#i revel in my unnaturally prolonged life

[tigergingicat]

I didn't bleed to death nor die of puerperal fever either time I gave birth, and both times I would have.

(Abrupted placenta - or nearly so - due to clots between the uterine wall and placenta, and the doctor had to scrape them out afterwards and put me on IV antibiotics both times. The first time I needed two pints of transfused blood. As an aside, I'm a big advocate of not getting (or staying) pregnant if you don't want to be a parent.)

Unnatural things kept me alive.

People act like voice training is unnatural or meant as a “trick” and then I get to sit in my office and listen to every single one of my cis coworkers change their pitch of their voice up or down whenever they’re on the phone

[sengardet]

Assassin's Heart (Heart strain🪄🥵🫀 resus tease)

Rayne crept through the darkened house of her assassination job. The lean woman held a wicked short sword seeking to dip it in the heart of her target. She slipped through the bedroom door, her knife glinting in the moonlight.

The witch lay asleep, her chest softly rising and falling. Rayne crept closer, poised to strike, when the witch's eyes snapped open. The startled witch raised her hand and cast a spell. A blast of magic hit Rayne in the chest and startled her, but otherwise left her unharmed. The witch scrambled up against the headboard, hands outstretched as she rapidly chanted an incantation.

Tingling warmth flooded Rayne's body, concentrating between her legs. She gasped as sudden, intense desire overwhelmed her senses.

"A lust spell? Really?" Rayne laughed. "I'm going to make you my plaything until this pathetic spell wears off.”

The witch trembled, but there was nowhere to run. Rayne holstered her dagger and unfastened her trousers. Her eyes gleamed as she walked toward the unarmed blonde and seized a fistful of platinum hair, tugging the witch's soft pallid face against her aching sex.

Rayne exhaled as a hot tongue eagerly caressed her folds, lapping at her essence. "I hope you enjoy it, strange way to prolong your life, but at least it's working for a little..."

The witch moaned into her core, skilled mouth bringing Rayne to dizzying heights of bliss. Rayne rode her face hard, reveling in her complete dominance over the writhing woman. Her heart raced, pounding with passion she has never felt before. A combination of incredible lust and the eager worship of this pretty woman's tongue.

Rayne gazed down at the witch, overwhelmed by sudden, ravenous desire. Her training as an assassin faded in the face of unnatural arousal gripping her body still. This witch's magic was incredibly strong.

"Devilish little creature you are, but I'll at least remember you." the assassin said. She stripped off her own clothes in a frenzy and sliced open the witch's garments, each thrust of the blade causing the pale little woman to jolt and tremble.

The witch's milky flesh beckoned, and Rayne answered the call, thrusting her hips against the dainty woman while wrapping strong fingers around her throat.

The witch sucked in a ragged gasp. "Yes, my love," she said in a whisper, hazel eyes alight with sinful glee. "Take what you need."

"Did you cast the spell on me or yourself on accident?" Rayne said with a laugh.

Rayne's heart thundered in her chest, each beat slamming against her ribs with furious intensity. It seemed the effect was growing still.

The delicate flow of life pulsed beneath Rayne’s thumb and forefinger, those hazel eyes vacant and glassy as she kept the pressure on that pink little neck and pleased herself. However, the desperate need to dominate, to render the blonde sorceress helpless beneath her, overcame even the bloodlust urging Rayne to choke the life from her. With effort, she loosened her grip.

Nimble hands caressed Rayne's deep ebony skin, tracing reverent patterns over her back. The witch was enjoying this tug of power. Dimly, Rayne knew something was wrong, that magic must be ensnaring her mind and body. But rational thought dissolved in the fever of lust consuming her...

"I’m Hailey," the blonde witch breathed, her eyes burning with lust. "Please, let me serve you before I die, assassin."

Hailey moved behind her, her slender form a whisper against Rayne's back. With deliberate slowness, one hand expertly reached around Rayne’s waist, diving between her thighs, while the other pressed firmly against Rayne’s violently pounding heart.

Rayne gasped, her breath catching in her throat. Her heart seemed to thrash into Hailey’s delicate palm, each beat a thunderous drum that echoed through her entire being. Lust magic surged directly into her core like poison but she hadn’t the will to stop it.

Hailey’s fingers worked gently, sending bolts of pleasure shooting through Rayne’s body. The pale woman's soft red lips found the back of Rayne’s neck, trailing kisses down to her shoulders and spine, each touch igniting her skin like wildfire. Rayne’s breathing grew ragged; she was panting, out of breath, her chest heaving with the effort to keep up with the sensations overwhelming her.

Her heart palpably thrashed violently between desperate, libido-fueled beats, threatening to burst from her ribcage. Rayne’s mind swam, the lines between pain and pleasure blurring until they were indistinguishable. She could feel herself teetering on the edge, every fiber of her being screaming for release, yet held in agonizing suspense.

With a forceful shove, Hailey pushed Rayne onto her back. The assassin in a lustful haze as the witch straddled her hips. Rayne's body ached with a desperate, all-consuming need for release. She craved Hailey's touch more than her next breath.

Rayne shuddered as Hailey's lithe frame pressed against her, the witch's arousal leaving a slick trail on Rayne's quivering abdomen. Hailey ground her hips, teasing mercilessly.

Looking up into Hailey's deceptively innocent hazel eyes, Rayne felt her heart lurch in her chest, pounding furiously hard. It threatened to burst through her ribcage. Hailey smiled ominously, pleased at the effect she was having. She leaned down, capturing Rayne's full lips in a reverent kiss, her tongue plundering Rayne's mouth.

"Mmmm, your heart is magnificent," Hailey purred against Rayne's lips.

Hailey trailed kisses along Rayne's jaw and down her neck, nipping and sucking. Rayne gasped for air, head spinning from the onslaught of sensation.

"I want to see this mighty heart of yours," Hailey whispered, tracing a finger down Rayne's sternum and pressing down, her body jerking with its strained movement. "I'm going to cut you open and watch it beat just for me as I ride you."

Rayne's eyes went wide with shock and arousal, a whimper escaping her throat. The terror she felt did nothing but further stress her increasingly helpless life pounding painfully hard within her.

Rayne knew she had to change course the only way she could, to take charge. She grabbed Hailey's delicate body and got off the bed, her fingers digging into the soft flesh of Hailey's hips as she hoisted the startled witch up effortlessly.

With a swift movement, Rayne pressed Hailey against the cold wall. The impact sent a shiver down Hailey's spine, her breath catching in her throat as the shockwave traveled through her body.

Rayne's combat-toned body pressed against Hailey's slender frame, the assassin’s body flexing with controlled power. Rayne's heart pounded like a war drum, its relentless rhythm echoing through her chest and resonating within Hailey's own ribcage. Each vivid beat seemed to demand submission, imposing Rayne’s dominance and vigor with every thud.

Hailey's senses were flooded by the sensation of Rayne grinding into her, the assassin's powerful thighs parting her legs. The friction was intoxicating, the heat of Rayne's body seeping into Hailey’s pallid skin with every vivid heartbeat. Never had she expected the tables to turn so quickly. The assassin proving no more a slave to desire than the witch herself.

Hailey's legs instinctively wrapped around Rayne's rear end, squeezing needily. Her ankles locked behind Rayne's lower back, drawing their bodies even closer together. The witch's nails dug into the assassin's shoulders like prey clinging helplessly to a devourer, her breaths coming in ragged gasps as she clung to the woman’s strong ebony form while being thoroughly taken and used for pleasure.

Soft lips peppered Rayne's face and neck with tender, worshipful kisses that sent jolts of rapture through her trembling libido-fueled flesh. Faster and harder Rayne's heart pounded as she grabbed the blonde's supple curves, squeezing possessively.

A fierce, consuming climax overtook Rayne's overstimulated body. Her slender midnight form arched and spasmed as wave after wave of intense pleasure wracked through her.

Hailey smirked triumphantly, sensing the orgasm's powerful contractions straining the assassin's pounding, overworked heart to its absolute limits. As the climactic sensations peaked, Hailey gasped in dark delight, feeling Rayne's heart seize and stop beating altogether, giving out mid-orgasm.

The sudden absence of Rayne's lifeforce sent a thrill through the blonde witch. Feeling the assassin's power and dominance abruptly ripped away, leaving only a still, empty vessel, was incredibly arousing.

Hailey knelt beside Rayne's limp body, her heart racing as she gazed upon the assassin’s deadly and magnificent figure.

Rayne's full lips parted slightly but no words emerged. Hailey's chest constricted, an ache blooming deep inside her. She needed Rayne—needed to feel the assassin's powerful hands around her throat once more, squeezing, dominating. Needed to submit herself fully to Rayne's indomitable will, and feel the threat of death push her to please.

Hailey positioned herself over Rayne's limp body, straddling the assassin's hips. She placed her pink palms on the dark skin of Rayne's bare chest and began compressions, strong and sensual. Each press of Hailey's hands sent a wave of arousal coursing through her own body.

How strange, to lust after this dying woman, Hailey thought. But there was something erotic about having Rayne's life in her hands, this powerful killer now weak and vulnerable beneath her. Hailey couldn't resist drinking in the sight of Rayne's sweat-glistened dark body, taut muscles gone slack, full breasts heaving with each breath Hailey forced into her lungs.

Hailey's own breath came hot and heavy as she continued the CPR, filling Rayne's chest before pumping down on her engorged heart. That strong, mighty heart, its beat faint under Hailey's touch. She imagined it pounding in the heat of combat, propelling this deadly woman through fight after fight... she remembered it battering her delicate chest in passionate sex. Now it struggled, and wetness pooled between Hailey's thighs at the thought of teasing its meaty chambers back to life.

(to be continued...)

[nadas-dirthalen]

fitted claws.

dark urge/gortash, rated M

Welcome to another Velkynverse™ fic! Where I write my Dark Urge in first-person and write Gortash as "you" throughout, for the soulmate energy of it all.

synopsis: The Tadfools enter the Szarr Palace — but after skulking at Astarion's insistence, they are oh-so-politely directed to the main attraction: a masquerade ball hosted by the vampire himself. To their collective dismay, Szarr is not the only viper in this den, and Enver Gortash is still keen to provide answers to every one of his Bhaalist's questions.

But that's not all he offers.

The Banite can't be the only one with claws in their "collegial business partnership and definitely nothing more," after all.

Oh, and why is Velkyn's name mentioned as 'A'ryin Syv'? wouldn't you like to know!

content warnings: depictions of light violence, mentions of heavier violence, canon-typical violence, implied/referenced canon abuse, manipulation i guess??? but it's gortash. what did we expect?

read on ao3!

The Szarr Palace twists writhing knots in my core long before an attendant takes Astarion by the elbow and guides us merrily to its main event. At his request, we sidestep the splendor at first, dodging the wary glances of the staff to pore over his old dormitory. The worst and most bloodied chambers. His home. His shame.

It’s impossible not to hear the buzz of the grand hall from all corners of the palace — but I watch the hope leave his eyes, hope he’d just kindled by wrenching Godey’s bones apart, the moment mention of it leaves the servant’s lips.

That we’re all in delicate finery worsens the feeling.

I know how suppressed terror looks on Astarion’s face: I’ve seen him roused from the nightmares he won’t mention, injured enough that tortuous sleep is what he needs to mend. I see it through the holes of this damnable mask: a slip of black fabric adorned with silver filigrees, a high arc of lace to disguise the scars on my brow. Cumbersome at best, it scratches enough that the Urge prickles under my skin, clawing for release the same way as words stuck in the throat.

The others are more at home than I. Gale and Shadowheart follow just behind Astarion, unabashedly arm-in-arm, visions of swirling Weave and silver moonlight. Wyll and Karlach walk with their knuckles brushing, though they do make an attempt to play the part of patriar and faithful guard, clad in the same stunning abyssal black. Lae’zel is the only one at the rear of the group with me, her lips pressed thin, itching at her indigo suit jacket.

She doesn’t speak to me, nor I to her. Instead, I watch the halls we pass in reverse, letting my mind wander in ways it did not on our way in.

Instead of Astarion’s lodgings, his prolonged torment, I wonder if I ever bore witness to some part of it. If I ever walked these halls, and if I wore some shape he wouldn’t have known. If a mask was on my face, or if I cavorted here without pretense. If I knew what was happening — as I seemed to know every dismal churn of these streets — and reveled in it.

Every shadowed corner I find in this city, a pair of eyes light in recognition that I don’t share. How many here will set their eyes upon me tonight like hunters on prey?

The attendant leads us to towering doors, surprising no one, and takes Astarion’s hand in theirs. He wrenches away, but they tighten their hold.

“Your ring, sir.”

“I don’t have a —“

“Please, sir. You were seen pilfering the chests. Allow me to place it on your finger, per the Master’s request.”

The Master. I watch from a distance as the title curls Astarion’s lip, baring fangs. The rest of him is unnaturally still, without the need for breath.

“Fine.”

With unnecessary decorum, the attendant makes a show of bowing while he slips the ring on Astarion’s left little finger. Astarion snatches his hand away — successfully this time — and lays it against the seal.

Then the attendant speaks in words I cannot fathom, reading from Astarion’s invitation. Crimson blazes to life in runes around the seal, and another ring around that, until spirals of red arc up the towering doors’ entirety. They unlatch of their own accord, a deep groaning mechanism inside the wood, and swing open with somehow grandiose slowness.

A sea of black awaits inside. The theme of the evening is Nightfall. Aside from Gale and Shadowheart, who took liberties with what colors exist in the night sky, the crowds are a tide of shimmering void and rich violet, splashes of silver and gold punctuating the dark. The surrounding architecture matches them: dark stone pillars veined with putrid green and dull gold; ornate designs etched in the floor, difficult to make out under quick-moving feet

One figure stands in striking red embroidery, a bloodbath of rubies stitched into the lapels of his long coat. His mask, a simple piece of black cloth, is sewn so its underside resembles a row of fanged teeth. Astarion freezes, but Cazador Szarr does not catch sight of him from his place on a dark dais at the rear of the room, his attentions occupied. Whatever he says, smirking, is swallowed by the nearby musicians. One other stands next to him and listens, flanked by guards several steps to each side, fine wires elaborately woven into midnight blue fabric to resemble a network of sparkling electric constellations set over pale skin and slicked black hair.

Karlach is next to freeze, shoulders tensed. Wyll lays a hand on her arm, shattering the illusion of patriar and guard.

“Motherfucker,” she snarls. “Tell me that isn’t —“

But it is.

It’s you.

And you’ve spotted us entering.

“Karlach, darling, breathe — with me, all right?” Wyll strafes in front of her, the gold breadth of his mask glinting from the arcane lights strewn around the room. He lays hands on her shoulders because it is safe, because he can, because it is one of the only things to keep her heat at bay. “He won’t come to us, and we won’t go to him. Not tonight.”

“I need him to know. That I’m —” Her voice chokes out before the word comes. Dying.

And I knew that you bargained her away. Of course I knew. I had to have done.

Shadowheart turns in front of me, a dazzle of silver. She moves past Wyll and Karlach, a vision of serenity, lifting a hand to hover near Astarion’s cheek. It should be me, I should have his hand in mine as he’s taken the Urge’s hand in his — I should tether him to something in this tempest.

But I stop looking at him, because you are looking at me.

I can’t breathe, pinned under the weight of your stare. I wonder if I ever could.

It doesn’t matter, because I push into motion before I can dwell any longer. Better to collect my thoughts, bury the Urge deeper in my chest, before daring to open my mouth. Astarion is in capable hands — ones sounder than mine, less liable to slice.

And I will return. That, we promised: that the dawn would always come after the night’s worst cruelty, and we seven would survive ‘til the next night and the next. That we would always make our ways back to each other.

The dance’s tempo changes, and the tide of dancers twirl and shift direction. I gulp in a breath and duck into their foray, half a plan alight in my racing mind.

It’s a skill I found — relearned — not a tenday ago. But when I touched upon it again, it was as natural as breath: a pull in, a gathering of Weave, and an exhale moving through me. Not just from full lungs to heady air, but a shiver down every nerve.

A shudder, and I can shed my skin. There is a comfort in it, an embrace in reverse — from the confines of one cage to brief and electric freedom before the next shape takes hold.

I do not move along with the partnered pairs. I weave through their sea, avoiding the crush of bodies, putting the tide of twirling dancers between myself and the others. On its other side, I am human: the best I could muster while still fitting into the garment I’m stuck in, a small chest and subtle hips. It’s my face that’s different behind the mask: I have to keep the same angle to my nose and cheeks to hold the mask aloft, but my skin is peach-pale, not ashen-violet. I tug the band out of my hair and let new strands, blue-black, fall in a wave down these new shoulders.

With luck, that’ll create enough of a new silhouette to buy myself time. Time to find my breath. To gain some ground between myself and —

You. The sharp scents of your cologne and spilled ink flood my nostrils the instant before your hand closes around my wrist.

The Urge reviles your touch. It bares my teeth. I tug back, but your thumb arcs hard over the base of my palm, confounding the instinct to rid you of your hand.

I can’t spill your blood. Not here, in this den of vipers, when just one of them must die. When we won’t have the chance if I strike first.

“Don’t touch me,” I force out. Meek.

With a single backward glance, you shine a cutting smile down at this human shape. You angle us seamlessly toward the dancers in the same motion, and their current pulls us in.

I would pull a different current from my core and push it into yours. I would char the meat still on your bones, sear your heart in its last beats —

Your hand lands on my hip, the sharp points of your gauntlet needling the unarmored flesh there. The other snares my fingers in your palm.

“This is no place for your urges, assassin,” you mutter, insistent strides setting our pace.

My crimson-clotted vision centers on our feet. My legs move back when yours drive forward, hardly a second out of place — until I blink, and your toe knocks mine.

“Focus.” Rougher, now.

My eyes snap up, and yours smolder like stoked coals. There is a knowing glint to your stare, behind the mask.

“You couldn’t possibly have seen,” I argue. “I was quick. Silent.”

“You were.” This only quirks your lips up, shifting the scar on your chin. “Just as you used to be.”

“You —” A turn, and suddenly we are sidestepping together, the needle-points of your gauntlets dragging an inch. My hand claws your shoulder, half for balance and half to leave a bruise. “You followed me. Like prey.”

“Please. Who do you think taught you this dance?” Another turn; we’re rounding the circular dance floor, one pair in a ring of many. The gold ornamenting your arms, embroidered in your lapels, catches the light of every ornate chandelier. “It wasn’t Ravengard’s boy, surely.”

Your coat — this is the first time I’ve caught you without that coat. Your metal armguards are under a finely-made jacket to match Nightfall. Its gold stitching is laid over midnight fabric that is not perfectly black — this close, its faint traces of blue are just barely softer. Just barely warmer.

I jolt when your callused fingers move over my hand, breaking your firm grasp to twine with mine. When I look back, your burgeoning smile curves to a wicked grin.

“Tell me, dear Bhaalist,” you bend to purr near my ear, “Did you ever let the devil close enough to touch you?”

Your breath rolls down my neck and I keep my spine stiff, only to shudder elsewhere. The gossamer-thin fabric of this garment does nothing to protect from your firmer clutch into my hip. I tilt under your guidance, bending into you, despising your heat. I revile you, I will sew regret into your bones — until you use your grip to turn us, then relent.

“I am no Bhaalist.” I press my lips thin, waiting for you to flinch, but you don’t. You haven’t yet. “I did not choose this.”

You should sneer. You don’t.

“I never could pin you as just one thing, no matter my efforts,” you admit, like it’s no secret. As if reading the thought, you turn your eyes up to scan the room before returning them to mine. “But until you show your sister as much, it is what they will call you in places like these.”

The tempo increases. You twist us around so I am on the backstep. My legs threaten to falter. These boots — they are not mine. These tights do not move the way I wish. And if I fall, capturing the whole room’s attention?

“This is ludicrous,” I spit. “End this charade.”

Your hold tightens, raking heat down my core. “No.”

“There is no reason for it. If you want to talk, then —”

“And have your allies take note?” Your fingertips graze up to the small of my back. “You know how to do this. Breathe, and let go of your own weight.”

“You think I’ve forgotten my own breath, Banite?”  I didn't expect to end on the last word, and the feel of it on my tongue throws my focus. The Urge claws for my speaking-chords, threatening a growl until your subdued laugh eclipses the sound. Barely a whisper, like you clamp down the noise.

Then, you lift — just enough that your gauntlet indents my hip, stinging up my side, and just enough that my feet lift, too. Lightning crackles in my veins, and the air of the storm within me keeps me aloft. Your movements turn conniving: you take our twined hands and parade me around you in what almost resembles an elaborate spin.

My feet find stone for a second, and then they lose it, never more than a few inches away. Around me, you move faster, a technically flawless endeavor.

The coals of your eyes never leave mine. You are waging war, you are challenging me in every second your stare holds, you are begging to be torn apart.

And not once do you cower. Did I ever make you cower?

Did I ever want to?

The song peaks, and then silence falls after its last striking chord. My feet touch the ground, and your gauntlet leaves my hip to hook under my elbow. We share a wordless debate: I tug and you groan, you slice another look down and pull me away from a passerby’s hips that would have knocked bruisingly against mine. You take us further away from where I entered, using the shift of the parting crowds as cover.

I don’t know when it is I that takes the lead as we find the far edge of the crowd, hidden from the entry and the dais. I don’t know when you become content to follow. Only that you resume your stance, angling so it is your back to the crowd when we slow.

You part from me, delving into a pocket of your jacket. My pulse ratchets faster — something in me begs, begs, to run.

The Urge takes that part, snaps it in twain, and hones in on you. My muscles prime themselves to lunge, not flee. Never flee. Not until you are burnt worse than the figment from my dreams. Not until you cannot move at all.

My jaw spasms when you look back up. For a second, your facade falls away, and you watch me in earnest: lips parted, openly wary.

“This doesn’t have to be you.”

I know, stays stuck in my throat, trapped on my unwilling tongue. And yet I am made of nothing else.

I clench my fists and grit my teeth, warring to banish what cannot ever be held at bay for long.

Something glints in your hand. It’s easier to turn my focus down.

Ten little baubles rest in it, all metal-worked silver. Ten rings, ten sets of chains, ten intricately adorned claws, shining in the dazzling light. All freshly polished. All perfectly intact.

You clear your throat, and your hand flexes almost imperceptibly, the barest close of your fingers. I’d have missed it in a blink.

“These were yours.”

Mine. The word should mean something. Like every other play you’ve arranged, some answer should stir in me. You watch me expectantly through your glimmering mask, waiting for something I cannot give you. Something more specific than the heat blooming across my collar, the twisting of my viscera, or the looming dread snagging in my chest.

Anything — anything — we once shared. But only darkness remains, chasms where my life should be.

And you could fill them with honeyed words.

“You know I can’t…” My lips press thin. You start forward — and even when I jerk back, you grasp my hand, firm only for a split second. Then, the warmth of your palm cups underneath: my knuckles the prize in one of your hands, and the baubles the prize in the other. I swallow, lifting my eyes to stomach your gaze again. “This could be a lie.”

Your answer comes too easily, a question unto itself. “Then why don’t we try them on for size?”

“No.”

“Why?” Your thumb closes over the meat of my palm when I try to retract. Your grin might as well be fanged. “Careful, Bhaalist: presentation is everything in dens like this one.”

I take the inside of my lip between my teeth until blood’s saccharine taste coats my tongue. “This is not my normal shape,” I manage tightly. “You don’t know they’ll fit these hands.”

This time, your eyes fall, and the press of your thumb bends along the scarred breadth of my palm. “You never changed your hands,” you counter, stabbing-soft. “Not enough to alter your grip. Not enough to unbalance your blades.”

“And what will your den of vipers think if you adorn them?” I swallow the rest — what will the others think, if I am found caught in this viper’s coil — and you smile in my silence.

“I’d raise more brows if I weren’t doing something like this.”

“Just how many did you court?”

“Court? No.” You wait for my face to change, and it doesn’t. Eventually, you relent. “In time, most people on my arm were you behind the veil. This shape, however. This is new.”

You pick one of the widest claw-and-ring sets from your hand, minding my eyes while you slip it on. You watch me like a tamer studies their beast, equal parts proud and prey. You suffer the twitch in my hand and pretend it isn’t there.

“Why are you doing this?” There is too much grating in my voice. I want not to hinge on the answer. “Why an offering? Why now?”

I want to turn and run from whatever is about to fall from your lips as much as I want to find refuge in the known. I want to leave you and never look back. I want to stay until a whole lifetime pours from your mouth.

You fix your attention on fitting the next claw to the opposite middle finger, and something solemn crosses you. Something that makes me stamp down the itch to hook these claws in your tendons, one by one.

“They’ll give you an edge.”

The world tilts on its axis. An edge.

“You know why we came.”

“Of course I know.”

“Then you — you meant to pluck me from the others. You are here because I am their edge. And if I do not turn back — gods, I will take this knife you hold to my neck, this invisible and wretched thing, and I will —”

“If I wanted you dead,” you say, slow and deliberate, “You would be dead.”

I want to wrench my hand from you. I want to lash these claws — four now — through your throat. I want never to see you again, to turn and run until the world is painted red with all blood but yours. Because I don’t know what to do with yours.

You don’t snare me. No fight comes. The red fades from my periphery.

“He is your ally.”

“He is.”

“Then why…” I trail off, watching you fasten the eighth claw. I am dexterous enough to fasten them alone. There was never a doubt, but you infringe on the act with your persistent touch. I scan for prying eyes to distract from this revulsion, praying not to find any I recognize.

“I’ve made arrangements.”

My attention snaps back. “What arrangements?”

Ten claws fastened, and you offer me your arm in earnest. “I’ve worked around these things before, Bhaalist.”

“Explain yourself.”

“Always the demands, with you and your ilk. Come: they’re picking up for another song.”

You’re right: on the rear of the dais, stringed instruments are raised to the ready. Dancing partners look between each other, smiles and questions on their lips. Your invitation, I notice, possessed neither. It is a given that I am here, just like it was a given that all ten of these claws would fit my form exactly.

And they do, like extensions of my cutting-sharp self.

I hook my arm in yours, testing the curl of my new blades. They rake over the fabric of your jacket, eager to split threads. You watch yourself fray, then dip your chin in a peculiar nod.

And then we take to the floor, striding in tandem.

This movement is slower, its notes dragging darkly through an alluring first few measures. The pairs that gather bring their hips almost flush, groping hands wandering down past narrow waists, clenched around more than crumpling fabric.

Don’t, I want to warn, but your claws settle gingerly on the curve of my hip, just as before. Your smile is a constant by now, as though you think it harmless — as though you think it will placate me, when it only raises the hairs on the nape of my neck.

“Why?” I ask as we move again: fingers twined without claws lashing, my other hand splayed over your lapel.

“Why what?”

“Don’t toy with me,” I bite out. “Why arm me tonight? Now? I’m not —”

Your breath hitches under my palm. I stop short of your Bhaalist. Short of I’m not who you remember.

Now, your claws rake to the small of my back. Flinching away means arcing forward, into your tighter clutch around my waist. Close enough that I look higher up at you, and the voids of your irises are shadowed under your brow.

Close enough that you are all I smell, that your heat seeps through this damnably fragile fabric.

“Because I am still upholding my end of our oath,” you murmur, your features impossible to read. “I won’t meddle in your affairs.”

Nor you in mine is how the rest of the oath should go. You told me that. I spent hours searching for the sliver of magic that should stop my thoughts of enacting your ruin.

“You know it is already broken.” I swallow, a lingering hint of blood down my throat. I want you to act, to say something, to move or breathe or stop, but you only take us further. We continue to move, entirely as one.

“This ends,” I press, and it sounds false from my wretched, treacherous mouth.

A turn; you bring me closer, your front flush with mine. “I know.”

“Ravengard will go free,” I needle. “You know we won’t stop until he does.”

“They won’t stop until he does,” you correct. “I know.”

“And you’re going to let us —”

“— them —”

“—no doubt with some sadistic bent!” I bark back, too loud. I grit my teeth, steady my breathing.

“I am,” you relent, too easy. Too fucking easy.

“Then this topples down around you.” I school my voice into something quiet, but razor-sharp. I let my gaze burn into yours, and watch your reaction when I let my irises slip back to white-blue. My core burns hotter when your look widens, unguarded.

“Or the wreckage of it crushes you.”

“Or you lose, Enver.” The name hits you where I want it to, cutting off your voice. “You are lying down when you should be drawing arms. If you let yourself fall into death’s waiting maw, after this?” I shake my head, revolting against my twitching, clamping jaw. “Fight. Fight it. Or —”

My teeth grind. Or I’ll never know —

My heart thunders in my ears.

— what it was —

My spine stiffens, the Urge rattling my ribcage.

— that made me die for you.

Your gauntlet leaves my hip, but our bodies keep time without it. The claw of your index finger skims my jaw, never hard enough for blood to bead over the skin. Only enough that my twitching muscles stiffen, primed for battle.

That poised veneer of yours peels away for something softer.

“Not yet.”

It is a feint. It must be. You are betraying a weakness you do not have. The words are too smooth. They sound like a plea. You do not plead. I would know. I would know —

“Why?” A growl, through the clench of my teeth. I want to move away. I want to breathe. I can’t, I can’t I can’t I —

The last thing I feel is your hand tugging mine, twisting, arcing; my body pivots and spins.

I twirl, and my vision clots red red red.

Inside the wash of crimson, I am a tempest. As though caught on the edge of a dream, I am half-aware, straddling the line of consciousness.

I will kill you —

Finding myself through the haze means winning a war that my every fiber craves to lose. I push, focusing until I narrow the ache searing through me to just my skull. I find my lips and I bite them without restraint.

— I will make a ruin of you, ruin ruin ruin —

I find the press of your fingers in what I imagine is my palm, and I wrench it from your grasp. My shoulder arcs down, but the muscle is too far from me to heed my call.

Something else catches me.

— like you made a ruin of me.

I fight my bonds. The Urge will suffer no chains. My hands clench, claws digging deep.

Your blood hits my nostrils, and the blood-hue unclouds from my sight. With a bleary blink, I find your arms belted around my waist, my back to your front, my form wreathed in your heat. My own grasp at them, violent and cruel, veins prickling with lightning.

The silver you gave me has pierced through your sleeves, embedded in your skin.

“There you are,” you rasp against me, stubble raking down my earlobe, over my neck. Held this tight to you, the hard press of your want is impossible to miss. “A’ryin Syv. Just as I remember. My equal — and mine.”

From your lips, my name sounds like a prayer already answered, salvation in two meager words. Your grin widens against my skin, but when I turn to wipe it from your smug mouth, you catch my chin and turn my attention forward.

Forward, where the sea of dancers parts, for the song ends.

Forward, where a gap in the thinning crowd makes way for a lone, shaking figure to stare at me, confusion ablaze on his alabaster features.

Two red eyes watch me in some potent amalgam of fear and disdain, and I let them. I do not move.

It isn’t Astarion I loathe, as he loathes me in this moment.

It is you. And more than that, it is me.

“This was your aim.” My voice wavers, muscles shuddering as they release the Urge.

“It is the truth, dear Bhaalist,” you whisper, sickly sweet. “They will never know you as I do, and you know it down to your marrow. You will come to me, again and again, because it is all we ever did before. One cannot break habits ground that deep.”

You release my jaw. I do not plunge my claws into your chest, and it is a mercy — but only because I cannot stomach looking at you.

“Go on,” you tell me, every word melting-soft, utterly poisonous. All of them, ice in my veins, fire in my viscera. “Return to them. But do remember to shed your false skin before you do. It seems they’re not fond of pretenders.”

Damn you and don't turn from me now war for purchase on my tongue, but I grant neither the victory.

I leave you alone without so much as a word, because I cannot afford to do anything else.

I wonder if I ever could.

[i-eat-deodorant]

What are your headcanons about the red fox and where he comes from/his nature?

dear anon, i am very glad you asked about fox. he’s one of my top three favourite characters (other than narinder and lamb, because…yeah) and i have quite a bit of brainrot on him 

first of all, i headcanon that he’s TOWW’s first vessel. this was shortly after narinder’s imprisonment, after the clamour of the fight had died down. TOWW took the chance to lure a single, starving fox with promises of greatness should he succeed in killing all four bishops and raising a cult in TOWW’s name. 

whereas lamb inherits ratau’s cult in the meadows beyond darkwood, fox originates from anura. at that time, the bishops were will close to their prime; heket ruled with an iron fist over the region by controlling the food supply, rewarding those who devoted themselves to her with increased rations and starving out all who opposed her. fox was one of the ones who starved to death, and when he woke up, he saw TOWW. 

fox’s cult was somewhat infamous for its ritualistic cannibalism. fox reveled in it, the feeling of sating himself, the power trip that came with being in control. he loved to play mind games with his followers, and would pit them against each other until no one trusted anyone except him. 

soon enough, the bodies of his worshippers no longer sated his hunger, nor did his meager following fulfill his need for more power. even worse, he hadn’t even slain a single bishop yet, and TOWW was growing impatient. fox feared that his crown and his power would be taken away soon. 

when he bowed before his master one last time, he was given a choice: accept, or fight. he chose the latter.

this was before aym and baal were born, so fox only had to contend with TOWW. unlike lamb, he didn’t have the experience of a century of warring with the bishops. and so TOWW killed him. his body was torn to pieces, and cast into the darkest corners of the lands, and the crown was returned to TOWW’s head. 

except fox didn’t die. he’d hoarded worship in the worst-case scenario that he was killed; his indulgence in cannibalism, power from the crown, and gift of resurrection made him not quite a god, not quite a mortal. fox was an undead violation of the boundaries between gods and mortals, walking the fine line between purgatory and the surface. he is confined to his area of death (the darkness), but when night falls, he emerges to trick those who agree to his deals to a watery end. he has a special interest in future vessels, and has claimed the lives of quite a few of them to prolong his own unnatural life. 

Fox and Ratau

ratau had a similar experience to lamb. fox liked to start with small, innocuous bargains, before leading up to the final act: the body of one of the most important people in their life. for lamb, this was ratau. for ratau, this was ratoo. fox whispered his promises and spelled out his lies, and ratau agreed. 

ratoo was missing for years. when he finally came back, his heart was missing from his chest, and he wouldn’t talk to ratau. the two brothers, once close, drifted apart. 

Fox and TOWW

why didn’t TOWW get rid of fox? he tried at first, but fox was wily and smart, and always evaded capture. he eventually gave up. after all, fox was bound to only appear at specific locations, and wasn’t much of a threat to TOWW’s rule. the death of vessels were inconvenient, but he could always crown another. and if they succumbed to fox’s lies, they weren’t fit to be his vessel anyways. 

[leo-interactive-fiction]

ANGST TIME!!!! Ultimatum scenario, MC either sacrifices themself, the RO, or another random person. Without hesitation, MC steps forward. Reactions?

Hmm, let's see haha

On the summit of a volcano the three of you stand, blasts of hot air searing your skin as you step closer to the fiery plummet that awaits you. If this is the only way to save the ones you love...

---------

E pulls back on your arm, clinging onto it with a desperation to prevent your final step. It takes every fiber of your being to stop yourself from turning back to face their tear-striken face as they choke out their plea.

"Where are you going?! You cant! I...I wont let you! I said I'd protect you...I promised...so...!"

---------

R pulls you back with a small tut while simultaneously towing themselves towards the sacraficial edge.

"What do you think you're doing?" You say agast.

R gives you a sidelong smile as they back towards the edge, "Between the two of us, I wonder whose most likely to cheat death? Would you like to make a bet?"

L's hands reach for yours, a solemn grip finding yours as they search in your eyes, finding a steely resolution within them.

They blink away the water that cascades into their sight, "I never had the words to express my gratitude...for everything. But I hoped to have the time to find them. Now that I have neither, I..." their hand trembles against yours, and you have to pull away before the task becomes too monumental to bare.

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

V plants a foot solidly in front of you, casually turning their body to deliver a solid knee straight into your gut.

You collapse, on the verge of spilling your lunch as you watch V stroll to the bystander and draw their weapon. They load a bullet into the chamber with cold resolution.

"To protect the Commander, I'll do what I must."

The pleas and cries of an innocent bystander ring in your ear, the footfalls of their staggered retreat a dreadful drumming.

You close your eyes as a single gunshot pierces the noise and signals its end.

-----------

You feel the fist before you see it, the sudden impact stumbling you back as you begin to register the pain.

P wipes a streak of blood off their knuckle with a look of disdain, "What the hell do you think you're doing trying to play hero? If you wanted to kill yourself so badly, you should've done it before you wasted all of my fucking time!"

"I cant think of a better way," you admit, pushing yourself back to your feet, "If this is the only way to protect you, then..."

"I can protect myself," P spits furiously, "And I'll be damned if I let you throw your dumbass off the fucking ledge for me."

-----------

As you step up to the sudden fiery descent, you hear a gasp of surprise come from M.

"What...is that...?!"

The unnatural urgency in their voice causes you to spin around as quickly as possible towards where they jut their finger, only to find an empty horizon stretch into the distance.

Behind you, a sudden yelp and prolonged scream passes your ear before quickly falling away as the distance between you and the source grows.

M stands with a fixed smile near the edge of the dropoff, "I think...they...slipped...but that...solves our...little problem...yes...?"

----------

Blood spatters against your cheek before you're halfway towards the ledge, a determined Raven descending upon the bystander faster than they have time to let out a shrill cry for help.

Riddled with blood, Raven revels above the staggering body as it attempts to use the last of its strength in a desperate bid to crawl away.

"Where are you going? This is where you belong! This is where your life culminates! And I! I will be the one to see your fate to its rightful conclusion!"

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

S takes a small double take to the bystander before nudging you, "Hey....d'ya know that guy?"

You raise your brow, "No...?"

"Why dont we just, ya know..." S pantomimes a subtle shove.

"Wha-- You want us to...!" You start loudly, before lowering your voice to a harsh whisper, "you want us to kill him?!"

"Look, all I'm sayin' is we got three options, and one of 'em is lookin' a little easier than the others. I mean, I dont wanna die. You dont wanna die..."

"He doesnt wanna die!"

"Hey, you dont know. Watch," S turns to the bystander, "Hey there! Do ya wanna die?"

The bystanders face pales with a mortal fear, "No, please...! I...I have a family...!"

S turns back to you, clearing their throat, "So, uh...Hes probably just sayin' that. You wanna take the legs, or should I?"

-----------

F folds their arms with a minor displeasure passing their lips, "While I'm sure it would no doubt be entertaining to see your neanderthalic lack of self preservation in action, perhaps you should consider other options."

Your eyes widen, "F, I...I didnt think youd try to sacrifice your own self to save me--"

"Of course I wouldn't!" F scoffs, jabbing their finger to the worthless passerby, "The obvious choice is to toss the least valuable one."

The bystanders face pales with a mortal fear as F approaches them, "No...! Please, I...I have a family...!"

"Perhaps you would like them to follow after you? No?" F presses them closer to edge, a serpentine smile lifting their cheeks, "Then I suggest you jump before I grow...impatient."

----------

Hope ya enjoy haha. Thank ya for the ask

[ask-jaghatai-khan]

Red and White

Another short branching off of my Revelation Mechanism lore. This features a closer look at their actual order of battle, such as the allegiances of Mars’ mightiest warriors.

The readouts began before any vid-feed could be reestablished. Diagnostics. Damage reports. Trapped within the darkness of his metallic tomb, Piotr felt as though his own consciousness was returning along with that of his war-machine.

[SYSTEM CHECK IN PROGRESS]

[HEAVY HULL DAMAGE SUSTAINED]

[SERVO INTEGRITY :: CONFIRMED]

[ION SHIELDS :: PRIMARY GENERATOR OFFLINE]

Sir Piotr groaned, but breathed a sigh of relief when he felt a sudden coolness come into the air fed to his pilot’s helmet. Systems were restarting. He wasn’t immobilized.

[ROUTING AUXILIARY POWER]

The symbol of the Adeptus Mechanicus flashed to life in the middle of the holo-screen, followed by the digitized heraldry of House Taranis. These were then pushed to the side, as with a crackling feedback the primary vid-feed sprung to life. Piotr could tell just from the weight of gravity that his Knight engine was laid on its back, but the sight of grey skies far above gave him some better orientation.

He had fallen into a deep canyon, it seemed. Darkened stone rose on all sides, cut like a jagged scar into the crust of the world. Far above the desolate crevasse, the sky was a shade of slate just a scant bit lighter than the stone all around. One could almost be forgiven for believing themselves lost in some monochromatic tomb.

Responding to his control inputs at last, the Imperial Knight which Sir Piotr Arangia piloted began to move. Heavy rocks had pinned it, but these were little concern to the might of the war-engine.

[STARBOARD WEAPON MOUNTING :: RESPONDING]

From the rubble emerged one arm of the massive mech, equipped with an enormous adamantine gauntlet. Pushing the heaviest of the stones aside, the Knight exhumed itself from its place of burial, as Piotr began a command sequence to try and right himself. To be “turtled” in a Knight chassis was always unfortunate, but so long as it appeared that the core integrity of his steed wasn’t compromised, it wasn’t an issue for a seasoned pilot like himself.

With a groan of mechanical protest, the great colossus rose to its ungulate feet – a giant by the standards of any warrior, yet dwarfed by the sheer sides of the canyon about it.

He didn’t have high hopes, but Piotr tried all the same. Punching in some codes, he scanned the major comms channels.

“Hugenia Command, this is Knight-Pilot Arangia. Do you read?”

No response but static.

“Macroclade Primus, this is Knight-Pilot Arangia of House Taranis. Magos Dominus, do you read?”

Still, naught but static.

He didn’t need to check the status of the rest of his own Knight maniple. Steeling his heavy heart to the loss, he knew them to all be dead. Every one of their mechs was trans-linked to each other for immediate communications, and there was no response. The crushed form of another Knight Errant just a short way down the rubble-strewn canyon floor was but visual confirmation.

“Omnissiah guide your souls, kin.” Sir Piotr said a soft prayer, placing his mortal hand over his heart within the cockpit of his Knight suit.

Checking his geographical readouts once more, the pilot guessed that there would be a way out of this crevasse so long as he continued due north. With determined stride, he set his great machine in motion, seeking the way that he might return to the field of war above.

Sir Piotr Arangia was but one member of a great cohort of the Martian Knight House Taranis that had traveled to this this world of Hugenia in a time of dire crisis. The industrial planet had come under attack several years ago by the forces of darkness – heretics and abominations who had carved a path of devastation out from the Eye of Terror, washing this pious world in blood in the names of their Dark Gods.

Such was the might of this particular army of heathens, coupled with the expected delays in broadcasting the distress call, and the delays in assembling and moving an entire army across the stars in aid, that by the time help had arrived the planet had already fallen. Hugenia’s command was reduced to pockets of resistance just holding out against the tide, while the power of the heretic legions had grown strong. By their dark crafts they’d unleashed hordes of unnatural monstrosities against the besieged resistors, while entrenching themselves deep within the captured hive cities, spreading their malign corruption. It was by the Omnissiah’s grace alone that the Martian war-fleet had arrived in time to have any effect at all, but even now the fight was desperate, and it was possible Hugenia might be lost.

From Mars had been sent the War-Division “Red Legion” on behalf of Archmagos Chertovsky Upsilon-28 and commanded by Archmagos Dominus Go Zeta-06. In response to the apparent magnitude of the enemy forces, and the Archmagi’s desire to test their lauded war engines, the Red Legion had contained within its fleet a multitude of Skitarii cohorts, several maniples from House Taranis, and even a Warlord Titan of the Legio Fortidus – that last god-engine being the pride and joy of Go Zeta, who was an obsessive antiquarian.

Just as the initial assault by the heretics had been of devastating effect against the defenders of Hugenia, so too had the Mechanicus’ retaliation been swift and brutal. Yet despite their opening victories, the barbarians had been more entrenched than even the most generous projections had predicted. What resulted was a prolonged and directionless siege, in which the purity and might of the Mechanicus’ grandest machines and augmented warriors were put to the test against unspeakable horrors from beyond the veil.

One such horror had been the cause of Sir Piotr’s quite literal fall, and the fall of his maniple. They’d been spearheading an assault against a conjunction point for the traitors’ resupply routes, at the captured remains of a sprawling manufactorum, when the heathens had drawn upon the power of a cabal of dark sorcerers. The – being – which they’d summoned was unlike any Piotr had ever witnessed. From both the living and the dead of those mutant cultists which made up the vanguard hordes, the sorcerers had raised up a horrific golem. It was like a monstrous wyrm which had split the very earth, and consumed all about it, friend and foe alike. Piotr was just grateful that despite all the destruction the abomination had wrought, none of its putrid corpus had followed him down into the canyon.

The whole of the canyon was silent, in fact, as the pilot made his way northward. No whisper of activity, even from high above. Though any number of factors could have been the cause, it was Piotr’s grim guess that the beast of Chaos had laid waste to the battlefield above, and had perhaps either died itself, gone dormant, or moved on in search of more prey across the apocalyptic wastelands of Hugenia.

By the honor of his House, he would avenge his fallen kin. In the name of the Machine God, he was duty-bound to purge these abominations from the galaxy by virtue of their sheer unnatural existence.

When at last the canyon began to grow shallower, and light filtered in greater – if still middling – amounts down from above, Piotr knew his prayers had been answered.

Emerging from the depths onto the rocky surface of Hugenia, Piotr took stock of his surroundings.

It looked as though he had been moved some distance. There was the manufactorum near to the eastern horizon, though it was in a ruined state surpassing all damage it had sustained before. The crevasse ran from the fractured building all the way across the great battle-plains as if the Dark Ones themselves had plunged a blade into the tormented earth. All about there was the desolation of battle – ruined combat engines, fallen knights, and destroyed fortifications. Yet corpses were somewhat absent. Many a Skitarii warrior lay in martyrdom upon the smoking rock, yet nothing of the heathen dead could be seen. None of their twisted mutant forms were among the corpses.

Double-checking all his scans, Piotr confirmed that there were no major heat signatures or seismic disturbances that may have pointed to that creature summoned by the sorcerers. Though he was a devout man, focused on his calling as a warrior above all else, his status as a veteran of that most Martian-loyal of all Knight Houses meant he was privy to such lore as most men could not be trusted with. He guessed, based on his knowledge of those horrific beings that might be drawn from the Warp, that this flesh-golem had consumed all that it could find upon the killing fields, and moved on in search of further prey.

He had to reach his commanders, lest they face such a daemon without forewarning.

Piotr set the legs of the King-Slayer, his artificed machine, on a route further northward. With all the speed he could draw from its servos, the hunched mech loped across the barren fields towards those jagged uplands where he knew the Red Legion forward base had been constructed. As his war-machine was set on autopilot, Piotr kept checking all comms channels he could think to use.

“Macroclade Primus, this is Sir Piotr Arangia broadcasting on all channels. I am the last survivor the Taranis maniple. Manufactorum Cetus-Eta destroyed by heretical magics. I have emergency intel for high command. Please respond!”

He was about to set the broadcast with a looping ping, when by his good fortune an actual response came. A tittering blast of binaric cant came through his helmet’s speakers, followed by the deep, modulated voice of a Tech-priest.

“Knight-Pilot Arangia, this is Magos Vatin, temporary overseer of Forward Base Eta,” came the vox-cast, “What is your current location?”

“Thank the Omnissiah!” Piotr sighed into his speaker, receiving a short series of affirmative beeps from the Magos despite the delay in communicating his information, “I am on route from the southern battlefield to Eta Base. Predicted arrival in roughly one standard hour.”

“What is your emergency intel, Knight-Pilot?” Vatin pressed, “This is a secured channel.”

“The heretics have raised some manner of creature from the Warp. It is colossal and hungry. I do not have a reading on its location, but I can only predict it will attempt to attack the forward base.”

“Noted, Knight-Pilot,” the Magos confirmed, “Preparations will be made.”

“Affirmative. I am piloting a Knight Errant-B class. Engine name ‘King-Slayer’. Please keep a reading on my signature, as my heraldry has been damaged, and this is a non-standard Questoris pattern.”

“Noted, Knight-Pilot,” Vatin repeated, with what one might have assumed was the exact same audio-file, “Can you confirm with over sixty percent accuracy that you are the sole survivor of your maniple?”

“Affirmative, Magos,” Piotr’s voice was grave with the loss, “My brethren were – hold on – damnit—!”

From Vatin’s end, the transmission was cut as the Knight-Pilot rerouted his power for sudden defensive maneuvers.

The King-Slayer had been nearing the battlefield’s furthest edge of fortifications when there’d been a sudden disturbance. From around the burnt-out husk of a heavy Mechanicus transport, something had stalked out like a scavenging hyena.

In many ways it looked quite similar to Piotr’s knight suit – even more so due to the fact that he was the pilot of an Errant-B class, which held such features as ungulate-like legs and heavier armor compared to a conventional Errant. The combatant which rounded the carcass of the dilapidated vehicle had a similar gait, though even more hunched, and with a distorted outline brought by all the numerous unnatural growths about its form.

It may have once been a Knight Gallant – armed with chainsword and thunder-gauntlet, equipped to lay low the mightiest foes of the Imperium in glorious close-quarters combat. Now, it was a monstrosity. From within the morass of corruption could be seen but the faintest hints of the corroded metal which had once armored and supported the giant, but nothing more than its steel-toothed armaments and the general skeleton of the thing suggested what it had been before. Its hull was covered in thick layers of daemonic flesh, pink and red and gory, which formed mats like the rotted remains of a horrific mass grave, while larger tendrils coiled about the machine’s limbs, perhaps moving itself more by some sorcerous anatomy than by engine-fire. Its head was gone, replaced by a morass of fanged phalanges, like the maw of a lamprey, and standing in fleshy contrast to the iron skull-mask of the King-Slayer.

This was not the beast the black magicians had unleashed, but it bore much of the same gory mutations as all who made up this blasphemous host. Reports had said their cult was named the Brethren of Hunger, and the eye-watering barbarities which they committed and reveled in expressed the full horror of what such a name implied.

With a scream like the rending of armor and the howling of dying men, the Chaos Knight spied the form of the King-Slayer and charged at once in a shambling sprint.

Such was the speed of the otherwise ungainly-looking thing that Piotr had just enough time to prepare himself. With his reactor core operating at suboptimal capacity, he had to choose between offence and defence. Routing all power from his ion shields, he trusted in the fury of his artificed thermal cannon.

By the Machine God’s grace, the first shot struck home. It lanced out with a sizzling crack as it burned the very air around it, the energy-beam impacting with the fallen Knight’s arm just above its thunderstrike gauntlet. Daemon flesh was seared through, along with the dilapidated frame beneath it. As the arm fell, a few failing tendrils seemed to try and grab it up again while the monster screeched in fury, but the weight of the weapon was now too great without the heaviest tendons, and the limb was severed.

Still the creature did not halt, however, charging on despite its crippling. Piotr swore, bracing for impact, but as he did so he saw the face of the thing convulse. From within the radial maw of the thing came something like a gob of vomit. A sac, undulating and lambent with a crimson glow, was sent hurtling in a cascade of ichor out of the beast’s throat and towards the King-Slayer.

Piotr raised his mech’s own gauntlet to deflect, and as the disgusting projectile hit there was a burst of light and fluid. Whatever fell substance was contained within was like molten flame, and readouts went critical from his melee weapon as the burning acid seared clean through its armor.

The shot was devastating, but despite the heavy damage to his weapon, and the staggering effect the biological bomb had, Piotr did not give in. As the monster closed, he fired a wild shot from his thermal cannon, and charged forward with his Knight’s shoulder just after.

By sheer luck, the blast connected with the daemon-engine’s knee, while the limp form of the King-Slayer’s injured gauntlet was swung into its fleshy face like a flail. The monstrosity and the loyal Knight were sent off at odd angles from each other from the impact, but whereas Piotr was able to stay upright, the Chaos Knight fell headlong as its corrupted flesh struggled to keep its damaged leg together.

It fell to the ground with a colossal crash, blood and sickening fluids running from its severed limbs, screeching like a nightmare with its faceless mouth. Yet still it did not die. Twisting its chainsword-wielding arm like the limb of some strange insect, it began trying to pull itself along on hand and knee towards Piotr’s mech. It howled and slavered, desperate to the last to consume its hated prey.

As Piotr was lost for a moment in watching the abomination, his decades of training broken for a moment by the sheer disgust this most fallen of heretics evoked, he saw the mouth of the daemon-engine convulse once again.

He didn’t delay. Taking one great step forward to aid his aim, the King-Slayer locked onto the crimson mass within the gullet of the creature before it was even let lose. A final shot of thermic power was sent screaming out, right down the throat of the monster. There was a great explosion, with a sound like an entire silo of ripe fruit being crushed, and when the spray of red mist and acrid smoke cleared, the beast’s head was gone.

It did not make another sound save for the burbling of tainted blood that flowed from the hole that now dominated the front of its torso. Falling still at last, the fleshy tendrils which held the creature together sagged, and it collapsed beneath its own weight.

Piotr Arangia contemplated what hells could await such a fallen soul that were worse than their every moment of mere existence had been.

Without a moment to waste, still set to deliver to the message to Eta Base, the King-Slayer left the smoldering hulk there upon the battlefield. One more dead abomination in the eyes of the Machine God. Even if Hugenia were purged of all life, Piotr felt some inkling of pride for having rid the universe of that particular affront to sanity.

Swifter than any other being upon two legs, the King-Slayer ran to the shattered hills.

Up in the highlands, in the ready-built and fortified Forward Base Eta, Magos Vatin surveyed the surrounding wastes from his comms tower. Old by the years of mere mortals, Vatin was nonetheless a novice by the standards of his immediate commander, Archmagos Dominus Go Zeta-06. Yet the Archmagos had needed to leave for the time being, to fetch reinforcements suitable to press their assault on this front. The siege of Cetus-Eta had not gone quite as expected, yet it seemed as though said reinforcements would be needed all the same. Beyond the ruined manufactorum, the barren wastelands turned into miles upon miles of dilapidated urban sprawl, no doubt teeming with more of those perverse-fleshed cultists of the Brethren of Hunger. Go Zeta was the sole tech-priest among the Red Legion who had the full intel on this warband, but Vatin suspected from simple observation that they were the fallen remnants of some ancient Imperial cohort, given their mix of cultists, war machines, and malign engineers.

Vatin himself was a Magos of Mars and wore the red robes of that diocese. His form was not too dissimilar to a standard human’s, at least from his silhouette, though beneath his robes was naught but a morass of mechadendrites and numerous processing modules.

As of now, he was tracking the signal of Piotr Arangia’s Knight. Errant-B. Typical rarity among the comrades of Go Zeta and Chertovsky Upsilon. No doubt Upsilon knew just what manner of horrors had laid siege to Hugenia and had figured it an ideal testing ground for his “collection” of technical marvels. Vatin pondered how he’d have preferred to have several cohorts of proper battle-automatons over these simple Skitarii. They did their job well, but with the sheer amounts of dangerous biohazards these cultists seemed to invoke, what parts of the Tech Guard that were still of flesh had been targeted as a vulnerability.

“Magos,” came a voice quite different from the crackling tones of the Tech-priests. It was General Yanov, of the Hugenian Defence Force. A somewhat short, but quite well-built man with tawny hair and ghost-pale complexion. With the fall of Hugenia’s industrial government, the HDF had taken over the situation before the arrival of the Red Legion.

“I’d appreciate a status report, if you please. My soldiers are preparing as best they can, but I’ve received very little in the way of information from you since your superior officer left for orbit.” The human was not shaken, but he seemed irritated.

“Noted, General,” Vatin turned to the man, “It appears as though the assault on Cetus-Eta resulted in the total loss of all combatants, by basic calculations. More practically, I am in communication with a surviving Knight-Pilot of House Taranis. I intend to give the order for total lockdown, as it appears we may be facing an incoming attack. Based on battlegroup transmissions, however, I expect Archmagos Go Zeta-06’s aid to arrive in a suitable timeframe.”

The General’s eyes went down, as he seemed to think for a moment, “Acceptable. Are my commando squads still expected to provide navigation in the Sprawl?”

“That has been amended. We will not need to worry about navigation in the Sprawl. Your commandos will better serve when we reach the hive, where we may require more precise purges depending on the enemy’s entrenchment.”

“Very well. Keep me in the loop next time.” General Yanov emphasized that last part, as Vatin’s attention seemed to have drifted back to his readout panels.

“Of course, General. Now if you will excuse me, I believe Sir Piotr has reached the outer perimeter.” With that, the cyborg left the human commander in the comms tower, rather dismissive considering their ranks were near equivalent in this context. Yanov couldn’t say he had any great love for the attitudes of these tech-priests, but at the very least they were efficient. Well – this assemblage was.

Down by the southern gates, the battle-scarred form of the King-Slayer heaved its way in view of the Mechanicum sentinels. Red and white heraldry charred and stained and chipped, noble melee weapon twitching and struggling to support its own weight, and the overall motions of the knight jerky and unwieldy from its exhausted reactor core, yet still it marched on.

Though it could not be seen, shielded as he was within cockpit and uplink armor, Sir Piotr’s hair was streaked with grey – he had not served with distinction for as long as he had to die this day.

He broadcasted the battlegroup passcodes, and the gate opened after a momentary processing from the security servitor. Lumbering into an open courtyard, surrounded by a veritable fortress of prefabricated buildings, the King-Slayer at last ground to a halt.

When Sir Piotr popped open his access hatch to peer from atop his great war-engine, he was met with the sight of a procession of Skitarii, led by a single Magos.

“Hail!” the armored knight called down from some ten meters above the ground, “Magos Vatin?”

“Affirmative,” for the tech-priest to elevate his voice was a strange thing, as his timbre did not change – he just raised the volume on his vox, “Sir Piotr Arangia, how dire is your condition?”

There was a hissing of seals releasing as Piotr removed his pilot’s helmet. Beneath was the face of a man one would little suspect of being a veteran noble of one of the mightiest Knight Houses in the galaxy. His features were gaunt, but overall plain, with skin of a middling sallow shade with dark eyes. His hair and beard were a deep brown, almost black, grey-tinged and cropped close so as to not interfere with his personal armor. Despite his somewhat haggard and unassuming appearance, the fact that he stood astride a Knight Errant-B, and the conditions of the battle he had returned alive from, spoke to his prowess.

“King-Slayer is about ready to give in, but I believe most of the damage is from an overworked reactor core. I fought an abomination of the Brethren, as per our transmission cutting off. It lies dead, but it was not the creature I warned you of,” the pilot relayed, “How quickly can your adepts shore up my Knight? Forget the armor, I just need it to be ready for combat.”

“I have already transmitted coordinates to the nearest repair facility in this base. Omnissiah’s tears, we are short of vehicles to service as of now, due to the casualties of the battle from which you alone returned.” Vatin said.

“Where is Go Zeta?” Piotr asked, then. Vatin disliked the breach in etiquette, but he felt correcting the pilot would bring about delays than anything.

“Inbound.” Was his simple reply, though it was laden with some implication that almost made Piotr smile in curiosity.

“I take my leave then. Ave Deus Mechanicus.” The King-Slayer groaned as it was pushed again into life. Its poor machine spirit, pained as it was, nonetheless possessed even more fortitude than its stalwart pilot. Vatin repeated back the phrase of salute as he watched the Knight lumber into the core of Eta Base.

What a world was this, that tested the mightiest of the Machine God’s engines so.

—

Piotr Arangia watched with solemn pride as the tech-adepts and enginseers set about replacing the primary reactor core of the King-Slayer. He took a deep drink of a canister of water, refreshing after all he’d been through. Still, despite his growing fatigue, and the mighty bulwarks of the Red Legion base, he felt naked outside the titanic mech. There were yet enemies about – not just across the surface of Hugenia, no, they could wait. He considered the foes which might show themselves at any moment.

“A magnificent engine. It pains me we do not have time to undertake full repairs.” The lead enginseer spoke to Sir Piotr. Rather dissimilar to the higher tech-priests, this enginseer was built more like a man, though layered with a carapace of thick augmetics. He used a somewhat casual tone that made Piotr wonder if High Gothic wasn’t a language he spoke often.

“A relic some six thousand years old, at least by the name it bears now,” Piotr commented, “Would you believe it was one a steed to a traitorous Dreadblade? He was laid low by a great paladin of House Taranis, and by the most dedicated ministrations of the Martian clergy was its machine-spirit saved. It’s served dutifully in my house for millennia now, but such are its quirks – of design and reputation – that only veterans are permitted its command.”

Though the cyborg’s face was an unmoving mask, his body language still seemed to suggest surprise, “Such a history. I can see why your maniple was summoned by the Red Legion.”

The Knight-Pilot just nodded and made some noise to the affirmative, watching as the new core was slid in place into the King-Slayer’s torso, the hiss of its seal followed by a clanging lock that confirmed it had been affixed.

Not a moment had passed from that singular repair, with the adepts having not even enough time to begin the proper post-installment litanies and anointments, when a tremor ran through the ground. By the sheer durability of Martian engineering did the whole fortress not come down, as the planetquake felt as though it was set to split the ground in two.

“What in the God-Emperor’s name was that?” Piotr demanded, all calm from his momentary reprieve shattered in a moment.

“Report!” the lead enginseer demanded of the repair center’s control deck.

In reply, they received an overriding broadcast in the voice of Magos Vatin.

“This is an emergency report. Massive seismic activity reported. There has been a surge in subterranean Warp radiation signatures. All units to defensive stations. Order immediate.” Speakers throughout the fortress blared the message, followed by the rising wail of klaxons as the whole of Eta Base moved into action like a disturbed anthill.

“Is King-Slayer ready?” the pilot demanded, though he was already striding over to the mounting scaffolding that surrounded the mighty suit.

It was time he avenged his kin.

From the comms tower, Magos Vatin overlooked a sight that drew something approximating fear even from the depths of his cold, mechanical heart. The readouts had been staggering, but the visual confirmation from the highland wastes beyond Eta Base’s walls were enough to slow his cybernetic ichor.

Great rifts had fractured open in the barren landscape, like a jagged maw into the planet’s crust. Miles across, the Magos had wondered what they were expected to do if one of the crevasses reached the base itself, but once the tremor had ceased, so too had the spread of the rocky abyss.

The roar of scouting craft came streaking overhead – a mixture of Hugenian and Mechanicus flyers that the Magos had mobilized to try and suss out the source of this disturbance. In an aerial phalanx they hovered over the pit, VTOL craft arcing lower and stabilizing as they affixed spotlights and laser probes on the shadowy depths.

Not even the fastest calculations of a war-minded Archmagos might have reacted in time to what unfolded then. Whipping out from the crater, its slow speed at distance but an illusion for how fast the titanic mass must have been moving, shot an enormous tendril. The color of blood and sinew, the appendage of flesh nonetheless showed its superiority to Martian steel as with a single strike it batted three Mechanicus thopters from the air like flies. Swarming, either in retreat or retaliation, the rest of the skyborne battalion attempted to combat the unnatural monstrosity with las-fire and aimed explosives.

Yet then more tendrils came slithering up from the inky black, like towers of corrupted flesh. They emerged from the ground like a parasite from a wound, and before long the call for retreat was sounding on all channels of the air squadron, as in mere moments they were decimated by the creature’s flailing assault.

Down in the eastern courtyard of Eta Base, the battle-scarred form of the King-Slayer strode into the dim light of the Hugenian day, and stood in terrified awe of what he saw beyond the fortress walls.

Even at this angle within the fortifications the monstrosity could be seen, such was its size. Though all the colossal height of its appendages compared nothing to the true creature.

From up out of the center of the writhing limbs, like a geyser of solidified gore, came the body of that daemonic golem forged by the dark sorcery which the Brethren of Hunger had forced upon reality. Though no details beyond its sickening color could be seen at this range, Piotr knew enough of the horrid workings of their foes to assume that this accounted for the apparent absence of corpses upon the killing fields. The beast’s body evoked the head of that fallen Knight he had left ruined on the outskirts of Cetus-Eta, being like a hellish worm with an eyeless face and gaping mouth. From its body grew untold numbers of tendrils, and great shards of twisted, bonelike fusions. Its body dripped with discolored blood, from numerous gashes like wounds along its serpentine sides, from which also emanated a scarlet glow that suggested that fell bile which had left the King-Slayer’s gauntlet in ruins.

Such a terror from beyond the veil of sanity might have had the power to split worlds in twain, as far as mere mortals could guess. Still, Piotr’s faith was all that was left to him, and he wondered if this was the sign that he was soon to join his ancestors in the Eternal Halls.

When he succumbed, he would make sure to overload the King-Slayer’s new reactor core. He would not allow his flesh to become a part of that abomination.

The roar of the monster, like the amplified screams of a million tormented souls, was alone matched by a sound that rose in response. Its vast shadow was darkened by a greater pall which was cast in front of the smog-shrouded sun.

Down from the heavens, splitting the very atmosphere at its passing, dipped the silhouette of a Mechanicus heavy cruiser. Even so far above in low orbit, its form was like that of a floating city. Despite its blunted shape, mighty engines held it aloft with acute grace, as it drifted to a halt above the highland wastes.

From over the Red Legion battle channels, a transmission aired.

“This is Archmagos Dominus Go Zeta-06,” came the voice, with the timbre of a clarion horn, followed by a blaring string of binary, “Sing praise to the God of All Machines.”

With that, the message cut, and though the colossus of flesh still howled and thrashed, tearing into the earth as it began to pry itself up from below and towards the base’s walls, there seemed a moment of silence in the minds of all those defending. Piotr wondered if they were all of them about to experience the Omnissiah’s molten wrath from above. It would be expected, if not so glorious, in light of the corruption they all faced.

Instead, there was a single flash of brightness from the cruiser’s shadow far above, and from the echoing anti-noise grew a screaming wail. Like an artillery shell flung by the hand of the Emperor himself, a bloom of fiery radiance descended from on high. It fell slow, considering the massive amounts of wind resistance it was exerting to slow its descent, yet still it came crashing in a hail of flame and fury like meteorite into the surface of Hugenia. When it impacted, even the giant daemon of flesh was staggered, reeling at the shockwave, while structures shuddered from this second tremor, and anything that stood on two legs which was not so mighty as a Knight was sent sprawling and stumbling.

It was a great monolith of superheated metal, there impacted in a deep crater not a few miles off from the fort perimeter and where the daemonic behemoth continued its clawing ascent from the depths. For the objects size, it did not seem so far, as it towered above even the highest point of Eta Base’s comms tower. Piotr recognized the design, though it was rare to see it at such a colossal scale – a drop pod.

With a howl as if the gates of hell had been shattered, and a hissing of steam like a volcanic eruption, the sides of the enormous container were blown open. The outer shielding, still bright red from the residual heat of the descent, crashed to the ground in the form of four great ramps, releasing a roiling cloud of steam from within the adamantine coffin’s shadowed depths. There, within the gloom of that obscuring fog, a hundred blaring white lights lit up like radiant jewels within the crown of the God Emperor himself.

A foghorn blared, and the Titan stepped forth from its drop pod.

No one could look away. Not even veterans so old as Piotr or even the Magos Vatin could avert their gazes from the glory of the god machine. Like the Omnissiah’s own avatar the mech came forward, each step shaking the earth and carrying it hundreds of yards at a time. Even the great beast of flesh and horror’s attention was turned for a moment from its sluggish path towards the outer walls, as it considered this new prey which presented itself.

It was a Martian Warlord-class Titan, defined by the strength and elegance expressed in every facet of its monumental design. Like a brutal warrior weighed down by the weight of his own armor, the colossus was an unmistakable engine of war. Twin Volcano cannons and Mauler turrets graced its arm and shoulder-mountings, and the faint flicker about the mech’s silhouette that could be spied whenever a plume of badland dust blew by showed that its void shields were online. Yet, to Piotr at the very least, what was most remarkable was its livery. It almost seemed akin to his own Taranis red and white.

Some said that the Legio Fortidus – the Dauntless – had been obliterated millennia ago. Yet when they said that the Archmagi Chertovsky and Go possessed many grand artifacts and secretive allies, it was apparent that was but an understatement. To those defenders present, whether they understood the true significance of that Martian herald or just balked at its power, it was as though they had been delivered by the divine.

The monster of flesh shrieked like a windstorm as its counterpart in steel approached. In reply, there was a humming in the very air, and a flash of light that would have blinded all who looked on it without protection to their mortal eyes. A Volcano cannon lanced out a beam of energy that cooked the atmosphere, and with another scream of unholy rage one of the wyrm’s gangrenous tentacles was sloughed off in a shower of seared gore and running ichor.

It was breathtaking how the god machine humbled that beast of darkness just like it had humbled all the combatants of Cetus-Eta. Sir Piotr Arangia was a Knight-pilot – he was a mortal of flesh, though his ties to and respect for the arcane sciences of the Mechanicus were unbreakable. Still he could not shake one thought from his mind…

“The flesh is weak. The machine is strong.”

Another Volcano shot arced out, followed by the deafening thunder of two rotating heavy bolter turrets spraying down a hail of fire from the Titan’s mantle. For all its immense size, the wyrm was not so agile, having grown fat off all it had consumed. As it tried to haul itself across the wastes, towards the Dauntless Warlord, it could do nothing but leave behind a rancid trial of rotten effluvia as it was withered beneath the relentless fire.

As though it were giving peace to that conglomeration of so many devoured souls, the Titan did not cease its barrage until no sound – no forsaken wail or pealing roar – came from the husk of the daemonic creature. Not until it was a smoldering stain miles long, upon ground which had begun to turn to carbonized glass, did the Titan power down its blazing weaponry.

Despite the slow, sweeping pace of both those giants, it seemed as though the battle was over in an instant. Where once there had been just the promise of annihilation, by the grace of Mars did it appear as though the battle was not yet lost.

Again, that claxon voice came over the vox waves, and Piotr stood a little taller within his cockpit. The King-Slayer, in mirror, rose to a proud stance as well.

“This is Archmagos Dominus Go Zeta-06, aboard the Ark Mechanicus Worth of the Slain. Now comes the time to deploy the Legio Fortidus. My Lord-Archmagos has decreed that Hugenia shall not be sacrificed.”

Sir Piotr Arangia marveled how, even after all his years of battle in the name of the Imperium, still the Omnissiah could head his prayers.

[bonus-bitch]

                                                       Glenda & Seth Aesthetic

                                  Long drabble // backstory for verse 2 & 3 under the cut !!!

                                               TW: ( Non-explicit ) Domestic Abuse

                      “ When were you going to tell me you were moving back to Maine ? “ 

Glenda’s voice was hoarse & if he’d been able to glimpse her through the darkness, he would have seen the red puffy splotches under her eyes. She rolled away from him & forcefully willed herself to get out of the bed and begin her morning routine. Judging from the grumbling, he was just waking up & processing her question. She stayed unnaturally silent the whole time she sorted through her dresser for a suitable blouse. 

( Part of her hoped he’d turned down the job offer, even though she’d read the confirmation email with her own eyes. Another part of her wanted to stab him 15 times in the chest for withholding this information from her. That was the option she was leaning dangerously towards before he had spoken. ) 

“ It wasn’t a sure thing a week ago & I didn’t want to stress you out more than you already were, Glenda. There was nothing malicious about it - I swear. “ 

That wasn’t satisfactory and she proved this by slamming the drawer so hard, the corner of the drawer cracked a little. Seth flinched & swung his legs out of bed, feet barely touching the floor before he was closing the space between them. 

Before he could even put his hands on her shoulders, Glenda was pushing through him to the closet. Wordlessly & with great emotion she flung the door open and began rummaging for a decent pair of jeans. She had to be on set in the next hour & it would take at least an hour and fifteen minutes to get from her apartment to the studio. 

“ You know ... I found a nice house to close on when I get back to the East coast. One you’d like - it has three sun rooms, 2 garages with electric - ( I think one of them is a shed of sorts now ) - a huge finished attic & it would be perfect for - - - “

Glenda whirled on her heels, nose to nose with Seth. Green eyes had grown dark with unspoken animosity, even as her heart broke and stomach sank. He was trying to force her hand in the matter ... make her a proper house wife. She wasn’t aware of her hands on his throat, or how hard the pressure was from her finger tips digging into his esophagus.

“ Perfect for what, exactly ? “

Glenda was taken off guard as Seth swirled under arm, his elbow smashing her in chest and rendering her breathless. She cried out a little as he pinned her arms behind her back roughly. To an outsider this was clear cut abuse, but - in truth, it was the only way to force Glenda’s temper to cool down. 

Now that she was defenseless, it didn’t matter how much she jerked and cursed under her breath - the de-escalation had worked and after about 10 minutes of silent thrashing, Glenda went still. Her head hung in frustration, brassy curls wavering as she tried to take steady breaths. 

“ What about your ‘ project’, huh ? I thought that’s what you liked about the city, all the nameless nobodies that won’t be missed when you need to satisfy your clientele ?? You can’t do that shit in a small town - not without getting noticed, anyway. You don’t want to throw that away, right ?? All your hard work - - - that would be a damn shame & you know it! “  

Seth’s hands relinquish their hold on her wrists and he sinks down beside her. Glenda drew her knees to her chin and tried to slow her heart rate. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her this stressed. 

“ I’ll manage. It’s not my primary source of business anyway. We’d still have a plushy life you know. I mean, - “

She tried one more time, afraid that Seth would only confirm what she had been fearing for so long:

“ What about my career ?? I’m locked into a contract with several major film production studios. I can’t just pick up move across the country & abandon that - I don’t want to rely on you to give me the things I want, you know, I like being independent, right ? “ 

His fingers ran soothing circles over the back of her neck and she could hear him sigh. A very alarmed part her mind had already grasped that this was the beginning of the end - but she hoped they could prolong the inevitable. 

Even a few minutes would do ...

“ You could fly out when they need you, or fly back to the house when you have a break in your schedule until your contracts are up. Let’s face it, you’re getting to old for stunt work. You know yourself that you’ve been hospitalized more than normal even for your occupation. I’m constantly worried about you ! It’s time to start relaxing, you know ?? Consider all the possibilities ... “ 

She scoffed, offended by his assessment: 

“ I’m 30 ! “ 

His hand dropped from her neck & out of the corner of her eye, Glenda saw Seth run his fingers through his hair  a nervous tick from his youth. 

“ ... You’ve been hospitalized over 300 times & at least a third of those were serious. You can’t really believe this is sustainable. You can retire in grace in 25 more years & I’m worried you won’t last that long at this rate. “ 

Glenda’s jaw clenched and she finally brought herself to look him in the eyes:

“ You want me to move across the country, away from my family to be some goddamned Holly Homemaker & I fucking won’t. That’s not who I am & you knew that when we got married. I don’t want to have a kid - I’m not going through more heartbreak. FUCK THAT. “

She was resolute on this fact & even as her heart continued to break & the full force of reality sank in Glenda pulled herself from the floor & yanked her jeans on. It was a done deal then wasn’t it ??

“ So that’s what this is about ?! Five years ago that’s all you wanted - you wanted a way out of Hollywood - you wanted this exact opportunity. Anyway, I don’t understand what’s so awful about the idea having a baby with me ?! I know things have been ... difficult ... between us at times ... but, I want to make it work. I’m trying to make it work. “ 

She ignored him blissfully as she tugged her shoes on. 

“ We should cut our losses. We’ve wasted 12 years already. “ 

He was silent, clearly stunned by her revelation, it didn’t take long for the anger to win out. Seth had mastered the art of a cold rage & while Glenda could feel it chilling her to the core - she continued to get ready for the day as if nothing were happening. 

“ So that’s it, huh ?? You kept this whole marriage hidden from your family & the public while I was out doting on it to mine & then - you string me along for sick kicks ... that’s not fucking fair & you know it !! “

Glenda could hear it in Seth’s tone, he was close to tears too - - - but as much as she longed to make things right and come clean - she knew she couldn’t back down. Her pride wouldn’t let her. 

“We’ll get an annulment. “ 

“ On what grounds ?! “

“ A misunderstanding. “   

The silence that cascaded down between them felt so oppressive Glenda almost choked, but instead she shrugged her shoulders as she reached for her purse and car keys. 

“ I want you & your shit gone by 1 o’clock when I get back. I’ll have the paperwork emailed to you in regards to the separation. Goodbye, Mr. Trimble - I wish you the best.  “ 

The words came out so smoothly & plainly that by the time she had left him sputtering in the doorway and made it to the curb outside she was convinced she was unaffected by the spiraling of her life’s decent into chaos. 

She was almost convinced she was fine as she settled into the uber, but as the Escalade™ rounded the corner & she felt the first tear roll down her cheek & chin - she knew there would be more to follow in the coming minutes. 

The breakdown in the back of a stranger’s care was cathartic after all she’d been through, but it did very little to help mend the holes that had been left in her heart from each experience. 

She’d pull in together by the time she got to work. 

She had to. 

Glenda Tilly was the baddest bitch in Hollywood & she wouldn’t throw that image away for anything.

[crue-sixx]

Forever and Always

Title: Forever and Always

Author: tiddly-winx

Summary: Based on @crue-sixx's vampire head canon, the reader is a vampire who has completely captivated Nikki Sixx.

Warnings: mild smut, swearing.

The night you met your future love, you were just looking for your next meal.  The young folk nowadays seemed really into the vampire legends as a gimmick, but that suited you just fine, you were just trying to blend in with your surroundings.  That was one of the first lessons your master had taught you, before casting himself into a bonfire to end his unnatural long life.  You had also learned the essentials from him, like never drink after the heart had stopped beating, no prolonged exposure to the sun and most importantly how to choose prey-only feed on whoever you could, but kill the wicked the wicked.  In the years that followed his abandonment, you had grown bitter at the world and did as you pleased.  Over the span of 100 years, you understood why your master had cautioned discretion-you had seen many a fine vampire meeting their untimely end at the hands of ignorant villagers.  You eventually taught yourself how to keep cool as a cucumber in social situations, more importantly controlling yourself when you smelled blood. 

However, you soon grew tired of being sociable and did what many other vampires did when they didn’t want to be bothered-you found yourself an empty crypt and fed on the stupid teenagers who wandered inside in search of whatever hauntings local lore dictated plagued the cemetery.  You didn’t kill them of course, but you made sure to make your mark on inconspicuous places of the body.     

It was early in 1981 right in the heart of Los Angeles that you eased up from the depths of your long sleep to listen to the most invigorating music you had ever heard.  It was loud and aggressive, making the very earth rumble as if its sole purpose was to wake the dead.  You strolled into the lane of graves from your mausoleum and began walking towards the sounds of the nightlife.  You took in what the young people were wearing, then looked down at yourself in dismay.  The ankle length modesty dress was sorely out of fashion but a grin came across your face as you spied a young lady wearing a black leather corset with matching leather pants and boots.  “Child” you called out to her, so softly it was like a whisper on the wind.  She turned around and locked eyes with you, a deep breath later she was mesmerized by what she was seeing and spoke briefly with her companions about going onto the Whisky a Go Go, that she would catch up in a minute. 

When she was directly in front of you, she asked what you wanted and you replied “Where can I aquire such articles of clothing, Child?” 

In her trance like state, she pointed to a clothing store right across the street.  You thanked her and kissed her hand, then turned it over to expose her wrist.  You bought your fangs down on it and drank a small amount-the ‘little drink’ as you called it.  She didn’t feel a thing as you drank from her, but when you were finished you dismissed her and she rejoined her group.  You sauntered into the shop where the clerk stared at your garments.  You picked out a wine colored leather outfit similar to what the young lady was wearing and enchanted the salesperson with “I’ll just be taking these, it’s no trouble right?” 

The clerk put up no argument as you changed into the more updated outfit.  It looked fitting on you and from the girls blood, you obtained some knowledge of current events and lingo.  You walked out of the shop, picking up some gothic themed necklaces on your way out.  The music was so loud you didn’t even need to use your enhanced senses to feel it-it shook your bones to the very core.  You finally got in and stood in the front row, the young man playing a rather peculiar instrument (which you later learned was a bass) locked eyes with you and he kept his gaze on you for the entire song.  You smirked and winked at him as the song was winding down, leaving to go wait in the alley for the next ‘little drink’ to come by. 

A few moments later the same young man that coudln’t stop staring at you while playing his song opened the door and peeked outside to see you.  You looked up at him and asked “You following me, rockstar?” 

“Just...” he shifted uneasily, like he was unaccustomed to talking with the ladies “Wondering why you left so quick” he seemed to have gotten over his temporary shyness and added “There’s a party over at our place.  You should hang out with us” 

“Sweetheart, I don’t know if you can handle me, but alright” this human was intriguing to you so you accepted his invitation.  Soon you grew fond of your newfound friends, even like a little family if you dared say so.  It felt like something worth coming back to see every night.  Seeing them party like they were going to die the next day was interesting to say the least.  They were always doing stupid things, knowing full well the possible outcomes and consequences, but they didn’t care.  It was the first time you genuinely laughed in centuries. 

It was when you finally had a moment alone with Nikki on the couch with your head in his lap that your eyes locked intimately, just as they had the night you two met.  He breathed a ragged breath out, and from his blood you could smell the rush of hormones swim in his veins.   You knew what he wanted and were more than happy to oblige.  A silent heat came over the both of you as you got up and straddled him, his hands coming down gently on your hips.  You had to know that this was more than just lust, so right before things started to get too heated, you broke the kiss and asked “You sure you want to do this, Nikki?” 

“Only if you want to” he answered; his eyes glazed over with desire.  That didn’t answer your question, so you did the next best thing.  You gently scraped the skin on his neck to draw the smallest amount of blood possible and licked it up to see his truth.  He was completely and utterly yours if you wanted him, and by God you did. 

“Then take me to bed, Rockstar” was all the confirmation he needed, easily lifting you up and carrying you to his room bridal style.  His touch was unlike anything you’ve ever experienced before-even when you were human.  He was so gentle with you, making sure he explored every inch of your nude body and you doing the same for him.  Your orgasm was so intense that when the ultimate wave of pleasure initially hit you, your fangs popped out and it took all of your will power to resist biting him and draining him dry.  He finished soon after you did, feeling your heat erupt on his cock sent him over the edge.  A low, stuttering curse from his mouth as a final, giant thrust reached into your hot core.  You felt his seed enter you, then drip onto his sheets when he pulled out. 

“Jesus Fucking Christ” he panted, using his remaining strength to keep himself propped up over you.  “That was awesome...” he then lowered down and off of you, cuddling into your frame.   

You too were more than satisfied and only offered an unintelligible “Mmm” in response, not being able to say much else.    

Nikki ran his fingers through your hair and asked “How about you be my girl?”  You nodded an affirmative reply, to which he just grinned and kissed you tenderly.  The next time you both came out of his room, Vince and Tommy were in the living room with open beers in their hands.  They stared in smug amusement. 

“It's about time Sixx!  We were wondering when you were gonna do her!”  Tommy got up and offered a high five, but it was not returned. 

“Y/N’s my girlfriend.  I’d appreciate it if you’d stop making such jokes at her expense if you don’t mind” he said playfully. 

Vince took a swig of his beer and added “No shit, Sherlock.  You haven’t even LOOKED at another girl much less fucked one since you met her!”  You were very much surprised by this revelation, but you kept your cool. 

“Gotta get back to my place, Babe” you nuzzled into him “They’ll try to rent it out again” you had indeed gotten a job and an apartment of your own since you woke up, and you used that place as a hiding spot for when you fed.    He walked you to your apartment, then at your door he turned you around kissed you softly. 

“Last night was amazing, baby” he sighed into your neck. 

“How about we do an encore at my place soon?” you held up a key to your apartment and gave it to him.  “You’re always welcome here if you need a place to crash” he took the key without hesitation and one more quick kiss before going back to his place. 

It was a few days later that Nikki and the boys came knocking at your door, only because they hadn’t seen or heard from you in a few days.  On the way over, they discussed things they thought seemed off about you.  Like you skin being pale and cold to the touch, the way your eyes changed colors and were even red sometimes.  Most importantly that you almost never came out in the daytime, unless it was a cloudy day when clouds covered the sun.  Mick in his usual sarcastic tone suggested “Maybe she’s a fuckin’ vampire” to which the other laughed nervously. 

Your senses were going wild, not being able to feed for the past few days was taking its toll on you.  Your skin was sunken in, your eyes like a wild animal’s ready to pounce at the first sight of a wandering human.  You looked like a living corpse, to put it mildly.  When you heard the door to the apartment open and heard them calling you, you stopped dead and stared at the bedroom door.  “I’m fine...just been feeling sick the past few days...” you called out. 

“If you’re just sick then why the fuck won’t you answer the fuckin’ phone?” the door to your room opened and the light clicked on.  The false lighting was too bright for you in this weakened state and you hissed, getting under the covers. 

“Just go away...you four aren’t safe here...” you groaned. 

“Not until we see you” Tommy insisted and pulled off the blanket, all of them completely shocked to see you in such a state. 

“Y/N you need a fuckin’ hospital!” Nikki tried to lift and carry you out the door but you grabbed the door frame and roared, accidentally baring your fangs to them all.  Your eyes so red they glowed like a stop   light at midnight.  Nikki put you down and stared in shocked amazement, after a moment he said “What are you?” 

“I’m a vampire, guys” you sheepishly scolded yourself for such an unsightly display “I get like this when I can’t feed for a few nights...” 

Without hesitation Nikki offered up his wrist for you to bite “Drink from me, Baby...if it’ll help you get better...”  his blood was calling to you, but you refused.  He laid you on the bed next to him and bought it up to your lips. 

“I don’t wanna hurt you, Nikki” you told him. 

“And we don’t want to see you starving yourself like this.  Shut up and drink my fuckin’ blood, woman” you kissed his wrist before biting down into it.  The small popping sound of your fangs puncturing his flesh was followed by a rush of pleasure.  He only gasped a little bit and winced, letting out a small moan of carnal desire.  All you needed was a few swallows, a transformation back into your old self, plus a little more color to your cheeks. 

Mick was in awe most of all, saying “Holy shit, you really are a vampire” he reached up to touch your face to make sure he was really seeing this.  Nikki tried to walk but stumbled, you caught him and put him on the bed. 

“Sleep now, Nikki” you cooed in his ear “the first time feeding from a person leaves them tired” he obeyed and slipped into a deep sleep.  Soon, you explained everything about being a vampire “I was forced into a marriage I didn’t want, and on my wedding night, I jumped from the tower.  A vampire saw me and turned me without even asking if I wanted to be one.  The bastard then left me to find out what it meant to be a vampire” you recalled what you could remember from your human life. 

Soon they all agreed that they’d take turns letting you feed from them.  You were pleasantly surprised to find that not only were they willing, but they liked it even.  Things had been going like this for a few years, but then Nikki came to you asking to do something you thought you’d never have to do.  “Y/N...I want you to turn me into a vampire...like you...”The band was rising in popularity in the clubs and even a record company offered them a deal. 

“Please, Nikki” you looked down shyly “Wait a few years...you’d have to leave the band because people would see that while the others aged, you’d stay the same.  If you can live with leaving the band, faking your death and going through the excruciating transformation into a vampire then you can ask me again...” he accepted these terms, and three years later he asked again. 

"Are you absolutely sure you want this?” you asked him, reiterating all of your previous points in the last discussion. 

“Yes, Y/N” he answered “Baby, I don’t care. I love you so much and I want to be with you…forever. Please, just let me be able to do that.” he pleaded, taking your hand in his. 

“Alright...the transformation is very painful.  I have to drink from your neck until almost the point of death, then have you drink from my neck.  It feels like pure lava coursing through your veins, the heart quickens to pump the vampire blood faster” you could smell he was afraid, but he knew it was worth it if it meant he would spend eternity with you. 

He walked closer to you, his lips crashing into yours and his tongue invading your mouth.  He broke the kiss breathlessly.  “Do it, Babe...” you started kissing down his neck, the artery pounding beneath the skin.  You sink your fangs into him, he let out an audible gasp and he soon slackened.  You laid him down on the ground and listened to his heart, being careful not to take too much.  When you knew the time was right, you stopped and sliced your neck and bought him up to your body.  You first felt his tongue then he pulled you in closer to him to get as much blood from you as possible. 

You trembled, gently pushing him away “That’s enough darling...” he was thrashing about, screaming and cursing to high heaven.  You cradled him in your lap, reassuring him that it only hurts for a few minutes.  He stopped moving and for a moment you were worried that you had killed him.  He opened his new, blood red eyes and sat up to look around. 

“Everything seems so vivid” he remarked, taking in familiar surroundings with his new senses.  “I can see, hear and smell things I couldn’t before...” he dragged his fingers across the wound on your neck “even touch is more sensitive for me...” 

“I will teach you the ways of being a vampire, Nikki” you said to him “first lesson starts now-we must feed to heal our wounds...” you showed him how to use his sex appeal to get prey, but to never take the life of an innocent.  “Kill the evildoer whenever you come across one, Nikki” you told him “make them suffer, but take no pleasure in your duty” he nodded in agreement. 

“As long and I can have you by my side while doing it, anything is possible” he kissed you again, before his first of many lessons began.