either, considering his behaviour towards her. His actions had sometimes made her hope that the opposite might be the case, that he might grow to love her, as she did him.

Each day that they met to walk along the border of Blackwood and Bracken lands, he would bring her a book or a piece of art he believed might interest her, especially as it related to great female Targaryens like Visenya. He would hold her arm over his so gently, as he guided her across rockier terrain, sometimes lifting her across it by the waist, after first asking. If it was colder, he would unclasp his crimson cloak from his own shoulders to wrap it around her own, smiling at her as he did so, before making a comment about how well the colour looked on her. So often did he make comments of a similar ilk that she sometimes pretended that it was because he wanted her to bear the colours of his House, as his lady. But she quickly dismissed such thoughts, embarrassed at even entertaining them.

At Bracken Hall she was a shadow, unnoticed, unimportant, and frequently mocked by her cousin for her interests. Benjicot, in the way that he would meet her gaze directly as she spoke, nodding and smiling attentively as she did so, made her feel as if what she had to say was of value and his frequent offers to ‘dispatch your cousin’, whilst only jests that made her laugh, made her feel that he truly cared. All this aside, Benjicot was a true knight and she knew from his behaviour towards a lady from a house loyal to the Brackens who had encountered some hostile Blackwoods that he acted with chivalry towards all ladies. Perhaps his actions were just that, perfunctory, even if they were kind.

With these confused thoughts turning in her mind, she hardly noticed that she had already arrived at their meeting point, before she bumped into a hard obstacle. Crying out in surprise, and struggling to keep her footing, she felt an arm wrap around her waist, and another around her shoulders, as she looked up into the warm brown eyes of Benjicot, who smiled down at her in a mixture of amusement and something softer she couldn’t quite identify.

“Nice of you to drop in, my lady, although I had thought I’d have to do something truly heroic to get you to fall into my arms.” Lifting her back to her feet, he moved his arms to hold onto her elbows to steady her, holding on for a few moments longer than was strictly necessary.

“My apologies,” she said quickly, “I was distracted.”

Noticing the pink on her cheeks and her slightly panicked expression, Benjicot feared he had overstepped the line and embarrassed her, quickly stepping back to give her more space. When her expression didn’t change, he added in a jesting tone what he meant earnestly.

“No need to apologise, my lady. Feel free to fall into my arms anytime you so wish, that’s what they’re there for. And of course, for spearing your cousin on the end of my sword.” He added, with a wink.

Smiling at him indulgently and pushing his chest playfully, Y/N laughed as Benjicot rocked back on his boots, as if her light touch had actually succeeded in moving him.

Pushing him again for this jest, Benji placed his hand above hers on his chest, arresting it in its place. Smiling down at her, he held her hand in place like that for a few seconds before moving it so that he could graze it with his lips. Gently dropping her hand back to her side, he nonetheless retained hold of it, as he turned to direct them to their usual walking route through the borders of the Brackenwoods.

After a few moments of walking in contented silence, Benjicot began, “This knight has a proposition to put before his queen, if she be so pleased to entertain it?”

Turning with a laugh to swat at him, Y’N responded, “you jest!”

Catching her hand in his once again, Benjicot stopped them in their passage, looking into her eyes earnestly, “Do I?”

“You know you do” she scoffed, moving to continued walking, before Benji once again stopped her by taking a gentle hold of her elbow.

“I am sorry to hear you say so. I have begun badly already. I’m afraid you will have trouble listening to the whole of what I will say.”

Seeing that he looked genuinely troubled, she stopped to gaze back up at him.

“I’m sorry, continue.”

“Well,” he hesitated, taking a step towards her, to close the distance between them, “I would like to ask you a question, if you would permit it.”

Seeing her nod in acquiescence, he took a deep breath, more on edge than she had seen him since he had rescued her from his bannermen, before taking her hands in his and bending low, head lowered before her.

“What are you playing at again Benji” she said, half in amusement and half in confusion.

Smirking at her shortened version of his name, hers alone to use, he drew strength from the feeling of her smaller hands in hands.

“I once offered you my service as a knight in your protection. I meant it when I bent the knee before you that day and I mean it now as I offer myself to you as your husband and protector. I would dedicate myself to your happiness and ensure that your days and nights were safe. I would have you be my lady wife and the future Lady of Raventree, if you would have me.”

Fearing to look up at her and gage her reaction, Benjicott kept his head lowered, awaiting her response as the agonising silence continued.

To his surprise, she harshly withdrew her hands and began to walk away from him without a word. Momentarily stunned, Benjicot looked after her retreating figure before rallying himself, hurrying to catch up with her.

“My Lady” he called, to no answer. Repeating his call, she turned with a stricken look that made his heart drop into his stomach, seeing that tears were forming behind her eyes. Berating himself in his mind for upsetting her, he frantically replayed his words in his mind, trying to find the source of his blunder to correct it. Unless, of course, it was him, himself that offended her so. A painful thought, but one he would try to accept if it was the case.

“What is the cause of your distress, are you hurt? Have I said something to offend you?” He hurriedly stumbled out.

“You have hurt me.” Y/N responded with a hitch in her voice.

Feeling a sharp pain in his heart at this, Benjicott stumbled back a pace and lowered his head.

“I am sorry for having done so, please forgive me. How can I make amends” and more desperately he added, “what can I do?”

Y/N lowered her head, avoiding his gaze before responding in a quiet voice he had to lean towards to hear, “don’t make fun of me.”

Raising her voice slightly, she continued, each word a lance to his heart.

“I have endured enough mockery from cousin and his friends about my interest in knights and queens. I had thought that you, at least, would not do the same thing. I had thought that…that we were friends, that you respected me enough not to do that.”

As she had been speaking, Benjicot’s expression had become increasingly distressed and then finally determined, as he realised his blunder and the source of her pain. She did not believe him.

As she hurriedly turned to leave, Benjicot grabbed her hand.

Turning in frustration, attempting to wrench her hand from his firm hold, Y’N demanded he let her go.

Benjicot stepped towards her, wrapping his arm around her waist, closing the distance between them

“I will, once you listen to me…please.” He added, as she stopped struggling.

He raised his free hand to gently graze her cheekbone with the back of his knuckle, before tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear.

“I earnestly apologise for having acted in a manner which caused you to disbelieve the truth of what I have said, but please believe me when I say that I have never, and would never, mock you. Especially for something I myself most ardently believe to be true: that I am your loyal knight and protector, whether you will have me or not, and would be your husband, if you would allow it.”

Recognising in Y/N’s direct gaze a desire to search for the truth of his claims in his eyes, he lowered his head towards her, so that she could look into his eyes more easily.

A few more agonising minutes passed for Benjicot, before his lady’s gaze seemed to soften and she said in a soft, questioning voice.

“You are in earnest?”

“I have never been more so about anything in my life.”

“And you want me?”

Chuckling at this, he stroked her cheek again, “No, I mistook you for your peacock of a cousin, obviously.”

Laughing at this, she raised her own hand to wrap it around the back of his neck, causing butterflies to rise in his torso.

“Then I will be your lady.”

Breaking out into a smile, which conveyed love and admiration, Benji lowered his face towards her slowly, stopping intermittently to check for any sign of distress in the expression of his lady.

Hovering his lips above hers in hesitation, gazing into her eyes with a look that asked for her permission, he moved his hand to hold her head as he gently grazed his lips over hers, deepening the kiss when her arm wrapping around his neck made him sure that his lady was in fact his to love and adore, as well as serve and protect.

Breaking the kiss, he continued to hold her head in his hand, gazing down at her with a reverential look that could only be for a knight towards his queen.

Her expression suddenly becoming distressed as she pushed him away, Benjicot briefly panicked that he had, after all, been too forward, until she told him her fears.

“But how will I become your lady if I belong to House Bracken.”

Smiling in relief that he had not been the cause of her distress, he once again took her hand in his, raising it to his lips before he assured her:

“Don’t distress yourself on that account. I will find a way for you to be both Lady Blackwood and Queen of the Bracken lands. I’ll burn the borders down myself if I have to, although I am very fond of my boundary stones. Perhaps I will have to take my good friend Robb up on his idea for them.” He returned, a glint in his eye.

“And what is that?” she asked with a slight tone of disapproval, anticipating an answer very much along the lines of the one Benjicot would give.

“Oh nothing to be concerned about, my sweet, just feeding the stones to a particularly troublesome peacock.”

We love desperate and pathetic men on this blog.

@lovebabe18 @poppyflower-22 @ithilwen-blackwood @spinachtz @lady-callisto @twistytimesandthoughts @abookloverlawyerfan-blog @mymoonempress

[k-daydreams]

My Fearless Mate

Pairing: Azriel Shadowsinger x daemati!reader

Word count: 1.6k

Warnings: misogyny, graphic, Fluff at the end!

Based off this ask

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ

You hated traveling to the war camps. Especially in the winter. Even as you walked arm in arm pressed up as close as you could against your mate, Azriel, the heat did not help against the bitter wind and cold nipping at your face. Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel had been here just paying their usual visit to make sure Lord Devlon was doing his job and ensuring the girls were training. They had been here for a few days already and you had desperately missed Az that you swallowed your pride and hatred towards the camp and Illyrian culture to see your mate. You hadn’t let him know you were coming, it was a surprise, a damn good one indeed.

Not only was the shock evident on his face as you winnowed into the middle of the camp. His shadows had excitedly darted to you in greeting as soon as he caught your scent from the dark swirling clouds winnowing. The Illyrian warriors were taken back as well. Disgust and surprise written all over their faces, but you didn’t care. You practically ran to Azriel giddily greeting him with a kiss on his cheek as he wrapped his arms tightly around you. He tried to keep his mask of iciness on, but you could feel his toothy grin in the crook of your neck, his dissolve fading in your arms.

He led you around the camp, telling you all the updates, and you filled him in on what you had spent the last few days doing in Velaris. You watched as the warriors trained in the sparring rings. Then you came to a sparring ring with a couple girls cornered by some higher ranked warrior commanders. You halted in your steps, causing Azriel to stop mid sentence.

“You’re supposed to be doing your chores.” One of the males said to the young girls who had to be no older than twelve. His siphons were half the size of the girl’s head.

“W-we’re done, the high lord said we could train as we pleased.” She stammered.

“There is always work to be done.” Another warrior countered back. “The sparring ring is no place for a girl, no matter what the high lord says.” Azriel tensed at that, and you looked up to your mate biting your lip anxiously. You had let go of his arm, on alert for what was about to unfold.

“The high lord’s orders go above yours.” The other girl stepped up to the male ten times her size. Defiance in her small voice as she pushed the other girl behind her. Satisfaction prickled at your skin, but you knew this wasn’t going to end well. The males scoffed and glowered towards them. Your face and ears heated.

“The high lord doesn’t have a say in your punishment though.” One grabbed the more defiant girl’s arm. She tried to get out of his clutch, but he was far more stronger than her. Azriel was ready to walk towards them, but you beat him to it. Rage filled you to the point you had tunnel vision, marching over. How dare these assholes.

“Hey! You let them go!” You yelled at the warriors as another grabbed the other girl. She was shaking in his grasp, scared out of her mind, a terrified look in her brown eyes as she made eye contact with you.

The warriors laughed at you as you approached. “I didn’t realize they opened camp borders to courtiers.” One mocked you while the other bellowed even louder. You narrowed your eyes at him, feeling the familiar sensation in your bones. Azriel tugged on the bond as warning, but you ignored him. Other warriors and workers had stopped what they were doing, noticing the commotion.

You clenched your gloved fists, “it would be wise if you did as I say.”

“What or you'll file a formal complaint with the high lord?” He sneered sarcastically. You could feel your blood get hot and the taste of magic tang on your tongue. A wave of power rolled off you settling over the camp.

The one that seemed the most powerful walked towards you, his nostrils flared like he was a wild beast. “You have no authority in this camp.”

Azriel tugged again on the invisible thread that connected you two together. A silent reassuring stroke that gave you the silent permission to let go of your control if needed.

“I am one of the high lord’s secondhand commands, I see that as good enough authority.” You stuck your nose high up, not intimidated by the size of a warrior. He continued towards you like a predator. He wanted you to be his prey. Unfortunately for him, you had considered yourself a much more dangerous predator. Already prowling and circling around him, getting ready to pounce.

“I believe that means my authority outranks your authority.” You said almost too casually. “Now as I said before—let. them. go.”

The two warriors behind the aloof meathead in front of you now looked wary towards your opposition. But they held a firm grip on the young girls, the one in front of you puffing out his chest, wings flaring as wide as they could go.

“You are no more than a fae female to me,” he got mere inches from your face looking down at you with a disgusting rage. You could feel specks of saliva hit your face as he spoke, but you didn’t flinch. “And you know what we do to fae females? We take them into the forest in the middle of the night and we sully—“

Before he could finish, he dropped to the ground howling in agony writhing in the mud. You just merely narrowed your eyes, twisting the invisible ropes around his mind and body. Your daemati powers had overtaken your instincts with every twist you envisioned.

“What was that?” You asked innocently, slamming your heavy icy muddy boot atop his abdomen. He hissed, snarling at you like a rabid animal trying to fight the power that you coursed through him. You dug the heel of your boot with a bruising force. The crowd that circled gone quiet with the roar of the Illyrian male that convulsed under your boot.

“Now you listen to me,” you bent down looking at him, forcing his eyes to look towards you. His face beet red, eyes bulging in horror as you infiltrated his brain further. No mental shields, just a wide open gate to walk through. “You let the girls train and you don’t bother them ever. I don’t want you to even breathe their way again, and if I ever—ever hear a word about you going against the high lord’s or my order…” you lunged into the deepest part of his mind.

I’ll personally clip your wings myself. You had threatened him mentally.

You released the invisible force upon him, and lifted your boot from his abdomen. He rolled away, panting to catch his breath. You looked up from him and saw the two warriors holding the girls. You strided towards them, and they all but threw the young illyrians in your direction. Both of landing on the ground with a hard thud.

“W-what are you?” The one male asked terrified, backing away with the other.

You glared at them, “that’s none of your concern. What is your concern is bringing your commander to first aid before you end up like him.” They kept still, watching you bend down to the two girls. “Now!” You demanded. They scurried off like field mice to their brother who laid in the mud nearly unconscious.

Bringing your attention to girls, smiling softly at their scared faces. They rubbed their arms where the men had gripped them. “Did they hurt you?” You asked.

“I’m not sure,” the more timid one answered first, rolling up her long sleeve to check. You gently examined the forming bruise around her arm, frowning slightly.

“You two were so courageous to stick up to them. You will both be strong warriors one day.” You looked at the other’s arm. Her arm is much more swollen than her friend’s. You smiled reassuringly at them, “I’ll have someone bring you two to our house to have the healer tend to you.” You took a hold of both their hands, helping them up, leading them to your mate and friends.

“Cassian get a healer to the house,” Azriel asked for you, wholly keeping his eyes locked on you.

“Of course,” Cassian winked at you slyly when he passed. Proceeding to yell at everyone to get back to work while he made his way to the first aid tent. Rhys chuckled, patting Azriel on the shoulder.

“I know,” He guided the girls to his mother’s old house by your request, leaving you and Azriel alone.

His eyes were still fixated on you, hazel orbs shining brightly, mouth slightly agape. He didn’t have to say anything because you felt it. Adoration, pride, and pure love swelled down the bond.

I absolutely adore you. He spoke to you mentally. You caressed the shadows that even swirled in his mind, stroking gently. His wings rustled slightly, unable to contain it.

Wrapping his arm around you, he led you to the house to go check on the girls. A couple people still looked at you with terrifed expressions. Azriel’s lip curled upward to ghost of smirk before kissing your brow sweetly. You were his fearless mate.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ

I hope you enjoyed! Feel free to request, give feedback, reply, like, and reblog!

[tarotofbadkitties]

Imagine thinking Tashi is the only one with an unhealthy relationship with tennis when you have Art dissolving before our eyes at the mere prospect he can't play tennis anymore and Patrick living in his car and hooking to avoid giving up tennis. All these idiots love tennis, and none of them love it a healthy amount lol. The message of this story is clearly that being a professional athlete requires a love of the sport that borders on pathological on a good day, and is pathological on a bad day. What makes it worth it is the euphoria that takes you over when your dedication, passion and sacrifices come together to produce true beauty on the court.

The reason their relationships are a shit show is, in large part, that this career requires a lot of emotional support for you to do really well, but it takes so much out of you that you can't emotionally support anyone very well in return. Tashi has given to Art endlessly, and the result has been that he's been a champion until the spark went out in him. He can't give her ANYTHING at all, which is why she winds up falling into Patrick. The reason Patrick has something to give her is that he isn't giving his entire soul to tennis. His failure to do so is showing its results in his ranking. Patrick is fully aware that finally giving the last pieces of his soul to tennis to bring home the big trophies is what he's offering to Tashi in New Rochelle. He knows what that last bit is he'd have to give up, and he's finally ready to do it. He's no different than them, he just repressed his intense desire for glory to try to have a life.

[nrdmssgs]

Free prompt for you to use however

"Your body feels like home to me."

Masterlist

I feel like I need to make things work out for these two, so here is one of my many attempts. Thank you for helping them and me. I also will try to make your other prompts about Riot and Ghost, this one is just a strong itch.

“Ninety-nine, ninety-eight.”

Mom taught him to start counting down from a hundred to one each morning, when they are to see the doctor. Andrei curls up under a warm chunky blanket, hiding in a dark cozy safety. Out there it is a cold winter morning.

Out there they will take him from his family, should the doctor discover ‘others’. Ma cries each time the topic is being brought up. So, it’s better to start counting and keep doing it mentally while the doctor talks to him.

“Sixty-five, sixty-four.”

He bites down an opportunity to join ‘the cool kids’, he believes, he will be able to make change. Young, hungry, angry – Andrei is a perfect mixture of everything FSB is looking for.

“You will be faceless, live another’s life,” they try to frighten him, but it's no use. He never cared about his identity – why treasure it now?

“Forty.”

They hunt him down, strike and drag him somewhere deep. Andrei is not afraid. If he’s to die here – it won’t take long, will it? He will just count down to thirty-nine, thirty-eight at worst…

“Six.”

Andrei is dissolving right there before his eyes. Too long of a name. Too much of a life to carry on. They take his dignity, his voice, his body. Nothing is left, but an all-consuming pain. When he loses consciousness and faints – ‘others’ keep counting for him.

“Five.”

Five letters. Not even a name. Nikto. The thing, that survived, despite everyone’s assumptions. Crawled out, faceless, mindless, emotionless. It eats, it sleeps and works. And it is damn good at it.

“Four.”

He doesn’t bother remembering faces, names. There are only targets around him. And the ‘others’ turn out to be not the worst company.

“Three.”

A lightning strikes the ground right before him. Or so it feels, when he meets her. But as soon as he reaches out – she backs away. She avoids meeting him without witnesses, freezes centimeters from him, not allowing herself any physical proximity. Hides, turns everything into a joke, plays dead.

All as soon as he felt for the first time in a long time, that he craved a human touch. A caress. The warmth of her body pressed against his.

“Two.”

It’s a miracle, it costs him so much, but somehow, he makes it happen. Just them two. Alone. Close. So close, it leaves them both breathless. High.

He lets her so close, doesn’t hide anything. Shows every wound. Tells many things, he never told others. Tells her, what happened between the ‘forty’ and the ‘five’.

Maybe it is too much, because-

“One.”

She presses her back against a cold wall to grow the distance between them.

“There were so many cold tools used on you. I can’t let my body become the next one.”

He tries to catch her palm to press it against his face, but she keeps pulling away. Scared. Not of him. Scared to get close, damage him even more.

As if she could bring any harm.

“One.”

Nikto knows why would one be so afraid to turn into an instrument of torture to another. This happens when someone experienced the pain of a kind, that he lived through.

The pain of losing your borders, becoming a thing.

“One.”

He reads it in her eyes, that she searches for an escape. Better alone than bring anyone what one went through.

He thought so too, before meeting her.

“This is not an instrument.” His fingers brush lightly over her heart. A touch, not demanding of anything.

“Your body feels like home.” In a silent plea to let him stay at home for another moment, he buries his face in the crook of her neck. Her shoulders flinch.

“Ninety-nine, ninety-eight.”

They curl up in each other’s arms under a warm chunky blanket, hiding in a dark cozy safety.

[pherelesytsia]

Who did this to you? - 8

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x female/Reader

Summary: Bruised and broken, Y/N, trapped in a loveless marriage, arrives at her best friend's house, desperately hoping someone will help her, aware she cannot return to the estate of her husband.

Warning: fear, anxiety, Angst, swearing 

Word Count: 2.3k

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part6 Part 7 Part 9

The clouds wandered on, a lonely wanderer travelling across oceans and meadows, hills and rugged mountains painted in snow. White greyed, darkened and blackened, turned into pure doom, darker than black. The wind howled, screamed and screeched and the branches, crooked fingers, waltzed in all directions.

Silence blanketed the car driving down the path bordered by fields and trees, but it was not unpleasant, cruel, forcing nonsense to fall to shatter it. Shocked, Y/N noticed with widened eyes they had arrived at the open gates of the estate she called her home. At a rapid pace, the car drove on and on, past other parked cars and parked between them in different shades of the deep ocean. The motor wasn't roaring, turned off and the chanting of the birds sitting in one line on the lowest branch invaded the car smelling of alcohol, petrol and leather. The wind knocked on the automobile. Polly gulped, turned and rested her hand graced by a golden ring cautiously, almost shyly, on Y/N´s lap, but the shivering and shaking woman painted in blue and red, lightened by streaks of purple, did not flinch nor speak her mind. Carefully Polly´s fingers slid across Y/N´s calf and pulled the thick fabric higher to hide the exposed skin. Polly pronounced her name and pulled Y/N out of the dark and dreary thoughts, summoning goosebumps all over her flesh.

            "Thomas is fine. He knows what he's doing. Nothing will happen to him." Polly assured calmly, guessing the reason for the fear in the widened eyes and sweaty palms.

Faintly Y/N smiled.

            "I know, but I'm worried about him. About Poppy. There was blood, too much blood. I thought it was the new wallpaper she had told me about. They, she and her mother, redecorated the house. The pattern, it looked like flowers, large and smaller dots." she replied.

Exhaling, Y/N closed her eyes veiled by tears once fixed on the distance, watching the sun, the rays breaking through the travelling clouds heralding a day full of terror.

            "I'm sure your friend is fine, too. Thomas will take care of her." the woman continued with a gentle, encouraging smile on her features, kissed by the orange rays.

Polly cleared her throat. The smile fainted, and the wrinkles deepened. She didn't need to search for the right words, had already pictured during the ride what she would say to Y/N if their paths should cross, but all Polly wanted to say had dissolved, had lost its meaning.

            "We're home Y/N/N. Ada is waiting, but before we go inside, I want you to know that we are sorry. We have not been good to you, to put it nicely. Please forgive us and I speak on behalf of the whole family. John was the one who opened the door for your friend. After we realised what had happened, we were looking for you. I hope you will give us a second chance even if we don't deserve one. We will understand if you want to leave. We won't hate you for your decision." Polly continued and squeezed Y/N´s hand.

Y/N turned, ignoring the nearly unignorable pain trying to elicit a hiss from her, and turned to face Polly. She wanted to start a sentence; lips parted, but no tone escaped the sore throat. Y/N stared past Polly towards the door, flying back and forth in the fresh morning breeze. Ada ran towards the car as if chased by a ghost, had left the door wide open, ran on tiptoes and hissed and cursed like a witch as the stones dug deep into the soles of her reddening feet. The hem of the dress danced in the breeze. Gasping for air, Ada spread the large checked blanket, usually resting on the floor next to the sofa. The wind painted her cheeks vibrant red, lighter than her evening gown.

            "Come, Y/N/N, we will protect you." Polly assured in a calm, slightly quivering voice, but Y/N heard no falseness, no lie in it.

Y/N could not utter a reply. The air, hinting of winter, invaded the car. The women shivered and balled the hands into fists. Ada hushed a greeting, spread the blanket, glanced at the wounds gracing Y/N´s body, down on the battered feet and the shivering limbs. The pain in her chest deepened at the sight of the shadow of a woman, read in her eyes what she had been through. The lip was chapped. The traces of a fight were evident on her cheek and throat. Ada tossed the blanket over her shoulder, noticing Y/N was covered in one. Wordlessly Ada helped Y/N out of the car. Soft curses blurred with whimpers. Whispering soothing words, Ada pulled Y/N away, closer to the house, kicking the door of the automobile shut and gesturing for Polly to pursue. 

            "I've prepared a bath for you. I'll help you upstairs. If you don't want to bathe, I can put a bucket of water next to the sofa. You can at least warm your feet." Ada said.

With every step, every slight movement Y/N made, the once brilliant white material slipped and revealed more wounds, swellings, and darkening spots not fading in the golden tide of the sun's rays, but grew even darker. Blue turned to green, lit by purple flashes and red veins carrying blue blood. Patiently Ada waited, and stared back at Polly, walking hastily after the women.

            "Thank you. I think the bucket will do. Maybe I'll get in the tub later." Y/N replied meekly, as if speaking to her mother, fearing the answer would enrage her, but none of what she expected happened.

The chilly breeze blew through Y/N´s hair one last time. The door slammed shut, and the keys jingled, chanted a song that faded quickly. All doors were closed and locked. Curtains touched. The first aid box, not battered, holey neither with a worn handle nor dented corners, rested open on the table. Scissors, and spotless bandages lay next to bottles of high-proof alcohol, freshly washed not dried glasses, cigarettes and silver needles drowning in alcohol. Blankets covered the sofa, to which Ada led Y/N and a down pillow. The white porcelain bowl graced by blue vines and flowers was in the middle of the crowded table. Smoke rose from the cup, sweet lavender, and banished the unmistakable stench of blood and gore.

            "May I offer you some soup?" the question was unnecessary, asked out of politeness.

Y/N turned into a tree, rooted deep into the ground, not moving. Her arms swayed forward. Questioningly, the two Shelby's exchanged glances, searching for the reason for the fear in Y/N´s eyes, unable to find it, but then, after a moment that seemed not to pass, Ada took a step forward, let go of Y/N, took the polished pistol and hid it under the table, still handy but out of Y/N´s sight. Polly placed her hands down on Y/N's shoulders, trying not to cause her any more pain, let the blanket slide to the floor and carefully pressed the young woman down on the sofa. Ada wriggled back towards them, took the blanket still hanging over her shoulder and laid it down on Y/N's legs, covering them, reached for the pair of fluffy socks, wiped away the dirt, small stones, dust and dried mud, and put the socks on Y/N´s feet.

            "It's okay." Ada breathed before Y/N could protest.

Smiling, Ada looked up, wiped her hands on her long dress, picked up the bowl filled with soup and placed it carefully in Y/N's lap, handing her the silver spoon.

            "Here, Y/N/N, eat. I'll fill you a bucket with warm water in the meantime. Polly will keep you company. If you need anything, if you feel sick, all you have to do is tell us and we will help you. You are still in shock." Ada said in a calm voice.

Gulping, Ada crouched next to Y/N.

            "We should have taken you into our family. I am sorry, we are all very sorry. It's understandable that you don't want to see us, you have enough reasons to hate us. The only thing I can do is to promise that we will do better. If you need time, I have a friend. She owns a small cottage a few miles away from town. There is a pond and a small forest. It's lovely. I could arrange that you could spend a few days or weeks there." Ada continued.

Y/N merely nodded, unsure of what to say, not knowing how to respond, and kept on smiling. The two women watched Ada as she rose from the ground like a phoenix from the ashes and strode away. Polly leaned closer to Y/N, tidied the blanket and hinted that she should eat, that it would do her good. A soft thanks escaped Y/N, smiled at the women who wordlessly indicated that she should finally start eating and so Y/N did, dipping the silver cutlery into the depths of the bowl whose end she could not see, watching the thinly chopped vegetables slip from the spoon and as the warm liquid flowed down her throat, Y/N realised how hungry she was and ate greedily.

Time had lost its meaning. Y/N had emptied the contents of the bowl. The last piece of sliced carrots had disappeared, yet she did not place it on the table, continued to warm her fingers on the ceramic bowl.

Heels clicked against the dark wood, had put shoes a hue darker than the evening dress. Cautiously, Ada continued walking with her eyes fixed on the troubled waters, fearing the warm liquid was about to spill over the golden rim. A towel, white with a few washed-out stains, hung over her right shoulder, the towel she always used when a brother standing on the edge of the world was carried inside the house. The floorboards groaned, and Ada stopped and noticed Y/N had finished the soup she had cooked for her.

Out of the corner of her eye Polly noticed how Y/N´s eyes were growing heavy and she leaned forward, took the bowl and placed it on the table. The young woman wanted to protest as Polly told her to rest, to say that she had to stay awake, that she wanted to wait for the return of the brothers and her husband.

            "No, Y/N, lay down. You can stay with us or you can go to the bedroom. We will keep watch and if you need anything, you can call us.", "Polly, we should take care of Y/N's wounds first." Ada interjected.

            "That won't be necessary. That can wait. Alfie has taken care of her wounds it's just dirt and scratches. The wounds are not life threatening. Y/N rest, close your eyes. I promise I will wake you up if Thomas is home." she replied.

Carefully Polly pushed Y/N backwards. Her heavy, throbbing head sunk into the pillow. Closing her eyes, Y/N sighed in relief, exhaled as the blanket fell down on her body. Birds chirped, the howling ceased and lulled her to sleep.

            Polly leaned forward happily and noticed Y/N had fallen asleep.

            "Thomas told me that Alfie has taken care of Y/N. No deep wounds or else I would have taken her to the hospital. We can take care of it later." Polly reported.

Ada rose, set the bowl aside on the table, sighed deeply, nodded, listened to the woman and turned to the fireplace, the blazing flames feasting on the wood and fed by the howling air hinting of winter.

            "She was beaten up. I didn't see any bullet wounds. Did Thomas tell you what happened or who is to blame?", "He has a guess, but he couldn't tell me anything specific. It all happened too fast. The gang has Y/N's girlfriend in their grip. At least that's what he thinks. The house was trashed, destroyed, and I think I saw bloodstains on the floor." she breathed softly.

Her eyes kept sliding to the slumbering figure, kept glancing at her right side and noticing with relief that Y/N was still asleep, her eyelids neither twitching nor her lips twisting into a pained grimace.

            "Alfie's going to show up any minute. Thomas called him. He fears someone might pay us a visit." Polly whispered in Ada's direction.

Ada perked up, grinned, felt the weight of her weapon at her side, settled down in front of the blazing flames, gnawing on wood and fed by air on the armchair, threw the pillow to the floor on her side and crossed her arms in front of her body.

            “We don’t need someone to protect us.” Ada stopped.

A soft knock silenced Ada. The women exchanged glances. The rustling, and shuffling of shoes and feet, softly uttered words, the closing of the door and the jingling of keys followed by low grumbles couldn’t awake Y/N from her deep slumber, lying on the sofa, a princess in the shadow of the vigilant dragons.

TagList:

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[yellowwwcrayon]

genderswap AU (always a woman!Logan x Wolverine Origins!Wade)

A related thought I had a few days ago.

Warnings for the below - mentions of past child SA from Wade's uncle.

"Icebreaker question, when did everyone lose their v-cards?" Wade asked as annoyed groans broke out all around the campfire. Their new CO stood and walked off into the pitch black night without so much as a wave for good night.

Rude.

"Alright, now that the 80-year-old virgin has left the chat, how about the rest of you handsome devils, hmm?" He grinned at the sullen faces reflected in the fire's glow, shiny with sweat and gun oil and probably dried blood. "Oh, come on. I'm just trying to get to know my new teammates better. We just annihilated a whole ass cartel together, time to whip out some mimosas, gossip about our sordid pasts and braid Victor's chest hair."

Victor's jaw twitched as he zipped his vest up over that impressive plumage. The woman sitting next to him, the only woman in their little ragtag team of homicidal freaks mind you, snorted and lifted the lukewarm beer she'd been nursing for the past fifteen minutes up to her face. He watched her take a long swallow, some of the foamy white liquid sloshing over the corners of her mouth and meandering lazily down the olive skin of her exposed neck.

Fred cleared his throat, "sixteen. She was my high school sweetheart."

"Sickening," Wade commented after a pause, ripping his gaze off of Logan and picking up his own forgotten beer, "I'd like to say twenty," a few disbelieving laughs echoed through the men, "but officially, twelve and a half, to a weird uncle on my dad's side at a Christmas party."

Zero made a face.

"Why twenty?" John asked from beside him.

"Oh just because of how earth-shatteringly good it was," He kicked his legs out and rolled his shoulders back, acutely aware of Logan's eyes on him across the flickering fire, "you see, I was but a simple innocent Canadian boy before I met her. After, I emerged a man."

"You are so fucking weird," said Zero.

"Hush, Jimin, I'm telling the story here."

"Jesus."

"My car, well, it technically wasn't my car. I stole it off of a drug dealer south of the border, but I digress. Anyway, it had broken down on the side of the road in Albuquerque, in the middle of buttfuck nowhere and I was seriously contemplating trading my tight ass or hot mouth for a ride to the nearest town when my goddess, my princess in shining uh- plaid shirt and jeans, came barreling down the dirt path in this rusty pile of scrap metal-"

"Your princess sounds like a dude," Fred interrupted. "It was a man, wasn't it? I can already see the punchline coming from a mile away."

"Are you gay?" Zero asked, "you seem pretty gay."

Bradley, who had been listening quietly next to Logan this whole time, finally choked on his drink and dissolved into a coughing fit. She reached over and thumped him a few times on the back, her gaze never leaving Wade's face. He stared back.

"Sorry to disappoint, Suga sweetie, but I'm strictly into pussy due to the creepy uncles."

Zero's nose scrunched. "Ugh."

"Anywho, out hopped this beast of a woman," Wade went on, “she was fucking gorgeous, legs for days and tits the size of my head-"

"Singular or combined?"

Wade gawked at him. "Fred, what the fuck?"

"What?" He shrugged, "your head's not that big, Wade."

"This is a shitty story," Zero complained, folding his arms over his chest.

"As big as Logan's melons, ok? Stop interrupting me."

Everyone turned to stare at Logan, whose breasts strained against the sweat-stained wifebeater she was wearing, one black bra strap peeking out from over her left shoulder. She lifted an eyebrow at them and took another sip of beer. Beside Logan, Victor growled, sounding like a backed up motorcycle.

"That's pretty big," Fred finally nodded, "go on."

(Taking a short break from work to relax my brain and free write a bit. Yes, the mystery woman from Wade's story is Logan. They hooked up before they ran into each other again with Team X.)

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Mad Maxxing - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Just your average Zaunite road trip...

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

"You're smiling," Sevika says.

"I know."

"Why?"

"You'll know soon enough."

And, daring, he lays a hand on the headrest of her seat. Nothing else. Just his hand, and the flying kiss of her hair against his knuckles.  But he can feel the border between public and private dissolving like a chalk sketch in the rain.

The subterfuge, he senses, has become a game of chicken. Sooner or later, one of them will break. The thrill is in feeling the tension ratchet higher and higher.

In bracing, as a magician prepares for the big reveal, for the pure, unbridled shock of inevitability.

A burst of white arcs across the horizon. The flash, so close and bright, nearly blinds them. A boom, seconds later, cracks the darkness open, from north to south.

Cursing, Sevika slams the brakes. Tires screech. Silco, jolted forward, catches himself against the dash. The entourage, likewise, rumbles to a halt. The air thickens with the scent of burning rubber. Silco hears, through the open window, the crackle of radios, and the rumble of idling engines, and the thunder of boots as a phalanx of blackguards swarm from their cars.

A second flare goes up. The light bathes the flatlands in a scorching flash.

"What the hell," Sevika mutters, and thumps a fist against the steering column. 

The radio crackles. She snatches the receiver, and the distorted squawks resolve: the scouts on duty, reporting back from the perimeter. The soundscape beyond the vehicle is a chorus of shouts and loading guns. At the horizon, a dark line bleeds into unreal brightness. The night's torn open. And spilling forth, by inches, is a row of armored vehicles.

"Shit," Sevika breathes, and turns the ignition.

"What is it?" Silco demands.

She jerks the gearstick. "Eramis."

"Ah."

Silco smiles.

There's the diversion. Right on schedule.

Sevika relays orders into the radio. The entourage rolls headlong into the fray. Silco, no longer smiling, keeps low in the seat. He'd anticipated that Eramis would retaliate to his township's takeover. That he's responded, so soon, with a show of force bodes well.

It means the bastard's rattled, and ripe for the picking.

Sevika, in her element, steers the entourage with ruthless efficiency. Over the radio, she raps a rapidfire succession of orders to the scouts, and relays a series of tactical maneuvers to the blackguards. Eramis' convoy is a dirty-dozen. Six motorcars are equipped with gun nests, and six semi-trucks are laden with canons.

A formidable force, if it weren't for one factor.

Sevika's own fleet has sevenfold the firepower. And, more importantly, she's got her finger on the pulse of Eramis' psyche.

"He's trying to pull a feint," she says, as she takes the first curve at full speed. "He knows his toys are no match for ours. He's planning something. I can feel it."

"So can I." Silco stares out into the jagged horizon. "The ravine's up ahead."

"He'll try to force us there with an arrowhead move, and pin us against the ridge. Then the trucks will roll in, and the canons will start blazing." Her face is set in grim concentration, and her hands move with the surety of oiled sprockets. "We'll split the caravan. Meet his charge with the first half, send the second half around. Box him in, and cut him down."

"Are the scouts prepped for the maneuver?"

"Stocked, locked, and ready."

"Then, by all means," Silco says, and his teeth cut bright as a blade in the dark. "Show him how it's done."

A third flare bursts overhead. In its brightness, the dimensions of the battle emerge. Eramis' troops, advancing steadily, have already breached the midway. As Sevika predicted, they are aimed for an arrowhead formation: six motorcars, at the vanguard, flanked by two semi-trucks. The canons, mounted atop the flatbeds, are armed and ready to rip.

Eramis himself will keep behind the convoy, in the biggest motorcar, until the battle's won. Then, the spoils will be his to collect, and the Ditch his to reclaim.

Except the spoils, and the Ditch, are already in the Eye's safekeeping.

The only thing waiting for Eramis is the long drop—and the short stop.

Sevika calls the entourage into formation. The two four-wheelers, armored and bristling, ride shotgun. The ten scouts, on the bikes, veer out, circling to form a blockade. The remaining entourage, zooming towards the arrowhead, cuts the distance in two.

As the gap shrinks, Eramis' troops open fire.

Machine-gun blasts rip through the night. The scouts, zigzagging across the plains, dodge the barrage with practiced ease. From their holsters, they unload, not gunfire but canisters, which they toss at the approaching motorcars. A shower of smoke pours from the canisters, and a thick miasma of smog rolls forth. The arrowhead, blinded, slows and stutters, losing momentum.

The blackguards, from the motorcars, make their move. Riding with the wind at their backs, they, too, split off and peel towards the arrowhead. Eramis' troops, struggling through the smoke, fire wildly. The air lights up. Bullets strike off the armor-plated cars. Divots ping against reinforced glass and alloyed chrome.

The entourage is undeterred.

With a surge of tremendous speed, the motorcars barrel forward. Then, at the last moment, they trifurcate into a three-pronged charge. One, a split-second ahead, veers sharply to the left. The second, at the rear, swerves hard to the right. The third, in the middle, plows forward, and drives the arrowhead broadside.

Gunfire cuts a wedge into the enemy's charge, and drives a spike through the core.  Eramis' troops, blindsided by the assault, struggle to hold their ground. Sparks fly and metal groans. The arrowhead becomes a sloppy arc, swinging wildly to and fro. Three of Eramis' motorcars begin fishtailing, then flipping, end over end, into the smoke. A truck skids to dodge the wreckage, and the canons, tipping with their weight, tear loose from their bindings. The vehicle tumbles, wheels-over-axels, and crashes into the dirt. The remaining three motorcars, screeching to a halt, are swallowed by the smog.

Meanwhile, the second prong of the entourage has circled around. It begins closing, by degrees, for the rear. The third, too, is closing in, from the opposite direction. As the smoke begins to clear, Eramis' troops find themselves pinned. Trapped by the wreckage and the Eye's encroaching riders, panic sets in. Retreat would be the sensible choice.

Eramis, tragically, is not a sensible man.

The remaining four semi-trucks, lagging behind the convoy, begin rolling full-tilt into the melee. Their canons, fully-operational, swivel and aim into the eye of the storm. With a deafening BOOM, the sky erupts. The force of the explosion splits the airwaves into a thousand screaming fragments. A  fireball rockets into the fray. The impact is a cataclysmic shockwave.

The Eye's entourage is thrown into disarray. One of the motorcars skids with a metallic screech, and rolls onto its side. A second, flipping, smashes head-on into the smoking hulk of Eramis' downed semi. The third, veering, narrowly misses a collision with a jutting boulder.  Three scouts, caught in the blast, are flung from their bikes. They land in the dirt, only to be crushed under the wheels of Eramis' advancing trucks.

Cursing, Sevika wrestles the wheel. Flaming spiders of debris pinball off the Humvee's windshield. A strip of metal, long as a broadsword, caroms off the hood and embeds itself in the asphalt. Silco braces himself against the dash. His ears are plugged as if with cotton. All he can hear is a high-pitched aria.

The curving sky beyond the glass is red with fire.

In her seat, Sevika stays centered. She's seen this scale of devastation before, and dished out worse. The canonfire is nasty, but its underlying impetus is a dead giveaway: Eramis has no clue what he's doing.

His only recourse is to run the field red. And take anyone and everyone down with him.

"Bastard," Sevika says, and floors it.

Tires shriek, and the Humvee shoots forward like earthbound lightning.  The road ahead, a patchwork of craters, is an obstacle course. But Sevika doesn't slow. She weaves, darts, and dodges, taking the terrain like a rampaging juggernaut.

When the chips are down, she's the best damn driver in the Fissures.

Over the radio, she shouts for the remaining troops to fall in. The second and third prongs of the entourage, shaken by the blast, regroup to surround her.  One, two, three, four, and they're rolling hot. The motorcars, pocked with scorchmarks, are still operational. The four-wheelers, similarly singed, have the treads to weather the worst. The surviving seven scouts have revved their bikes and are closing the gap.

"They're reloading for a second blast," Sevika shouts over the radio. "Don't give them the chance."

A chorus of affirmatives crackles over the line.

Silco keeps a steady grip on the dashboard. The road unspools beneath the tires. The night's clogged with fumes. But his adrenaline is redlined, and with it comes an absolute clarity of purpose: the cold-edged readiness for the kill.

The four semi-trucks, bearing down on them, are a wall of steel, with armor-plated grilles, battering-ram fronts and spike-studded chasers. Their canons, pouring smoke, are swiveling into position.

In Silco's own crosshairs falls a dinged-up Model T, fishtailing badly on its rightmost tread. It stays well back, behind the semi-trucks, and seems content to hang in the periphery. The glass is tinted and there are armed gunmen crouched on built-in platforms at either side of the hood. The passenger's an unknown quantity, but Silco recognizes the flashy gold-plated ornament winking on the bonnet: a gaudy pair of brass knuckles.

Eramis' calling card.

"Sevika," Silco says.

"I see the swine."

"Our priority target. The rest are window-dressing."

"Window-dressing with a side of canonfire."

"I've got a plan."

Sevika's eyes, in the rearview, cut him a glance. "Is it a good one?"

His lips tug, and Silco feels the smile down to the bone. "It will be."

Sevika listens to his terse instructions, and nods. With a flick of the radio switch, she passes the order along. 

The bikes, zigzagging in formation, break off from the Humvee's flank, and close the gap with the trucks. The canons, reloading, pivot to keep the bikes within their sightlines. Their artillery shells are the size of beer kegs, and the blast radius could level a railway. If the bikes get caught in the crossfire, they'll be obliterated.

"Stay tight," Sevika orders on the radio, "and keep a bead on the canons."

The bikes, in response, fan out, and close the gap further. They're a whirr of black chrome and flashing silver, their riders hunched low. The canons, tracking them, prepare to launch the second salvo. Sevika, watching through the rearview, grits her teeth.

"That's it," she mutters. "Just a little more..."

The canons' barrels swivel. A series of sharp clicks sound, as the mechanism locks. The gunners, braced, prepare to fire.

The scouts, a split-second in advance, make their move.

As one, they break formation, streaking off in separate directions. Reaching into their jackets, they lob a volley of little black spheres, which strike the semi-trucks with a resounding series of pings.  Each sphere is the size of a peach pit, and the surface is studded with tiny beads. As the spheres make contact, they burst, and a dark sticky webbing explodes from the center, adhering to the truck's wheels.

In an instant, the webbing solidifies, and the treads are locked into place. With a jolt, the semi-trucks lose traction. The canons, locked in position, are thrown off-balance—and wildly off-target. One truck swerves on its axis, and smashes broadside into the adjacent one. Its own cannons, ripped from their bindings, fly loose and pinwheel in a massive crunch of metal and sparks. The third truck, struggling to break, rams its cab into the wreckage. The canon arcs high and ejects a premature round. The shell, careening skyward, belches a rainbow of sizzling sparks.

"Now!" Sevika orders.

The bikes, dispersing, fall clear as the canons' artillery shell drops and detonates in mid-air—a moon-white zit swelling to swallow the stars. The concussion shears the night into pieces. The Deadlands are swallowed by a searing white light. As the heat washes over the plains, the air itself seems to liquify.

Silco's fingers, folded into Sevika's good ones, are the only anchor.

Her cybernetic handstays locked on the wheel. The Humvee's course is locked straight and steady.  As the blast ripples and ebbs into a distinct stink of ozone, the road resolves once more. The enemy's trucks are a wreckage enrobed in flames. Their canons are smoking hulks. The scout's bikes are circling in a tight formation, and the men, unharmed, are riding high.

All that guards Eramis' Model-T is one lone semi-truck.

Its treads are gummed up with the scouts' webbing. But its canons are intact. And the gunners, though shaken, are scrabbling along the flatbed, and struggling to reload a fresh round of shells.

The Humvee's wheels, spitting gravel, barrel straight ahead.

"Silco," Sevika says, and squeezes his hand before letting go. "In the back."

"The back?"

"Jinx. She left it there."

"Left what?"

"A parting gift." Her eyes lock on his in the rearview. "She must've stashed it, before she sailed off. I saw it in the backseat, when I went looking for you. Maybe she figured you'd need it."

Unbuckling his seatbelt, Silco turns, and reaches to the rear. His fingers grope blindly along the upholstery, until he finds the compartment beneath the backseat. Inside is a small wooden crate. It's wrapped, tightly, in canvas, and there's a note scrawled, in Jinx's unmistakably loopy handwriting.

Semper Paratus

XOXO

Silco pops the crate's lid. Inside, nestled on a bed of straw, are stacks of grenades. Chemical aerosols, shockwaves, incendiaries. And, a few rows down, the real gem: a trio of Chompers.  They're hand-tooled beauties, each with a detachable detonator that, at the squeeze of a button, will unleash a payload of barbed-wire shrapnel at a wounding radius of forty feet.

Silco chooses the biggest, and holds it up to the light. The canister's spraypainted with blue and pink stripes. The clockwork mechanism is crafted into a shark's pointy-toothed grin.

Silco's own grin threatens to split his face in half.

It's a as real as the risk. Real as the battle beyond. Real as the bloodied heart of Zaun waiting in the wings. 

Real as the girl who, wherever she goes, will always have his back.

"Sevika," he says.

"What?"

"Cut in close. I'm going to need a clear shot."

"Like hell," she says, not breaking her stride. "You stick your head out the window, they'll rip it clean off."

"I've no plans to stick my head out."

"Then where—"

"Eramis." He holds up the Chomper. "He deserves the honors."

It takes a moment for Sevika to catch on. When she does, a smile carves the stone of her features. Then, her hands a blur on the wheel, she cuts a hard left.  The Humvee accelerates to the head of the pack. The rest of the entourage follows, kicking up a roostertail of dust. Over the radio, Sevika issues her last orders.

"Blackguards," she raps, "engage. Scouts, with me."

As one, they blaze down the road.

Ahead, the sole remaining truck is struggling to regain traction. The treads are still gummed up. The axels are grinding, and the engine's whining at top pitch. But their artillery, as Sevika advances, is slotting into place. At a hundred yards equidistant, Eramis' Model-T is well out of range. But for the first time, the passenger window is rolled down. There's an unmistakable rotund silhouette peeking out at the advancing storm.  His guards, at the front, are already priming their weapons.

His cannons, finally reloaded, swivel and aimed square.  

"Ready?" Sevika calls.

Silco steadies himself against the seat. "Floor it."

Sevika veers left. The Humvee, swinging hard, cuts a diagonal, and closes the gap with the Model-T. Three scouts, in close pursuit, form a barricade at each flank. The rest of the entourage, in a V-formation, zoom straight for the truck. From beneath the chassis of each motorcar, a row of  cartridge ejectors emerges. Each is mounted with a nozzle, trigger, and a set of canisters.

"Blackguards," Sevika orders, "on my mark."

The canons hum. The blackguards' trajectory is a perfect bullseye.

"Fire."

The motorcars, in unison, unleash their payload. A thick cloud, acid green, spews from the nozzles and billows over the battlefield. Spreading, it envelopes the semi-truck in a haze. It is not the same smog the scouts used earlier to blind their foes. Rather, it's a concoction of potent Fissure gas and nitrous oxide that, in high concentrations, can induce delirium, dizziness, and, if not treated promptly, a long and lingering narcosis.

Both Jinx and Silco have used it: twice, to great effect.

That Sevika—both times—was the target only lends the moment an extra-personal piquancy.

The haze engulfs the semi-truck. The gunners, clinging to the flatbed, cough and cough. They cannot man the cannons. They cannot aim at their targets. They cannot even breathe. Their faces go bright-red, then purple. Their bodies, convulsing, drop like dominoes. A split-second later, the blackguards converge on the truck. As the last man falls, they disembark, masked and armed, and storm the flatbed. Their boots thunder across the metal, and their war-whoops fill the air.

Silco hears none of it.

All his attention is funneling into the distant speck of the Model-T until it swells to fill the glass. Sevika's foot is jammed hard on the gas. The Humvee leaps like a bucking bronco down the mythic Shuriman plains. At its flanks, the scouts keep pace. They are a tight, cohesive unit. Their bikes, like the spokes of a wheel, revolve around a single fixed point.

The Eye and his hand-delivered retribution.

Eramis' guards have already opened fire. The .50 caliber slugs, ripping through the night, land helter-skelter. Bullets zip off the Humvee's enforced plating, and drill small craters into the fender. The scouts, on either side, swerve and spin to evade the strafing. One bullet ricochets off a scout's helmet but doesn't penetrate, a tiny spiderwebbing of cracks fanning across the polycarbonate. Another, zinging past the rearguard, clips a second scout in the shin. He fishtails, but manages to regain control.

The Humvee is undeterred. Sevika keeps a deathgrip on the wheel. Beneath her boot, the accelerator is flush with the floor. The Model-T, with Eramis inside, is a hundred feet away. Then fifty. Then thirty. Then it's there.

Behind the glass, Eramis' face is a ballooning white moon. His eyes are the size of planets. He is howling like a madman.

Sevika relays the signal over the radio.

"Scouts," she shouts. "Break off."

The bikes, as one, peel off the Humvee's flanks. As they do, Sevika yanks the wheel hard right. The Humvee, braking, slides at an angle. Grit fans out. Tires shriek. The rear, jackknifing, cuts a precise U-turn. The momentum sends the guards tumbling over like bowling pins. Their guns go flying. Their bodies roll across the gravel. An unlucky few catch the full brunt of the Humvee's weight, and are crushed underfoot.

As the dust settles, the Humvee is poised, nose-to-nose, with the Model-T.

The two vehicles are separated by mere feet.

The scouts, circling, blockade the spaces in between. Each one is poised on their bike, guns leveled. They are prepared, at a moment's notice, to mow down any survivors.

In the Model-T, Eramis is still howling. His face is a mottled caricature of terror. 

The Humvee's door swings open. Silco slinks out, and steps into the descending silence.

The air is clogged with the stink of cooked rubber and creosote. The moon, cutting its delicate incision through the clouds, unveils a scene of utter carnage. The six motorcars are reduced to flaming heaps. The semi-trucks, gutted and overturned, are a twist of mangled metal. Men are laid out in coffins of hardpacked dirt. Others, twitching feebly, are trapped inside the wreckage.

The final count will be a body-bag or a dozen.

Beyond the perimeter, blackguards, rifles poised, are securing the perimeter. They've already disarmed the straggling guards. The men, cowed, are being lined up against the hoods of their mauled vehicles. The few blackguards wounded in the fray are being hauled off to the medick's vehicle.

In the space of twenty minutes, the battle is done.

Silco takes a savoring breath.  It is a moment of rare serenity, before the next inevitable wave of violence.

But he's ready to meet it—and mete out worse.

With a measured tread, he approaches the Model-T. The windshield is a warped distortion of the smoke-scudded horizon. Behind the glass, Eramis is petrified. A pistol—gold-plated—is brandished in his meaty grip. The safety's off, but the barrel's too shaky to present a real threat.

It's the last showoffishish bluff of a man who's been beaten, and knows it.

"Eramis," Silco says. "Hello."