#love ruby rose or perish

[luxcruor]

i’m still here. .*

[heliosthegriffin]

Shadow Knight, and Magic Girls VIII

"So, any reason why you woke us all up," Weiss asked tiredly, having been dragged out of her home at 7am by one overly energetic Ruby.

"Yes!" Ruby shouted.

"Which is?" Blake added.

"Because," She smiled deviously. "I had to wake up yesterday and was tired all day! So, I thought if we were all tired, it wouldn't be as bad!

Yang looked at Ruby, then her hands, then grabbed her rosy cheeks and pinched and squeezed them. "You should have stayed in bed!"

"Eep!" Ruby cried, cowering behind Weiss, who was fighting the urge to put her in a popsicle. "I'm sorry! I"m not used to missing sleep, I can't think straight!"

Blake nodded, thinking of how she was going to take advantage of this. "Make's sense, she's bound to use more energy than the rest of us, so need's more sleep."

"See! Blake gets it!"

"Not that it excuses her." Blake gave her a menacing glare, then her bow twitched.

"One! Two! One! Two!"

From down the street, a shadow was approaching, as racing Pyrrha Nikos from down the street were four brawny young men, puling a sleigh in which an enormous old man, with a equally enormous gut, and magnificent mustache, cracked a whip at the boys every couple seconds.

"On Cardin, on Russel, On Sky, and Dove! Mush, boys! Mush, boys! Hiyeah!" The man cried into a megaphone, sitting off car alarms, making dogs have panic attacks, and breaking fragile glass.

The girls watched stunned as the ... event got closer and closer to them.

Pyrrha eventually stopped next to them with a glass-like smile, and a look that said, 'don't ask, me. I don't know either.'

The old man stopped his sleigh, Cardin and his boys collapsing in a steaming heap. "Hohoho, young lady, you sure gave my boys a good challenge!" He pumped his shotgun, took air, and shot a stream of fire 20ft into the air, and five fully cooked pigeons fell down in front of Cardin and boys. "Eat up, boys!" Then turned to Pyrrha. "Same time tomorrow, Young Lady?"

Pyrrha looked to the girls, who shrank away from her, then looked back with resignation. "... Sure."

"Magnificent!" His mustache rose in joy, revealing a dazzling smile. "Enough, break! Time to run!"

"Wait, teacher!" Cardin stood up, his eyes unusual bright. "There is something I must do!"

"Hmm," He spun his ax. "Make it quick, this is a rich neighborhood, the police won't have missed me arabesque-cooking those birds."

Cardin approached Ruby, who shrunk behind Yang, who looked ready to rumble.

He bowed, sincerely. "You have our sincerest apologies for our rudeness, we have learned the errors of our way, as we have taken the first steps onto the mountain of manliness, after seeing the pinnacle."

They're teacher harrumphed in approval.

Ruby turned to Pyrrha, questing her.

Pyrrha looked at her blankly.

Ruby turned back to an expectant Cardin. "...Apology accepted, please leave."

Then he turned to Weiss. "Ms. Schnee," He wiped back his tears. "The love of young lady is a beautiful thing," Weiss stepped back in horror. "Like a Edelweiss unfurling into dawn's light, it must be protected or it will surely perish." He put a hand on her shoulder, who shuddered in horror. "But, you must let him go."

"What?" Weiss looked at Cardin like he was on meth, no she was sure he was on something illegal.

Which is true, Peter Port is wanted for dueling in 11 cities, but irrelevant.

"Give up on him, he is beyond your reach. You will merely hurt yourself pursuing him." Cardin said looking off into the sunrise, eye's twinkling with unshed tears.

"I truly have no idea what your talking about?" Weiss said, trying to pull Cardin's gorrilla grip off of her.

He sighed. "Your feelings for Jaune Arc." He continued looking off into the distance. "He has found love. 4 of them, in fact. They're all happy together, you would only intrude on they're happiness. Now, I know you're a Schnee, and want to take all virgin land for yourself,"

"Excuse me?!" Weiss screeched, red-faced.

"Preach, brother!" Blake bellowed.

"Weiss, please. Don't make this hard for Jaune, then it has to be." Cardin put both hands on her shoulders, looking down. "It's for the best for both of you... well, five ... six?" He was trying to figure out the dynamics of that relationship.

"I do not have a crush on Jaune Arc!" Weiss hollered.

Ruby turned to stone-faced Pyrrha, a crying Yang, and usually interested Blake. "How do you think Ren and Nora are going to take this?"

"How he could break they're hearts like that! He already had, Weiss, Ren, and Nora wrapped around his fingers!"

"And, Lily." Blake added.

"And, Lily! How will she live!?" Yang yelled, setting off car alarms in the distance.

---

Ren rose groggily, looking through his window at his parents car as it cried out, watching as his father went outside cursing, then turned off it's alarm.

He grabbed his earphones, cranked up the music, then went back to sleep.

---

"She how will they live?" Pyrrha asked, eyes dark with thought.

Blake was writing in a notepad. "Just put them all in a locked room, that will solve it."

"I'll go in and ... monitor it." Pyrrha added. 'I will win it.'

"Cardin," An old wise voice emerged from the sleigh. "Leave her be."

"But, Teacher!"

"Cardin, look her mind is set." He said wisely.

He looked at Weiss, who looked ready to attack, almost foaming at the mouth and growling, he took a step back.

Cardin wiped his eyes, then gave Weiss a thumbs up. "You go get him, girl!"

The Teacher then fired a shot into the air. "You have our support!" The other three boys cries out they're support to. "Now onward, young Cardin! I hear sirens, ohoho, it will be quite the race!"

"Yes, Teacher!"

The 5 girls watched as the they took off down the street, sparks coming off the sleigh, and a police car coming down the street.

It stopped in front of them. "Young ladies, we've heard reports of a noise complaint from several anonymous residents, do you have any information on the matter."

As one, other than Blake who isn't a stitch, pointed down the street at the quickly disappearing sleigh.

The cop gave a weak-smile and a thumb's up, then slowly reversed the back the way he came.

Yang patted Pyrrha on the back. "Well, at least you have something to look forward tomorrow for."

Pyrrha frowned. "Yeah, something."

The a jet-black car pulled up in front of them, the back-door opening, revealing-

----

Jaune pulled at his uniform.

He hadn't even known the school had them, it was nice, but he didn't like the way it squeeze his collar, or how it itch it felt.

Oh wait, those were his stitches, he could live with that. Well, he had to live with that.

Then the car pulled to a stop, and a box was pushed into his hands, by Melanie, it felt heavy. "They're your lunch, Uncle Xiong was very clear that you eat healthy from now on, it's mix of whole proteins, carbohydrates, healthy fats, and water."

Jaune stared down at the lunch box, if felt like he could bludgeon a man with it. His stomach growled.

Melanie slid him two more boxes. "There, that should get you through the day."

A scroll was then handed over by Miltiades. "Here you go, champ. It's your brand new scroll." Jaune looked over the black lighter sized object, it had twin red-axes on the back. He opened it, and holographic screen emerged.

'Lynching completion, 12% - 18% - 25% - 53% - 68% - 79% - 89% - 98% - Complete.

Syncing with known bio-signatures.

Welcome, Jaune Arc-Xiong."

"How'd you guys get my name changed so fast?"

Militia smiled. "Money."

"Oh."

"Legally, you've been adopted by Uncle Xiong as his nephew, well, as a god-child, but same difference. Anyway, welcome to the family, Cousin."

Jaune sighed. "What am I going to tell mom and dad?"

Melanie popped the locks. "Don't know, but you got the whole afternoon, before we come to pick you back this evening. So, think a bit, boy. Whatever your story, we'll back it up."

"How are you going to find-," Jaune looked at his new scroll. "Oh, never mind."

"Also," Her sister chimed in. "Make sure, that your on your best behaviors, you're on camera, so smile a bit!" She mimed doing a smile. "Also, we took a look at your grades and..." She looked away awkwardly. "Yeah. Good luck."

Jaune held his face in his hands. "Don't think I don't need it."

"Anyway, see you this afternoon."

"I'll remember, see you then." Jaune said getting out, closing the door behind him.

"You think he's going to have a good day?" Miltiades asked.

Her sister shrugged. "Who knows, long as he doesn't make the Family look bad."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that. I think he's fine."

The car drove off slowly, Melanie watching as he was mobbed by several different girls, making her chuckle, if feeling slightly pissed off for some reason. "I guess not."

"So, what do we now?"

"Sleep."

"Yeah, that sounds good."

The two drove towards they're home in Old Vale, one of the most esteemed neighborhoods in the city. It was also thirty minutes away, and Melanie noticed her sister staring to drift off.

That could wait, she had a question for her.

"Miltiades?"

"Yes?"

"Did you notice anything about the way, Uncle Xiong phrased our deal with Blondie?"

Her sister squinted at her tired. "No? Should I?"

"Yes? No? Maybe. It's just the way he put it, it's almost like he's setting up a play of sorts. Blondie can't take control until we say so, not Uncle Xiong, not the Elders, no one."

"And?"

"Don't you think that's a bit odd? If anything happens to Uncle, that means, power would default to us, wouldn't it? As, Blondie can't take control until we say so, and as his benefactors, we would have to hold control until we say he's ready, so ..."

"Yes?" Her sister didn't seem to get it.

"Never-mind, I'm over thinking this."

They continued to drive, her sister snoring softly, eventually getting home.

Melanie pause, they're were shadows moving inside.

She reached for her pistol, and moved to the door, opening it slowly, it was already unlocked.

Curious.

Opening the door, she saw ...

"What the hell, are you two doing here?" Melanie asked angrily at Vernal and Amber.

"Uh, in case you didn't remember, your boys destroyed our house." Vernal pointed a cup of coffee at them. "So, Big Bears putting us up here until further notice. So, welcome home, roomies!"

Amber smile apologetically.

"Sis, why you blocking the door?" Miltiades asked, then looked around the room. "Why didn't you tell me we had guests? I love sleep overs!"

---

Jaune felt his gut buckle, as what felt like a cannonball slammed into him. "Urgh." He grunted, somehow keeping his lunch safe.

"Jaune!" Ruby cried happily. "It's been forever!" She had her arms circle around this front, too short to reach all the way around. Then, she looked up at him angrily. "You skipped school, yesterday! Just when I need you most! How dare you, you .. you ... you ... Meanie!"

Looking down at his diminutive self-proclaimed best friend, Jaune had to resist laughing at her pout. "Wow, you don't have to be so harsh, Ruby."

Ruby unlatched, still pouting. "I'm sorry, that was out of line, but you still are a dirty skipper, you!" Then she looked at him.

"I have a doctor's note." Jaune dug out the crumpled piece of paper, handing it to Ruby, who took it greedily.

"I'll be the judge of that!" She scanned over the notes. "From the Office Dr. Autumn, excused from school yadda-yadda-yadda ... for gross bodily harm!" Ruby cried out, getting her friends and sisters attention.

Ruby looked at Jaune like he had paper-skin and glass bones. "What are you doing at school! We need to get you to a hospital!"

'If I had dollar for every time someone told me that, I wouldn't be in debt.' Jaune considered.

He resisted the urge to pat her friends head, as she stared at him with concerned eyes. "I'm fine, Ruby."

She looked him over. "Alright the, but I'll be watching you, Mister! No harm shall come to my bestie on my watch!" She pointed from her eye to his.

Chuckling, Jaune felt his heart warm. Her concern actually made him feel happy.

Then stormed over a ice-storm localized entirely in a 5'2 girl, Winter Storm Weiss.

"For the last time," She looked him in the face. "I do not have any feelings for you!" Weiss paused noticing his scratched up face, then removed her finger from his abdomen. "My apologies."

"It's fine. Not like I feel anything about you, so no harm." Jaune nodded. "Apology accepted."

Weiss paused. "None?" She gestured to her face, hair, and body. "No feelings at all? No poems about how my beauty is your muse? My voice a song? A need to carve my naked form out of marble?"

Jaune backed away slowly, as she was starting to unnerve him. "None. I'm not much of an artist, anyway." He moved Ruby in front of him as a shield.

"Well, good then." Weiss said. "Though, even if you were to write me a 100 volumes on my beauty, I would consider it. Out of pity, of course, but even thought I have no feelings for you, I can't get that across enough, I am not heartless, so know this, there is a lottery's chance that you could obtain me!"

Jaune moved forward, keeping Ruby facing Weiss like a cross against a vampire. "Noted, and I'm not going to do that, so rest easy. I don't want to date you, or anything, I'm busy, so no need to worry." Jaune was starting to feel unnerved by the white-haired girl.

Weiss pushed forward following them anyway, only being kept away by Ruby happy smile, which is well known to burn Weiss if she stepped too close. "Yes, good to know. I'm just letting you know, you have a chance, as I am a kind women. But, what do you mean, too busy?" Her face angry. "Are you saying you can't make time for a Schnee? I'll have you know I get thousands of marriage proposals every day! You would refuse such an honor?"

'Gross,' Jaune thought about the marriage proposals, what kind of father would even let that happen?

---

Jacque Schnee looked at the current bidding for his daughters hand in marriage, then compared them to they're financial portfolio, crossed with the social standing to be gained, and then whether he could have the media spin his daughter getting married at such a young age.

The bastard decided, no, not at the moment, with how much the public was currently against him.

He pulled up his daughters file, and what her damn birthday was again, and circled it in his calendar.

Jacques then filed away several names that might be worth giving his daughters hand too.

"Sir, we have a date proposal for young master, Whitley. She all the way in Mistral, but she comes from a good family."

"Hmm, allowed, take him out of school, have him practice the rest of the day, while we arrange it, and make it cute, no sex, though. I don't want any grand-children yet." He paused. "Also, have them come to meet us here, if they're worth our time, they'll do it."

He chuckled. "Schnee's move for no one."

---

"Yes." Jaune rapidly thought up a plan to make her understand. "You're ... too good for me. I couldn't hope to stand next to you, so, I'd have to be a idiot to think I could."

Weiss nodded. "Good, long as you understand. My father would never allow it anyway."

Jaune sighed with relief.

"We'd have to runaway together, and that would never work out." Jaune felt his neck-hairs stand up, where was she going with this? "My father would find us in a day, and try to separate us." No, seriously, why was she still here? "We'd have to be on the run for the rest of our lives, just the two of us." Jaune backed away, leaving Ruby next to her. She was crazy.

Jaune tried to move silently away, only to find when he turned that Ruby and Weiss were still in front of him, no matter what direction he turned. What the? This was just fucking magic, now!

Ruby whined.

"Oh well, I guess Ruby would have to come too, but then we'd have to take Yang, and Blake, and Pyrrha... Now, it doesn't sound that bad, does it? Yes. I can see it now." She smiled at him, then blushed. "Not that I'd ever consider that with you. It's entirely theoretical. Yes, just a theory."

Jaune looked pleadingly at the other three girls, who all seemed to be wondering how far this would go, ignoring his plight.

"Good. I understand, I'd-"

"Ask me out?"

"No. I thought we made that clear?"

Ruby looked confused. "So, are we running away, or not?"

"That was just a theory." Or, delusion from a mad-woman.

"I thought you not being in love with me, was the theory?" Weiss said.

"No, us running away, was."

Like I should be doing right, now. Jaune thought to himself.

Several students were now watching them, and Jaune tried his best to hold back his embarrassment. "Hey, how about we go inside?"

"Why?" Weiss asked. "So, you can pin me against a wall, and force me to let you take me out on a romantic date for two?"

Jaune looked at Ruby, who merely mouthed the words 'Tsundere 110%'

Understanding, Jaune formulated a plan. "Weiss, uh, you have pretty eyes."

The girl blushed. "You won't score any points with me, like that!"

Jaune looked at Ruby for answers, then whispered him the answer.

"Weiss, as Ruby's best friend, and therefore, yours, I want to say, I'm am glad to have such a upper-class friend to show me right from wrong." He parroted to her.

Weiss preened. "We'll, good. As long as you know your place."

Jaune turned slowly, inching towards the school, eager to nap till first period, and maybe through it.

A girl with bow blocked his path. "So, a five-way? She asked, while reading a book. "Isn't that a orgy?"

Jaune stopped, dumb-struck. 'The hell? Is she high?'

"I don't comprehend." Jaune said, throat feeling dry and closed off.

"I have sources," She mentions casually. "That say, you were out with some pretty women, last night."

She talks to people? Was Jaune's first thought.

Cardin. Was his second thought.

She talks with Cardin? Was his third thought.

'I guess you can't judge a book by the cover.'

"Yeah, what about them?" Jaune added.

"So, you're confirming it?" Yang asked, walking out from behind Blake.

"Please, continue." Pyrrha gave him a fake smile, and hyper-focused eyes.

'How did they do that? Blake's shorter than them?' Jaune thought, he then paused.

"I didn't have an orgy, I don't even know what the word means." He truly didn't, any time his sisters said the word, he'd ask his mom, and she'd get mad, then his sister would get mad back, and then dad would start to drink, and talk about how he loved him, and wished it was just the two of them, sometimes.

Man, last Sunday felt like years ago, sometimes.

"It means-" Yang began, only for Pyrrha to cover her mouth, looking slightly less terrifying.

"Ah, then what were you doing with them?"

'Eating breakfast, after they car-washed me, because I got dirty fighting a demon-bear.' Was not the answer he was going with.

"I ... Broke my leg." Jaune lied.

Pyrrha tried to kick him, but Jaune side-stepped her attempt. "Alright, I ... Was being treat to breakfast," He fought to think. "After, I helped them clean house."

Yang looked at him, confused. "Ok, but what were you doing cleaning house so late at night?"

"Don't judge me for being a capitalist."

"I wasn't, but ... Whatever. You get paid for cleaning they're gutters too?" She wiggled her eyebrows.

"No, uh, just taking out trash and stuff."

"Oh. That's boring."

"Not at the time, it was pretty exciting."

Blake crinkled her nose, catching the whiff of something on him. "Were you drinking, last night?"

'How'd? I only had one cup!' The size of a soup bowl, the fact he was walking was impressive.

"I was with my Uncle." Jaune added. "He was treating me after I got done cleaning."

Pyrrha brightened up. "Oh, that's good then. What's his name?"

"Uncle Xiong."

Weiss' ear twitched. "Xiong?" She asked. No way it was that 'Xiong'' was it?

Blake also stared at Jaune. "Well, ok then." That wasn't the only smell on him, in fact, he almost smelled like the Miasma on Grimm. But, for him to even barely smell like one, he'd have to fought a big one, which was just impossible.

He'd have to dropped a building on something that size.

Jaune sneezed. Which was weird, considering he didn't have allergies.

Pyrrha looked at his hands. "What's that?"

"Lunchbox."

"Hmm, odd. It looks different from the one you usually bring, did someone make it for you?"

"My cousins, you saw them drop me off."

"Ah, I did think that was odd, don't you walk to school."

"Not anymore, my Uncle, says I have to be on time."

Yang looked at him oddly. "But, you live with your parents, don't you? Why's your uncle so up in your business."

"He wants me to take over his business, but he won't let me unless I start being a model student."

"Oh, cool. What's he do? Must be neat to have your life set up after school."

"Um, property management, I think?" The best legal answer Jaune could think of.

"Boring!" Yang exclaimed. "Well, your with us now, so don't worry about things keeping interesting."

"Thanks."

Blake filed that away. "Hmm, so that's why your so cleaned up."

"Yep."

Pyrrha touched his shoulder, making Jaune internally wince, she was touching a cut. "I think it makes you look very nice."

"Thank you." Jaune managed to grit out.

"Excuse me," Came a voice from slightly far away. "Mr. Arc?"

Jaune looked down, at dark-skinned girl wearing a baret. "Yes?"

"I require your presence, Ms. Goodwitch has asked you to be summoned to her office."

[knightofsuperior]

In a World of Masks, What Matters More Than the Face One Wears Is the One They Hide, And Which Face Reflects their True Self

Fandom: RWBY, Kamen Rider (Shin Kamen Rider)

Summary:

Ruby Rose goes missing following the battle with Torchwick in "Painting the Town...". On the day of the Beacon Dance, she reappears, under new management. This becomes a problem for multiple people, and multiple worlds. Those left in the wake of what comes of that problem must transform what they know and who they are... or perish in the name of happiness. Or: RWBY x Shin Kamen Rider.

Read the fic here and check out an excerpt/my thoughts below!

Excerpt:

This wasn’t right. Yang knew this wasn’t right. It sounded like her, it acted… well, not quite like her, but like she was when she was a kid. A bit petulant, a bit intense, and always with a happy tone. Something wasn’t right, but it hit the right notes. “Ruby, please, just… can we talk?” Yang asked, weakly. “Something clearly happened to you. We can get you help.” “Yang, you’ve got it the wrong way around.” The streetlight flickered again, the spot where Ruby stood falling into darkness. When the light returned, she wasn’t there. Yang blinked. A pair of red, beady, multi-paneled eyes stared back up at her. A jagged, silver upper jawline framed the natural smile Yang knew and loved. The bloodied scythe at the girl’s side shook Yang to her core.

Author's Note: Shin Kamen Rider was probably one of my favorite films of last year, if not for Godzilla Minus One coming out a few months after (at least in my neck of the woods). I was already planning a few RWBY/KR crossovers, but the possibility of writing sincere horror--something I rarely get the chance to do--in a setting I enjoyed and the possibilities of following up on Shin KR's ending both tickled me enough to make me want to give this a shot. Aiming to have more of this out when I get the chance to rewatch the movie and some more RWBY again.

[aaluminiumas]

Sacrifice

If you like this work, you can read others here.

His bloody fingers twitched once, twice, and the unexpected bolt of electricity coursed through his brain: by some terrible mistake, he was still alive. By some terrible mistake, his cloudy mind was still registering the surroundings. By some terrible mistake, his body withstood the onslaught of violence it wasn’t supposed to endure.

Did he have some time to take a long drag on that pipe the city council had brought him as a gift—as a bribe? He most likely didn’t. Too bad, he loved this pipe. He didn’t even smoke that much; he flaunted, putting his respectable position on display—and the presents that came with it. The council went to great lengths to please the most brilliant—and utterly corrupted—magistrate and must’ve spent hours picking the perfect offering. Astarion wasn’t easy to deal with: he willingly flouted the law and warped the regulations the way he saw fit but only when driven by his diverse and ever-changing whims. He could nonchalantly bail out a criminal or a public official charged with abuse of power—when he wanted that. Consequently, Astarion got himself a questionable reputation: on the one hand, he was universally recognized as a smart magistrate. On the other, he should have been prosecuted likewise and indicted on charges of abuse of power, but in the fine city of Baldur’s Gate, such violations weren’t even deemed harrowing. Transgressions like this were common; this rotten place had seen things far more impressive and horrifying than a magistrate trying to whitewash and re-establish some rascal’s sullied name.

So, the city council must’ve racked his brains seeking a decent present. The pipe was made of the best one-hundred-year-old oak, inlaid with gold, and polished with the petals of night orchid and corpse rose, or so he intoned, groveling before the magistrate’s desk. Astarion very much doubted that last bit, but he appreciated the effort—and eventually accepted the sop after giving the council a profound lecture on law and order. The suspect was acquitted, the case open and shut, and the nature of the crime brought up privately in his office was carefully buried in the depth of his beautiful mind. Not everyone was pleased, of course. But they were always asking the impossible. They sure didn’t expect him to serve the good citizens of Baldur’s Gate for free, did they? He studied hard and well, employed all his congenital charisma and wit, so he had a legal right to taste a little luxury here and there. That was only fair!..

Ah. Astarion glanced at his hands. He couldn’t see much: his fingers were crusted with clotted blood, painting his marble skin in all shades of burgundy that always gave him an unnatural grayish complexion, turning him into an incorporeal wraith roaming across the mazelike passages of the court. He sported a ruby red dress once, saw himself in a mirror, and discarded it, thinking it a very poor choice for his refined features. Ironically, this was exactly the color that stained his shirt.

Astarion tried to peel back the fabric, but the raw edges of the wound immediately responded, sending another spurt of blood his way. He was bleeding profusely and would probably die by morning.

Or in another hour. Or in any minute. Stupid Gur. He should’ve accused their wretched gang of something vile and ignominious, so they would have had to pack their things and abscond while they still could. Because he would make sure they were reduced to a non-existent nonentity. Good-for-nothing misfits. If they wanted to teach him a lesson, they overdid it. If they wanted to kill him, they failed abysmally. Sorrowful, deplorable cowards. Maybe he still had enough strength in his perishing limbs to write a note? He’d press charges against the Gur, someone would initiate an investigation, and it’d be over in a week.

He’ll be over, too. He didn’t expect his life to end like this, with his intestines painfully throbbing with his every shallow breath. Leaning against one wall, Astarion was left to observe the remnants of his once refined home, furnished with exquisite taste, and realize that his life was trickling like sand. He couldn’t move; his every limb seemed to have been broken, and pain, searing, impossible pain seized him, twisting every cell sideways and wringing his inner organs. It never let go; once this ache abated in one spot, it instantly resumed in another, growing in size and intensity, spreading an incandescent glow of anguish across his frame. Even breathing hurt: Astarion sensed a slight pulsation of blood underneath his hands every time he inhaled, but he couldn’t pinpoint what was injured—either because he was already losing control over his consciousness and succumbing to his mortal fantasies or because the lesions were so numerous it was pointless to locate the fountainhead of his suffering.

Still, he was fairly certain that his broken ribs must’ve punctured his lungs, and the connected bones responded with an equal dull ache, causing him to overcome unbearable anguish worthy of a religious martyr. It pattered in his whole body, rolled across his shoulders, hammered him in the chest and in the back, slithered down to his legs, and darted to his neck, lodging in his throat, falling into the pit of his stomach and climbing up across every broken rib, clawing onto every fracture and wedging into every cleft, nesting in the fragments of bone. His porcelain skin he was so proud of, was now decorated in ruby rivulets of blood, some of them growing bigger and morphing into languid streams. The newly acquired bruises painted him purple: swollen welts reminded him of a universe he once spotted in a lengthy treaty with beautifully made engravings.

All of a sudden, the steady ticking of the clock, the only sound that reigned in the quiet house, was punctuated by a feeble squeaking of the door, the barely audible sound echoing through the slumbering, lugubrious mansion. Who might that be? Did the Gur come back to finish him? Hardly possible. They wouldn’t put their own lives at stake. They were stupid, not foolhardy: they couldn’t afford to be reckless two times a day—that might result in unnecessary complications for their craft and trade. Did an assistant stop by?.. No: that idiot would’ve hurtled into the office, his flailing arms cutting and slashing the air. The silent visitor attenuated the noise as if wanting to inspect the surroundings and confirm a hunch. What hunch that might be, Astarion could only guess.

A light tread reverberated in the vast corridor—a set of soft, tentative steps threading toward his office. Obviously, a thief. The city was abrim with outcasts of all sorts, and the most vigilant burglars may have spotted signs of a melee. Usually, all melees in Baldur’s Gate ended in a most predictable way: people carried knives at all times.

The light steps halted at the door as if the cautious intruder was mesmerized by the trail of blood that led to the room. This blood spoor must’ve left ugly stains on his rugs and statues. The mere thought caused a painful, infuriating spasm. He’d better be dying soon, otherwise he’d have an additional heart attack and he’s way too young for that.

The door hissed open, revealing a tall, scrawny, wiry figure of a man holding a quarterstaff. Astarion needed a solid moment to recognize the stranger. Certainly, one of the most opulent dwellers, belonging to the entitled circles, Cazador Szarr, barely participated in social activities: he might’ve stopped by Lady Jannath’s exhibition, and that was it. People knew a few things, most of them shoddy scuttlebutt not worthy of anyone’s attention, and Cazador didn’t seem particularly interested in debunking the myths about his mystifying persona.

“Oh, if it isn’t Cazador Szarr himself,” Astarion greeted in his somewhat trenchant manner, his voice laden with sardonic waspishness, “If you’re here for legal advice, I’m afraid, I am in no condition to provide.”

“I am not here for that,” the man replied, his strange eyes—were they predatory red?—glaring directly at him, his reedy voice laced with an emotion Astarion failed to grasp. “I have been watching you, Astarion. The world will be an empty place without you in it.”

“Sure. It will lose a talented magistrate,” he parried in the same sarcastic tone, wincing in pain, “Why are you here, wasting your precious time and my final moments on earth?”

“This is precisely the reason for my visit. I can prolong these final moments of yours, Astarion. I can stretch them into many eternities to come, but you will have to pay… a price.”

“What price?” Astarion’s voice lost its jeering quality, his ears instantly perked up. A diffident noble always remained a diffident noble, but his experience prodded him to hear out the conditions—after all, this young magistrate never had trouble changing sides, once the situation grew dire. “But, for the love of gods, don’t linger. I don’t have even one eternity at my disposal.”

“A reasonable one.”

Cazador, who always had a chip on his shoulder, rarely deigned to speak to those he didn’t consider equals—or so the word went. He preferred the most annoying ruse of all, the one he’d just used: he perplexed people, made them enquire, and then relished in the quandary he’d initiated. Stalling further, the man brushed off an imaginable mote of dust from the velvet armchair and sat down opposite Astarion, crossing his legs and leaning back. “Sacrifice the sun and become the creature of the night.”

Every pause was measured. Every word that left his mouth was pondered, and every sound was unmistakable even for a man standing at death’s door, and yet Astarion was convinced he’d misheard. The creature of the night? Did he imply the nascent cult of Bhaal? How many Bhaalists were there, thrashing about in the boughs in the park, clambering to the top, ambushing their victim? But no, it seemed far-fetched: Bhaalist might be obsessed with darkness where they could hide and strike, but it would be a little of an overreach to call them creatures of the night. Shadow-Cursed Lands? The shadows that inhabited the place? This curse didn’t sound probable, the old story about some mortified, disparaged general didn’t pertain to Baldur’s Gate. Was there any other god or goddess involved? Hardly. Sharrans wore insignia, and Cazador had none. Myrkul’s doings? At this point, death would only become the beginning—

And then he understood. Sacrifice the sun, he said.

Once the idea settled down in his dying brain, Astarion mustered a barking laughter that was mostly a coughing sound in the throat.

“Vampires? Really? What other predators do you insist on making? Hags? Gnolls? Gods, this is ridiculous. Get out of my house, let me meet my maker peacefully, wallowing in luxury I earned by dealing with excruciating drudgery every single day of my tenure.”

If Cazador felt a flare of anger, he didn’t show it, but his eyes did gleam with threat, exposing a glimpse of ill-hidden contempt.

“Luxury?” the vampire’s voice sounded deadpan and neutral. “Mere knickknacks of a petulant child trying to make a name for himself. I am offering you the power you’ve never known before. I am offering you a gift no one else can give. With it, you will be able to acquire anything you want, and for that, I am asking you to simply say yes. Say yes, and avenge those miserable wrecks who ruined your beautiful life. Say yes, and you will never have to worry about death derailing your plans.”

Astarion paused for a moment, his consciousness reeling. The temptation was irresistible, and, in all honesty, he didn’t want to die. It didn’t have anything to do with his future prospects or grand plans, vaunted abilities he wanted to exercise, piles of money he could make—he just wanted to relish life for a little longer, to try new things, to visit other cities, become a council, arrange his own saloon for the most notorious scandalmongers poking noses into every affair… and he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t do it, because a bunch of fortune teller-vampire-hunters-whoever-else-they-were decided that they could replace Tyr and sow justice. Fuck them. Fuck everything.

Cazador waited patiently, but his scary illuminating eyes betrayed a spark of dark anticipation. Other than that, it was impossible to say what thoughts crossed his mind: perhaps, only the fingertips that grew restive on the armrests exposed his emotion.

“Your time is running out, Astation,” he drawled leisurely, his thin lips curling in a grin. “By my reckoning, you will die in another hour. And you know it, too. I can smell it in the air. You are dying. And death will come very, very soon.”

The words hung in the stale air of the room, stinking with blood and sweat. Not a single sound penetrated the thick walls of his mansion, and the time seemed to have frozen, petrifying both lean figures in the room: one, dark-haired, erect and straight, sitting languorously in the armchair, and the other, sprawling across the floor, leaning against the bookshelf. The minutes were steadily ticking by, measuring Astarion’s final hours in the world of mortals, sometimes accompanied by a rare squeak of wood.

For the first time, Astarion realized how scared he actually was. He couldn’t die. He didn’t want to die. He had so many things to do, and a gang of hillbillies took it upon themselves to end his beautiful life like this.

“Yes,” he muttered, losing his bluster and feeling his lips going dry, “Yes, please. Yes, I agree. Make me… the creature of the night.”

Cazador must’ve anticipated such an answer: even before the trembling request fell off the bloodied lips, the vampire had leaped to his feet, revealing his impatience and feline grace. Trying to keep himself in check, the man inhaled the scent of death, savoring the heavy tang, feeling the flavor of blood dissolving at the tip of his tongue.

“Do not discompose yourself, child,” he hissed in a singsong voice, lowering himself so his face was on the same level with Astarion’s. “It’ll only be a moment.”

The vampire’s voracious appetite was obvious: he was losing control, and the smell of blood engulfing his slender figure, interweaving with the scent of polished wood and broken perfume vials, aggravated the situation, causing his acute senses to blare. Driven to insanity with the intoxicating odor and Astarion’s infuriating temerity earlier on, Cazador bit into the man’s neck with diabolic ferocity. Only the stream of fresh, warm blood gushing out of the wound dulled his irritation, and the sweet wail of anguish, though feeble and muffled, pictured a beautiful picture in his perverse, devious mind.

You belong to me, Cazador gloated, from now on you belong to me.  

[everafterfrisk]

Rwby isn't Pandering to the Audience's Desires

Whether it's youtube,reddit or Twitter,it's always the same thing

So let's go through each of them one by one

Bumbleby discourse

Claims I've seen thrown around are

"Blake and Yang only became Canon because of its toxic Fanbase" and queerbaiting

This conclusion has no real leg to stand on. While there have been toxic fans of the ship, not everyone who supports it acts this way.Also these people just completely ignores the clear slowburn love trope is prevalent with these two after the multiple hurdles the girls went through before coming back together.

•Like Nora compares her relationship with ren to Blake and Yang

•Adam claims "what does she even see in you" to yang

▪︎ Weiss's About time in Vol 9 Chapter 2

▪︎ In Vol 8 C10, Yang and Blake are shown with a soft blush before putting their heads together

If yall think that's queerbaiting

Then I guess the Earth is flat I suppose

The show only cares about Shipping

This is simply untrue

Especially when we go through so many different plot threads outside of that

Just to name a few

▪︎ Nora finding her self worth

▪︎ Qrow's Crippiling Depression

▪︎ Blake's self depreciation and discrimination

▪︎ Penny's themes of Choice and choosing it for herself

Jaune's the Show's Self insert

I've seen this being claimed alot within the reddit community.

What's my thoughts?

This has like zero merit

Just because one of the showrunners voices him doesn't automatically mean he's a self insert.

If anything Fanfiction make him as such as Battling Gods with ease or hell even being connected to them.

What would the show look like if the Series did what the fans want

White Rose becoming a thing in Vol 4 and onwards(No shade to people who ship it, just that the Narrative paints them more as friends compared to say bumbleby or Renora)

Ironwood would be excused for letting mantle's citizens live and perish in dangerous conditions

Adam would get redeemed in the way I've seen most people write it

[Blake talk no Jutsu Adam into giving up via because he had a hard live then redemption is viable which just doesn't sit right with me]

Ruby would kill Cinder or something and go on this whole "The world sucks and I was wrong to think there is any good" type mentality

Roman becoming a Good guy and Become Oz's Host as well [and yes I checked out the rewrite, the execution is lacking]

Pyrrha comes back from the Dead and everyone just acts like nothing happen

Ozpin wouldn't be held accountable by the Rwby gang and will suffer zero repercussions

Cinder would get killed off for being "a idiotic villain"

The Everafter Plot would not exist

Yang would rush through her recovery Arc and "act like her old self as she's now grumpy and an asshole"

Ilia,Maria and Oscar gets erased from the Narrative entirely

Jaune gets the most overpowered Semblance in the show and sidelines the main girls

Weiss would have made up with whitley immediately without build up cuz "Weiss should know that he suffered too"

[cypaira-the-skeleton]

The True Origin of the Biblically Accurate Angel of Mischief

( More under the Keep Reading)

When I first came up with the Angel Of Mischief design I didn't really have an origin for Raven's form and powers.

Just recently I came up with an origin background for the Angel itself.

Of course, in a different AU, Raven was born as a human angel with supernatural powers, and further in the future she unlocks her True form and Biblically Accurate form.

(Image shown below is from a previous post)

In reality, They used to be an actual living deity.

(I know, lack of colour, but this is from my work sketchbook so I can't colour a lot)

It served by the side of a powerful almighty god as it's messenger, and also a deliverer of grace, miracles, and hope to humans.

Their original appearance was less hostile and more tame and holy. Their eyes were a shade of crystal blue, their wings were white as summer clouds, and their Halo and pigment on their limbs a shade of pure gold. The name they previously owned was Gale (short for " Nightingale " )

Gale was praised and adored in the mortal realm. Respect was always shown to any grace given to the humans. An altar was also erected specifically for Them! They were loved, and all the Angel cared for was the well being and happiness of others.

Unbeknownst to Them, the almighty god that Gale served noticed how his loyal Deliverer was worshipped so highly; much more than him or the other gods. Blinded with jealousy, the almighty god made a pact with a demon to trick the Angel into committing a sin, so that They could learn Their place.

The god requested a curse disguised as a 'graceful gift' to be specifically handed to him, to which he personally handed it to his loyal Deliverer, which resulted in Gale gifting it to the humans.

The fake gift caused all kinds of miserable events. Hostility rose up, crops were withering, their livestock were struck with sickness, and young humans perished like flies. After some time and thinking, the people who once worshiped the Angel now cursed Their name, and the altars that once existed were destroyed, all trust lost.

Gale was distraught, not understanding how this happened, until they remembered 'the gift'. Once called up to Their almighty god, They desperately tried to explain that They must have been tricked, saying it was never Their intention while pleading for forgiveness. The almighty god actually felt a bit guilty of his actions towards his Loyal Deliverer, and was about to grant forgiveness. That is until the ruler of the demons showed up, claiming that after what Gale had done They now belonged to him.

The Angel implored Their god to not banish Them. After a short chat between the almighty god and the ruler of demons, it was decided that Gale will not belong to either realm. They instead will forget what They used to be, and be damned to linger in the Void. The Angel begged and begged, but none listened. Gale was struck down, and was now stuck in a place where it was nowhere and somewhere at the same time.

First came grief, then disbelief, and in the end, wrath. Every second it passed more of Their memory slipped away, and the more They raged, the more Their appearance turned hostile. Wings and pigments of limbs turned into ashen black, and Their eyes and Halo's hues turned to a bright burning red, matching Their new horns. Decades could have passed, and the now nameless Angel held onto their rage, and what miraculously was left of their kind soul; Their memory completely gone.

They were damned to linger the Void, but a small light suddenly shined in the distance. Curious, They approached it, feeling its presence calling for Them ever so strongly. Reaching out They could feel something different, something changing. Once the light engulfed Their body a warm feeling surrounded Them, until moments later cold suddenly struck...

And a little girl with red ruby eyes was born.

[thebadtimewolf]

ehehe

just so you all know, i love rose tyler every day. my love stops literally at the christmas invasion because then after cassandra the flanderization begins. if tenth doctor and tentoo has to perish so be it.

jack. girl find rex matheson already i dunno what you waiting on. *plays the star spangled banner jill scott edition* mekhi phifer come back and get ur fellow immortal man. he's starting to look like a wet cat again.

i love donna noble every full week, my love dont stop and now it wont. if tentoo has to die via aneurysm (because his mind refuse to let him speed up the tardis growth because once he does he'll do what the dr did and leave his kid and wife behind until the one time he does return, they too are left for dead buried in a rubble of his own negligence) for her to live, sorrows prayers. sorrows. prayers.

i love dr. martha jones every second of every minute of every hour of every day of every week of every month of every year. if tenth doctor has to be beaten so bad by 8 9 12 13 14 15 and master!doctor? let it be so.

i love amy but girl get a therapist. rory get a therapist.

i love river song aka melody williams as much as donna. like girl you got an adoptive granddaughter that looks like jodie foster cosplaying you, if thats not memorable and romantic idk why the dr be fumbling that bag so badly. u can do better.

i love clara oswald but girl c'mon. you got too comfy as the goddess kali - even though you were nowhere near being her in any form to begin with - one time and suddenly you're the ghost you predicted. if the time council has to be humbled again? court is adjourned babes.

the moment aka the interface. baby girl thats actually a planetary bomb turned literal god, im sorry you keep being mistaken for rose tyler by everybody else but the doctor. you deserve better, something 13 and i agrees on according to the novelisation of your appearence. you are better. without you, 9 wouldnt have fell for rose in the first place.

bill potts i love until the stars stay in the universe. if she has to make fun of the dr even as part space sentient oil known as the pilot, fly on space cowboy.

nardole. you do good. odd you wearing gallifreyan citizen wear from the great time war in twice upon a time and no one said anything about it but... you do good.

yasmin khan i love just as much as martha and donna combined. bbc studios might not but i do.

empress rose. i love you more than rose tyler and rose tyler knows it thats why she was a cameo. i hope you get a spin off with 8 9 12 13 master doctor 14 15 and the moment because you deserve it more. i love you. i hope you never stop roasting and almost killing ten everytime he keeps trying to compare the ordinary shop girl fashioned into a soldier turned into a married housewife slash companion to the incomparable and incompatible freedom fighter turned general then empress that is you. im so sorry they trying to downgrade you because you're better than the alternate self he gave away twice. it heavily implied empress rose is more jenny's mum than rose tentoo tyler is and i feel like that should be addressed.... by beating tens arse..... and jenny hugs.

i love rose temple noble so much and i just got her. if bbc studio has to crumble under the strike i really want them to experience so it shall be.

ruby sunday. you are the first companion to have actually have their actress grow up, watch, and know of doctor who with a doctor whose actor also watches doctor who. you are a rare gem inbetween the sands of obliviousness and the sea of hyperawareness. if 14 has to die via tripping and bumping his head on a brick, rip to that tight fit he got on. what a truly mournful loss

i hate the writers that write you for it is their faults of inconsistency that makes me want better for you than the so call fans of your existence. you were set up with a belief system of your own making and then is written to betray that for a eldrich being that contradicts its own existence that could never say i love you and mean those words unless your blades are six inch deep into their hearts for a bullet is too kind and also too slow.

thry all reside and co exist.

anyway. i hope yasmin finney is traveling with them because they never said she was just an anniversary companion and we get to see ruby sunday and rose temple noble date each other.

yes its to make up tens mistake in separating the poc companions: cult survivor cleopatra hunsicker, clone descendant and bi cindy wu, and mexican-american time sensitive transhuman gabby gonzalez aka the best team tardis is when none of them are attracted to the doctor and vice versa. at least gabby met the moment.

and yes its to share this monstrosity i made due to lack of sleep from being awake 27 hours and 30 minutes:

i passed out right after this. and now im sharing this monstrosity to yall.

[bananarrlele]

Dornröschen

tags: gore, dark romance, power dynamics, psychological horror, vampire, horror, obsession, gothic, supernatural, non-canon elements, erotic, blood play, seduction, smut (explicit sexual content), dub-con, female reader, dominant male, size difference, oral sex (fem! receiving), lots of terms of endearment, rough sex, biting, creampie, brief aftercare, literature mentions (goethe's poem 'heidenröslein'), title translates to "little, thorned rose" or even "sleeping beauty", in german. everything written in bold is otherworld language.

plot: "after a violent earthquake shakes the underworld, you rush to mr. silvair’s lab for help. but everything feels wrong — he’s no longer the cold, distant figure you know. transformed into a vampire, silvair pulls you into a surreal dream where your unrequited love finally finds its answer."

Knabe sprach: 'Ich breche dich, Röslein auf der Heiden.'

The boy said: I will break you, little rose on the heath.

The depths trembled like a heart in agony, and the ground opened like a hungry mouth, swallowing everything in its path with an intensity you had never deemed possible. It was as if a slumbering giant was writhing in its sleep, as the walls shook and the floor shattered, as if hell itself was opening beneath your very feet. Losing your balance, you could do little but emit a gasping murmur of exasperation, followed by a piercing cry of pain as your head collided with a rock, and your vision darkened as if an ebony veil was cast over your eyes.

When you were finally able to open your eyes again, you groaned painfully upon touching your head and feeling a warm, sticky liquid gushing from the deep cut, but a fleeting, perishable sense of relief filled your chest as you noticed that the sound of the rumble had subsided.

With your eyes wavering and blurred by agony, you hesitantly extended your hands before you, only to see them smeared with blood as red as cracked rubies. A silent scream escaped your lips. It was a nasty gash, the reddened flesh spasming, and the quick pulse of hot blood eagerly pouring out. The sight of the blood transported you to a dark, unknown place, where physical pain mingled with the anguish of the soul. But a persistent force within you, perhaps fear, perhaps intuition, kept you moving toward an uncertain destination.

Or perhaps, not so uncertain and unknown after all. The throbbing wound in your head was a map, and the pain a compass, guiding you through a tortuous but familiar path: the small room of the doctor. The space occupied by Mr. Silvair wasn't far, but the darkness caused by the stupor threatening to close your eyes was like a sea of ink, hungry and eager to suffocate and end you. Your body protested, stiffened in an aged armor of pride, keeping your legs nearly rigid, but you knew you needed help. And the Doctor had always been there, like a precious clock never moved from its place, a faithful shadow, the only constant in a world of perpetual changes. His words were law, and his judgment, always reliable.

Upon reaching the door, you pushed it with a trembling hand, entering with a firmness already frayed. Your body, already exhausted and weakened, finally succumbed. The merciless darkness took over once more, and you fainted, falling into a deep, involuntary sleep.

Consciousness returned slowly, like a mist dissipating in an eternal twilight. Your eyes opened, unsteady, as if being pulled from a deep, viscous sleep. Your eyelids twitched gently against the velvety gloom that enveloped the room. A canopy bed cradled you, soft as a cloud, with columns carved from an exotic and distinct wood. The heavy, opaque crimson velvet curtains filtered the faint, almost nonexistent light seeping through the cracks in the windows.

The air was dense, laden with a sweet, almost cloying perfume reminiscent of wilted roses and incense. A slight tremor ran through your body, and you stretched, feeling your sore muscles. As you sat up in the bed, your eyes adjusted to the dimness and began to distinguish the room's details.

The walls, covered in rich scarlet fabric, were adorned with a profusion of paintings. Portraits of men and women, all with impassive expressions and penetrating gazes, dominated the walls. They were figures of authority — kings, queens, generals — who seemed to observe you with curiosity. Among the portraits were also still lifes, with lush fruits and wilted flowers, and dark landscapes, with abandoned castles and twisted trees.

Beside the bed, a black marble fireplace held embers that lazily glowed, casting dancing shadows on the walls. Above the fireplace, a Venetian mirror reflected a distorted image of the room, doubling the sense of opulence and decadence.

A solid mahogany desk, filled with old books and yellowed parchments, occupied a corner of the room. A raven's feather rested on a silver inkwell, inviting you to record your thoughts.

As you stood, your bare feet touched a Persian rug, soft and thick, cushioning your steps. The high, vaulted ceiling was decorated with frescoes depicting mythological scenes, filled with dark gods and fantastic creatures.

With a tilt of your head, your eyes fell upon the silhouette of a man of imposing stature, unmoving on his own feet before the fireplace, with the flames dancing and illuminating the profile of his pale, almost translucent face. A shiver ran down your spine with the realization. Mr. Silvair was there, more sumptuous than ever. But not the Silvair you knew, dressed in his usual bloodstained, worn lab coats. No. This was a transformed Silvair, almost unrecognizable.

His long, silver, misty hair fell loosely over his shoulders like liquid mercury, framing his ivory face with a slight smile. His eyes, if they still existed in their sockets, covered by bandages stained in crimson, contrasted with his attire, so different from anything you had ever seen. The one who once presented himself in sober, functional garments now wore an extravagant and dark ensemble. A silver velvet coat, embroidered with delicate arabesques in a deep burgundy hue, draped over his broad shoulders. The piece, though luxurious, bore a certain carelessness, with undone buttons revealing layers of fine, lace-trimmed shirts. Tight leather pants, shimmering like silver, clung to his legs, contrasting with heavy, high-heeled boots, more suited for a battlefield than an opulent hall.

The gothic, antiquated, and aristocratic look was a shock, but there was something familiar about the figure. The same aura of mystery and power that once defined him was now amplified by his new attire. It was as if, by shedding his physician’s garb, Silvair had revealed a part of himself that had always been hidden — a dark, enigmatic facet that coexisted with his scientific nature.

A sigh escapes his lips as he unsettlingly notices your gaze and steps closer to the bed.

— Finally. You're awake.

You furrowed your brow as you noticed him communicating perfectly in your human tongue, not resorting to the one of the underworld. Your bewilderment deepened when you detected a hint of an accent in his voice, rough and archaic.

You blinked, disoriented by the sudden shift in his tone. The man who had once appeared as a cold, detached doctor now revealed an unexpected, almost tender side. The strangeness of it lingered, but it soon gave way to an intensifying curiosity that tugged at you.

— You know my language? — You murmured, your voice hoarse with the remnants of sleep.

— Naturally, — He answered, his tone dripping with a quiet superiority. — I speak all your tongues.

Your eyes widened in disbelief.

— All of them?

He gave a slight, almost theatrical tilt of his head, his movement elegant and assured.

— Yes, all of them. French, German, Spanish... Even the most obscure dialects.

A shiver crept down your spine. How could he know so much?

Before you could form another question, he continued, his voice a little lower, almost intimate now.

— Do you remember Goethe? A poet of some renown in your world. Heidenröslein, my dear…

You shook your head slightly, intrigued.

— "Röslein auf der Heiden..." A delicate little rose, growing in a wild place. A thing of beauty, surrounded by chaos. Just like you.

His voice had taken on a new quality, smooth and sensual, each word weighted with meaning. He took a slow step forward, deliberate in his movement, and with it, the distance between you shrank. It wasn’t just a physical approach — it was as if he were pulling you toward him in ways you couldn’t quite explain, closing in on you, emotionally as much as physically.

— But I don’t wish to pluck you just yet, like the boy in the poem. No. I want to tend to you. I’ve kept you safe, you see...

His words lingered in the air, hanging heavy with an almost unsettling promise. His gaze, once clinical and detached, now held something deeper — something possessive, something darkly protective. The room, once oppressive and filled with an eerie void, now felt thick with an intimacy that you couldn’t escape. The air around you seemed to hum with a dangerous allure.

You took a shallow breath, entranced. For a fleeting moment, the world outside his presence disappeared. All the uncertainty, the strangeness, the tension, everything faded into irrelevance. The man standing before you, no longer the cold, calculating doctor, had transformed into something else entirely. Not in appearance alone, but in the very essence of the atmosphere he commanded. A weight hung in the air, drawing you in, an undeniable pull that made everything else seem insignificant, distant.

Your skin prickled. His comment, his proximity, everything was so intense. You tried to compose yourself, but his voice was hypnotizing.

— How do you know so much?

— I have plenty of time to read, my lovely. And language, it is like a labyrinth. Once you find the thread of Ariadne, all the paths reveal themselves.

He extended a cold and elegant hand, gently caressing your face to trace the outline of the wound on your forehead, before stepping back slightly, his expression becoming more distant. It was if he were withdrawing into his thoughts for a moment.

— But let us return to the present, shall we? I am most pleased that you have awakened. You were in a profound, consuming slumber, one that could not be easily disturbed.

His attention shifted, and he gestured towards the opulent attire that lay upon the chaise longue beside the bed. His voice took on a more formal, commanding tone.

— Ah. As for your attire, I have taken the liberty of selecting something fitting for the occasion.

The garments were nothing short of extravagant. The gown, composed of rich crimson velvet, shimmered under the dim light. Its delicate embroidery of silver threads formed intricate patterns across the fabric, while the lace at the collar and cuffs added a touch of elegance. A corset of dark satin cinched tightly at the waist, lending an air of refinement. The voluminous skirt cascaded in soft folds, adorned with dark pearls that sparkled faintly. Beside the gown, a pair of knee-high boots crafted from supple black leather stood, their heels elegantly designed.

He moved closer once more, his voice taking on an even deeper resonance.

— The banquet will commence shortly, my dear. It would be most unfortunate for you to keep the others waiting.

His covered eyes possibly locked with yours, the weight of his words leaving little room for dissent. His presence, once again, enveloped you entirely, as if the evening, and the role you were to play within it, had already been carefully predetermined.

You nodded timidly, your eyes trailing over your worn clothes. The rough cotton scratched at your skin, a constant reminder of your simple life. Mr. Silvair had left silently, leaving you alone with a whirlwind of emotions.

With a sigh, you approached the ancient mirror, its golden frame chipped and faded with age. The reflection that stared back at you was pale and tired. You disentangled yourself from your old clothes, feeling a mixture of relief and sorrow. The silk gown, however, was a revelation. The vibrant red seemed almost incandescent, contrasting sharply with your skin. The soft texture slid over you, caressing you like a warm breeze. The golden embroidery glittered in the candlelight, casting an almost hypnotic glow. As you donned the dress, you felt yourself transform, as though you were a butterfly emerging from its cocoon.

You paused for a moment, studying your reflection in the mirror, seeing a stranger before you, yet somehow, it was you. The gown seemed to mold perfectly to your form, highlighting your features in a way you had never experienced. There was a sense of power in the transformation, but also a haunting vulnerability, as though you were about to step into a world from which there was no return.

A deep breath escaped your lips, as you attempted to calm the storm of nerves within you. The gown seemed to murmur as you moved, its fabric flowing over your skin like the whisper of something unfamiliar, something unsettling. You stole one last glance at your reflection, noting the stranger staring back at you, before turning toward the door. Your footsteps were swallowed by the thick carpet as you made your way forward. The banquet called, and with it, the grand spectacle Mr. Silvair had promised, waiting to unfold before you.

The banquet hall was shrouded in a pulsating gloom, its walls draped with ancient, tattered tapestries depicting scenes of vice and decadence. The clinking of golden goblets against plates and the muffled murmurs of distorted conversations echoed through the vast space. As you stepped further inside, the mingling scents of roasted human flesh and fresh blood intertwined with the heavy aroma of incense, creating a sensation both repulsive and fascinating.

The table stretched endlessly, covered by dark cloths stained with blood and other viscous fluids that glimmered in the candlelight along its length. The golden cutlery, polished yet tarnished, gleamed ominously in the flickering light, as if eager to delve into the human flesh displayed upon the table. The meat was raw and grotesque, human flesh skinned and scattered across the surface, some pieces nearly unrecognizable, as if the victims had been torn apart in a frenzied, animalistic rage.

The air was thick with the oppressive weight of ritualistic depravity, and each step you took, hidden, resonated with the echo of past horrors embedded in the very stones of the hall. Shadows danced mockingly on the walls, and the grotesque feast laid out before you seemed to pulsate with a life of its own, a grim testament to the dark desires of those who gathered there.

Monsters draped in black, flowing veils sat around the table, their bony, misshapen hands grasping pieces of flesh with their utensils, sharp teeth gleaming as they chewed with sadistic pleasure. The men and women at the table were pallid figures, their skin ghostly white or tinged with shades of blue and purple, their eyes hollow yet ravenous, surveying everything around them. Some had eyes as red as blood, as if they had already feasted but still hungered for more.

At the far end of the table, a grotesque spectacle: a severed head, its eyes alert and full of devilish mischief, rested as a macabre trophy, draped in strands of auburn hair. Its expression was frozen in a roguish grin, yet those around it, including Mr. Silvair, seemed utterly unfazed. The lifeless body of Mr. Chopped, its parts scattered along the table, appeared as nothing more than a grisly decoration, an addition to the feast that all knew was not merely of flesh and blood, but of twisted power and perverse pleasure.

The scene was one of decadent horror, a nightmarish tableau where the boundaries between life and death, pleasure and pain, were blurred into a single, horrifying reality. The monsters reveled in their feast, their laughter a chilling symphony that resonated through the hall, mingling with the crackling of the fire and the murmur of ancient, unspeakable rites. The banquet was not just a meal, but a ritual, an affirmation of their dominion over the grotesque and the macabre, a celebration of their insatiable appetites and unholy desires.

They dined with their golden utensils, the forks and knives glinting as they sliced through pieces of human flesh with precise, almost surgical accuracy, as if they were handling something as ordinary as a regular meal. The decaying flesh was brought to their lips with a monstrous slowness, their sharp teeth biting and tearing as if they were predators in their purest essence. Blood flowed freely, staining the edges of the plates and the tablecloths with a deep, crimson hue.

As they ate, strange toasts were made, crystal goblets raised and filled with thick, dark human blood. The hoarse, rough tone of one of the monsters cutted through the room.

— To those who dare to cross the boundaries between life and death! A toast to the darkness! — He said, his voice deep and almost reverberating.

The others echoed his toast, their voices blending into a chilling chorus. Mr. Silvair, at the head of the table, nodded with a small, enigmatic smile. His presence commanded attention, and even in this macabre setting, he exuded a sense of control and authority.

Suddenly, the gaze of the guests shifted, drawn to the far end of the table where the decapitated head sat atop a silver platter, lightly dusted with blood. It was unmistakably Mr. Chopped Head, as previously stated, his body gone, yet his head remained, almost absurdly bubbly and elated in its stillness. Beside it, a hand was carelessly splayed across the table, grotesquely stitched back together with crude thread, as though hastily reattached to the lifeless flesh.

A woman in a black veil raised her goblet, her voice dripping with soft sarcasm as she addressed the head, her eyes flickering with dark amusement.

— And a tribute to our dear Mr. Chopped, who, even without his body, continues to grace us with his joyous spirit. — She said, her lips curling into a mockery of a smile. She lifted her chalice of blood high, offering a morbid salute to the decapitated head. — May his absence inspire us.

You watched from the shadows, a strange sense of detachment gripping you as the grotesque scene unfolded before you. Your presence went nearly unnoticed, blending into the darkness, like a silent observer in a nightmare too absurd to feel real.

Then, in an instant, the room fell deathly quiet. Ravenous eyes locked onto you, as if devouring you with their gaze. A low growl rumbled from a few of the monsters, followed by murmurs — a mix of repulsion and primal desire. Hands rose from the table, the pointed fingers of creatures lightly grazing the silverware, poised to strike. The air grew thick with tension, as if it might snap at any moment.

But before any move could be made, a silky yet powerful voice interrupted the impending chaos.

— Quiet. — Mr. Silvair's voice sliced through the silence with a hypnotic smoothness, yet it carried a force that silenced them immediately. He rose from the table, his slender and elegant figure standing out against the shadows. — She is my guest. Mind your manners.

Mr. Silvair made a graceful gesture with his hand, inviting you to come closer.

— A night of celebration and pleasure becomes even more intriguing with a special guest. — He said with a soft smile that seemed to hide something deeper, darker. His voice was a seductive whisper that somehow eased the tension in the room. — Please, my dear, come in and enjoy the evening with us. Are the delights of this night to your liking?

As he spoke, the monsters at the table quieted down, their predatory gazes now softened, as if somehow controlled by the host's power. Some of the darker figures at the table, covered in veils with deformed faces, still watched you with subtle hunger, but it seemed Mr. Silvair's presence had temporarily calmed their more primal instincts.

A woman in the back, with skin white as wax and eyes like red blades, raised a goblet of blood, making an exaggerated gesture of greeting.

— A human, at this banquet of monsters... — She muttered, laughing lightly, her sharp teeth reflecting the candlelight. — How delicious and dangerous she must be.

Mr. Silvair turned to her, the smile never leaving his lips, but his eyes gleaming with something deeper.

— She is not just a human. — He approached you again, his steps silent. — She is a new kind of delicacy, my dear.

The monsters at the table clapped subtly, with the excitement of those about to taste an exotic dish.

The vampire leaned close to you, his mouth almost touching your ear, the weight of his presence completely absorbing your attention. The heat of his body contrasted with the coldness of his skin, and you could smell his fragrance — something between incense and hot metal.

— You are safe, my dear. Do not let the terror of this place consume you. — His voice was soft, almost like a promise, and you realized how he seemed to be attuned to your thoughts, as if he controlled the very space around you.

He then kissed your hand, a cold gesture, but one that brought a sense of calm, as if the chaos around you could be controlled by his presence. When he lifted his face, his features glowed with a deep hue, the candlelight reflecting in them with an intensity that made him seem more than just a man, more than just a vampire — but an entity that understood the balance between life and death, pleasure and terror.

— I will take care of you, in every sense, my sweet human. — Silvair’s smile was soft, but full of second intentions. He somehow still gave you the impression of being the greatest predator in the room, and at the same time, the one offering you the strangest of refuges.

The banquet continued, but now, with every bite, every smile, every laugh, you felt as though you were being slowly and inevitably woven into the web he had created around you.

The laughter and hushed murmurs gave way to an unsettling silence, broken only by the sound of knives and forks sinking into flesh. With each sip, the blood goblets were raised, staining the guests' throats a deep crimson. But there was more in that room than just monsters and their carnal indulgences.

As the night deepened, a new kind of spectacle began. At the far end of the table, near the large silver candelabra, the acrobats started to move. However, they were no ordinary acrobats. Their figures, skeletal and disjointed, seemed more like entities than human beings, their bodies twisted into impossible shapes. Their arms and legs, thin as broken branches, bent and contorted, as if defying the laws of physics, while they danced among the monsters, leaping from one side to the other with a disturbing agility.

The most unsettling part, however, were the sounds that followed their movements. Every contortion of their bodies emitted a sharp crack, like bones breaking, but none of them appeared to feel pain. Their skin, a mix of soaked flesh and exposed muscles, slid as if bereft of any trace of normalcy, each movement resulting in an explosion of macabre beauty. They were like ghosts of acrobats, created solely to entertain while the banquet continued.

In one of their leaps, one of the acrobats landed with a soft sound beside Mr. Silvair, his bones breaking grotesquely as he bent into position. The vampire, without averting his gaze from you, raised a goblet and offered it to the acrobat, who, without a word, took it with a visibly dislocated hand and raised it to his lips. The dark liquid was slowly poured into his mouth, his neck arching with the movement, before he passed the goblet to another of his kind.

Silvair watched them with a contained smile, and as he leaned slightly, his deep voice reached your ears, almost a whisper.

— Are they not marvelous? — He uttered subtly, without much emphasis. — Before, they were like you. But the true transformation comes when you know the limits of flesh and pain. Like a doctor who understands the deepest aspects of human nature, I perfected them. Now, they dance in decadence.

A chill ran down your spine. The way he said it, the lightness and at the same time the veiled threat in his words, made your stomach churn. But you didn’t have time to react, for Silvair’s hidden eyes were on you once again, as though he knew exactly what you were feeling, even without showing any expression.

You tried to pull away, moving slightly back in your seat, feeling strange, exposed. But before you could say anything, he extended his hand with a firm yet gentle gesture that made you stop. He took your hand, his cold skin against yours, and brought it closer to him, not with brute force, but with an undeniable persuasion.

— Don’t be afraid, my dear. I’ll take care of you as I always have. Do not fret, my delicate heart. — His voice was now softer, almost seductive, like a mist enveloping your thoughts.

But before you could react, a low scream cut through the air, and your eyes were drawn to the center of the table. The woman with red eyes, who had made the toast earlier, was being touched by one of the bone-ridden acrobats. He approached her with monstrous grace, his skeletal hands taking hers with a slow and inevitable gesture. Their movement was hypnotic, like a dark dance atop the table, almost ghostly in its lightness.

The acrobat drew her towards him, his bones groaning as he bent low, his face close to hers. But instead of a mere kiss, his teeth sank into her neck, the bite deep and unrelenting, causing blood to spurt in a vivid jet, partially staining the acrobat’s face. The crimson liquid poured forth, bright and grotesque, as the monsters at the table raised their goblets, eyes locked on the flowing blood.

The woman, with a sigh that mixed both pleasure and pain, made no cry. Her expression, one of twisted ecstasy, swept through the room, infecting it with a dark fervor. The acrobat continued, his feeding violent yet graceful, and the room thrummed with satisfied murmurs as the creatures, monstrous and depraved, reveled in the spectacle.

At that moment, a figure arose — a creature with skin as cold and blue as the sky on a frozen day. His eyes, like spheres of ice, gleamed with an unnatural light, and its voice sliced through the tension like a sharp winter wind.

— A lattermost toast, then. — He announced, his gaze never leaving you, a sinister smile twisting its lips. — To our new guest. May she become one of us. May her flesh also transform, and may she share with us the eternal banquet.

The blood still poured from the pale-skinned woman, but now all eyes were on you. The room seemed colder, and the monster’s invitation wasn’t a proposal, but a veiled threat, with a supernatural weight that made your breath catch. Silvair’s fixed gaze was there, a contrast to the scene of violence, but with the same intensity. He didn’t seem concerned, but rather expectant.

You felt a chill crawl down your spine as the room waited for your response.

[...]

— No.

The tension in the room was still alive, pulsing in the air, but when your feet finally moved, you felt a sudden wave of panic. The banquet was not a safe place. There was no rest among those creatures, among those monsters disguised as elegant hosts. You didn’t know if it was fear or the desire to escape, but something inside you screamed for freedom.

The door to the hall opened with a creak, and as you took your first step into the mansion’s corridors, you noticed something unsettling. The hallways seemed to shift before your eyes. The walls distorted, the floor molded itself as if it had a life of its own, and the paths that had once been clear turned labyrinthine. The portraits on the walls watched you with vivid, threatening eyes, their smiles becoming even more grotesque. The tension was in every corner.

You moved forward with quickened breath, almost feeling the claws of the monsters drawing closer, their unmistakable putrid scent in the air. The murmurs and laughter of your pursuers echoed through the hallways, but before they could reach you, a hiss of command cut through the air, coming from somewhere deep and distant. Silvair’s soft voice, like a snake hissing, made the monsters retreat, pulling back with visible fear. He had given the order, and none of them would dare disobey.

Without thinking, you ran even faster, until a gallery of mirrors appeared before your eyes.

The mirrors were old, with intricate golden frames, but the reflection was not yours. As you passed in front of each one, your image distorted, stretching, deforming, as if the mirrors were toying with your perception. A ghostly figure, a reflection that was not yours, began to follow you, making your steps tremble.

You moved forward, but the mirrors seemed to conspire with the shadows, amplifying your insecurities, making you doubt your own direction. The air felt heavier, as if charged with some sickly magic, and you felt like you were being watched with every move. The murmur of a distant laugh echoed through the mirrors, and you hurried to reach the end of the gallery, where a pair of double doors opened before you, revealing a room.

You entered the room, the air cold and thick. You didn’t know where you were, but a sense of discomfort enveloped you immediately. The room was opulent, decorated with dark tapestries and velvet black furniture. The furniture was classic, with details in aged gold. Your gaze quickly passed over the immense canopy bed, and the heavy curtains, when something, something you couldn’t quite place, made you turn and look at the large wall on the other side. There, an ancient grandfather clock stood, its hands moving with disturbing precision.

Before you could understand what was happening, a figure materialized behind the clock. Mr. Silvair.

He didn’t need words. His crooked smile, his imposing posture, the aura of power emanating from him — everything made your body freeze for a moment, as if he were a predator and you, his prey.

— You will not escape, my dear. I know well the desires that stir within you, the silent yearnings you dare not speak aloud. I understand the depths of your needs, as if they were my own, and I assure you, there is no sanctuary beyond these walls. — Silvair's words were laced with subtle yet dangerous promises, resonating in your body in ways you couldn’t comprehend. He drew you closer, his dominant presence enveloping you, as if trapping you in a deadly embrace. — Don’t be afraid, you are exactly where you need to be.

Suddenly, the sound of hurried footsteps came from the balcony. A desperate impulse surged through you. You moved toward the window, your fingers trembling as you struggled to open the door leading to the porch. If you could just reach it — perhaps you'd have a chance to escape.

But before you could act, he was behind you, a shadow that seemed to grow as you tried to resist. His hand gripped your shoulder, the pressure light but inescapable.

— Don't be foolish. — He whispered, his voice now a seductive murmur, his lips almost brushing your skin. — You think you can escape from me with mere flights? You belong to this place as much as I do. And we belong to each other.

Time seemed to cease, the echoes of the banquet and the distorted whispers fading into nothingness as the tension between you became the only reality. Your body, though reluctant, responded to him, as though drawn by an unseen force. Each movement of his left your breath heavier, your heart racing, as if the very air around you were aflame.

Silvair withdrew slightly, his gaze fixed on yours, a blend of dark pleasure and eternal patience painted upon his face. He examined your eyes with an almost predatory focus, as though seeking something hidden within, a vulnerability, perhaps, or a capitulation. His fingers remained lightly upon your skin, as though making a vow unspoken, a quiet promise of what was to come.

— Do you understand me, my love? — His voice drifted like a velvet night, smooth but carrying a dark command. — You feel it, do you not? You know what I am, what we are.

His hand traveled to your neck, fingers grazing your skin with the lightest touch, almost tender, yet laden with ownership. His fingers drew invisible patterns along your skin, lingering where the warmth of your pulse beat strongest. What he did was not mere physical touch, but a deeper tether, a silent binding, as if he were slowly remaking something deep within you, something that once felt unyielding.

— There is no flight from me, sweet prey. — He whispered, his voice a silken rasp, rich with finality. — No matter where your feet wander, no matter how far you flee... I will find you. Within you, beside you, until the very last breath escapes your lips.

The heat of his presence was palpable, the charge in the air almost unbearable, but still, something within you resisted. Your mind struggled to hold onto who you were, to remember the reason to run, but his touch, his murmurs, they clouded your senses, intoxicated you. Each word he spoke was a spell, weaving its tendrils around your soul, and with every breath, the pull grew stronger, making it harder to recall why you had ever fought.

He leaned in again, his lips barely brushing the edge of your mouth, his breath mingling with yours in a quiet, forbidden symphony. His kiss was light, like the softest whisper of the grave, but imbued with the dark promise of something far more perilous. Something you did not know whether you feared, or whether you were already doomed to crave.

— There is no turning back now, my beloved. No more choices to be made. — He murmured, as though delivering a final decree. — It is your fate, as it is mine.

His hands, once gentle, now roamed with more intent, one sliding to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, as if he could not get enough of you. His lips moved once again, brushing more fiercely against yours with a slow, deliberate heat, each touch coaxing a soft moan from your throat. There was no room for hesitation, no space for escape. His kiss was all-encompassing, exploring, claiming you with a possessive need that made your heart race and your pulse quicken.

His tongue teased at the edge of your lips, coaxing you to open, to let him in, and as you did, he slid deeper, his kiss turning urgent, hungry. The sensation of him in your mouth was intoxicating, a mix of sweetness and something darker, more primal. You could feel the heat between you intensifying, a slow burn that ignited every nerve in your body.

His hands drifted lower, tracing the curve of your back, pulling you even closer, until there was no space left between you. His body pressed against yours, the rhythm of your breaths syncing, his every movement a tantalizing promise of more.

His lips left yours, trailing down your jaw and neck, each kiss a spark, each touch a fire that consumed you. You could feel his breath on your skin, hot and uneven, as his hands moved to the hem of your clothing, lifting it slowly, teasingly, as if savoring every moment.

— You are so exquisitely beautiful, my fragile rose. Your lips, they taste like a forbidden indulgence. — His voice lowered, thick with longing. — You make me dizzy with desire, aching to consume you entirely, to lose myself in the depths of you.

— Your kisses leave me yearning for more. Would you indulge me with another fragment of yourself, my beloved? — He inquired, his voice soft but laden with a deep desire, as his hands rested delicately on your chest, fingers lightly brushing the contour of your bust.

— Let me tend to you. — He whispered, and the gentleness of his words, like a spell, seemed to envelop every fiber of your being. With a smooth, almost ethereal movement, you, like a puppet in the hands of fate, walked, your steps inaudible like a shadow, toward his bed. Your fall was gentle, like a petal in the wind, as you settled onto the mattress, your senses lost in the vortex of that palpable tension.

The atmosphere seemed to pulse with the rhythm of your breathing, each movement of yours a silent dance, where desire and fear intertwined in a choreography you could not, or perhaps did not want to, interrupt.

— Good, small thing. Do you trust me? — He asked softly, his words barely a whisper as they hovered on his lips. You could only nod, a delicate movement of your head, before he continued, his voice like a velvet caress. — Let us remove these garments, shall we? Here, allow me to assist you, my dear.

His hands, cold yet gentle, moved with unsettling precision as he undid the fabric of your clothing, each touch lingering just long enough to send a shiver down your spine. His fingers traced the curve of your body with an almost reverent slowness, as though savoring every moment, every inch of your exposed skin. The clothes fell away like a shroud, discarded and forgotten, leaving you bare before him in the dim light, a silent offering to the darkness that surrounded you.

— Don't tremble. I am here for you. — He commanded, his body hovering above yours. His lips found yours once more, kissing you deeply, passionately, as his hands explored every inch of you. When his mouth trailed down your neck, nipping and sucking at your sensitive skin, you arched into him, your nails digging into his back. You could feel his clothed hardness pressingly gently against your bare center, as he moved above you and momentarily buried his face in the curve of your neck, inhaling your scent with an ecstatic expression.

He devoured your skin with hungry kisses, his teeth nipping at your tender flesh. His fingers traced a feverish path along your spine, igniting a trail of desire. Your breasts, swollen and taut, were his focus, his lips and tongue working their magic, coaxing sweet cries from your throat. A moan escaped your lips as he deepened the kiss once again, his tongue exploring every secret corner of your mouth.

His kisses trailed downward, a fiery descent, consuming your body until they reached your core. You writhed, your impatience a fleeting spark that ignited a slow burn within him. With a gentle but firm hand, he stilled you.

— Be still, little one. I will have my pleasure, and I intend to savor every moment of it.

His free hand slid between your legs, finding you slick and ready, and he groaned again, a primal sound that only heightened your need. Without warning, he lowered himself, reaching the apex of your thighs. You were so fucking needy, and he, so fucking mean. Sensing your desperation, he paused, his breath hot against your sensitive skin. A cruel smile twisted his lips as he reveled in your growing impatience. Another whimper escaped your lips, and he purred.

— Very well, my dear. I do enjoy hearing you whine. You've ruined my dinner, you know... but I cannot deny myself this indulgence for much longer, my dark rose.

He didn’t make you wait anymore. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you open as he leaned in. The first lick was slow, deliberate, his tongue dragging over your slick folds. A moan escaped your lips, your head falling back as pleasure shot through you.

— Sweet. Intoxicating, sweet nectar. My dear, this is as intoxicating as the blood that courses through your veins, the blood that I feel thickening, driving me wild. Simply delicious. — He mumbled, grinning like a madman against your weeping cunt.

It was a pathetic spectacle, really, the way you crumbled so easily, so utterly consumed by hedonism with the barest of temptations. Yet, it was intoxicating, this display of your surrender.

— How exquisitely sensitive you are for me, my love. — He murmured, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest as his fingers invaded you. Your head lolled back, a silent moan escaping your lips as his fingers hit your most vulnerable spots with practiced ease.

His tongue explored the depths of your being, while his long, icy fingers plunged within, their rhythm slow and deliberate, savoring every intense sensation. You cried out, your hands entwined in his silver hair, holding him captive as he consumed you. His tongue circled your core, teasing and tormenting, until you writhed beneath him, desperate for release.

His grip tightened, his fingers digging into your flesh, a low growl rumbling in his chest. As your cries echoed through the chamber, he paused, his clothed gaze intense, drinking in your every reaction. Then, with a predatory grace, he resumed his assault, his movements intensifying, pushing you closer and closer to the edge of oblivion.

— Look at you. Completely at my mercy, fucking yourself on me with such abandon. You want it all, don't you? My hands and mouth, simultaneously. You're insatiable. What a greedy little lady. — He breathed, watching you subtly grind against his mouth and fingers, with a pouty expression. — Poor soul. You're so close. Just let go.

— Silvair... I'm...

— Hush. Come for me, my dearest.

His words unleashed a torrent of ecstasy within you, a primal scream escaping your lips as you climaxed. Your body arched, limbs trembling, your nails digging into the sheets. He held you close, his own breath ragged, as the tremors subsided, leaving you weak and utterly surrendered.

He rose from between your legs, his lips stained with your essence. He kissed you passionately, sighing in satisfaction.

— Simply exquisite. You taste better than anything I've ever had. — He mouthed, running his tongue over his lips. His fingers traced the contours of your face, your jawline, your cheekbones. The intimacy of the moment made you feel vulnerable, and you nestled closer, feeling a deep connection.

He pulled you closer, deepening a kiss. His fingers roamed your back, searching for a specific spot. When he found it, he pressed harder, making you arch your back. Your breaths mingled, a frantic rhythm that made you dizzy.

— You're so delicious. Your taste has me leaking. — He whispered, gently caressing himself through his clothes. — Pardon my bluntness, little lady, but I need to fuck you so badly.

His fingers lace with yours, guiding your hands to the button of his pants. The warm skin and the texture of the fabric beneath your fingertips excite you even more. You help him shed his clothes, revealing a muscular and desirable body. The atmosphere is electric, and anticipation builds with every passing second.

A thrill of excitement and a flutter of nerves coursed through you. Your eyes widened as you watched his massive member sway freely, an overwhelming urge to touch him, to explore every inch of his body, consuming you completely.

— Let me return the favor. Please... — Your voice resonated across the silence of the room, more whiny than you have actually intended. Your hands tentatively extended to grab his shaft, your eyes posessed with lust and your lips twitching, desperate to please him.

Before you could act, though, he captured your wrist, his head shaking slightly.

— That won't be needed, my darling. If you want to truly satisfy me, simply surrender. Let me show you.

With one swift motion, he swept you from the bed, lifting you onto his desk, scattering papers and books without a second thought. The cold wood pressed against your back, but all you could focus on was him, his consuming presence dominating your senses.

— Spread for me. — He commanded, his voice low, dripping with dominance.

You obeyed without hesitation, your legs falling open instinctively. Your body was still humming from the aftershocks of your climax, but the hunger in him told you this was far from over. He stepped closer, his hand trailing up your inner thigh, teasing just enough to make you shiver.

— Do you know how much I’ve wanted this? — He purred, his thumb brushing over your slick folds, wet and aching for him. — How much I’ve wanted to claim you completely?

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your mind was fogged with desire, your body betraying you as you arched into his touch, silently begging for more. He smirked, a slow, wicked curl of his lips that sent a jolt of anticipation through you. Then, without warning, he pulled you to the edge of the desk, his cock pressing against your entrance, cold and heavy.

— Look at me. — He ordered, his voice firm but laced with something softer, almost tender. — This is what you've been fantasizing about, my sweet.

You gazed at him with desirous eyes, and in that moment, you felt utterly exposed and vulnerable. But there was no fear, only a raw, desperate need. Slowly, deliberately, he pushed into you, inch by agonizing inch. You gasped, nails digging into the edge of the desk as he stretched you.

He paused once he was fully sheathed, his breath ragged against my ear.

— You feel heavenly. — He mouthed, whispered, his voice trembling with restraint. — Like you were made for me. So impossibly tight.

You whimpered, hips instinctively rocking against him, urging him to move. But he held still, savoring the moment, the connection. His hands gripped your hips firmly, keeping you in place as he leaned down, his lips brushing against your neck.

— So sweet. So perfect.

Then, with a low growl, he began to move, pulling out slowly before thrusting back in with a force that knocked the air from your lungs. Each stroke was deliberate, deep, hitting spots inside you that made your vision blur. You clung to him, legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper.

You sobbed under him, your fingers tangling in his hair as he set a relentless pace, his hips slamming into yours with a primal rhythm that left you breathless.

He remained silent, his senses consumed by the primal dance of your bodies. The sounds of your skin against his, the rhythmic groans escaping your lips, filled the room with a raw, animalistic energy. His breaths came in ragged gasps, mirroring the frantic rhythm of his movements, each thrust pushing you closer to the precipice while he deliberately held back, savoring your growing desperation.

One of his hands moved between you, his thumb finding your clit with a predatory precision. You arched beneath him, a raw cry escaping your lips as he applied the perfect pressure, circling in time with his relentless thrusts.

— Silvair, please. It's too much for me...

Silvair tilted his head, his covered eyes seemingly fixed on yours. Beyond your whining, there was much more to capture his attention. The skin of your neck, flushed and damp, pulsed beneath his fingers. With every movement, you writhed more, pleading for a brief respite. Yet the vampire only quickened his pace, his breathing growing heavier, mirroring your own.

With a guttural groan, he moved closer to your neck, his teeth grazing your soft skin. His eyes narrowed in an intense gaze, a silent promise of what was to come. In a swift and precise motion, he sank his teeth into your skin, feeling the flesh give way under the pressure. A wild moan escaped his lips as he deepened the bite, marking you with his brand.

The initial pain was sharp, like a needle piercing your skin, but it quickly gave way to a strange, intoxicating pleasure. You could feel his fangs sliding deeper, the sensation both alien and exhilarating. Blood welled up around the punctures, warm and thick, and he began to suck with a fervor that bordered on desperation.

His grip tightened on you, his hands like iron bands holding you in place. Each pull of his mouth sent waves of heat and weakness through your body, your senses overwhelmed by the duality of agony and ecstasy. His tongue lapped at the wound, the rough texture adding a new layer to the sensation as he drank deeply, savoring every drop of your essence.

The room seemed to fade around you, the edges blurring as your vision tunneled to the sight of his silver head bent over your neck. You could hear the wet, obscene sounds of him feeding, the soft slurps and groans filling the air like a twisted symphony. Your pulse pounded in your ears, each beat pushing more blood into his eager mouth.

— Magnificent. This is ambrosia, my dear. You have the taste and allure of an outlaw, a queen, a harlot, a goddess. — He moaned, his voice thick with desire. — Bloody hell! I dare say that you taste of life itself, my darling.

Warm blood trickled down his chin, mingling with his saliva. You arched, the pain morphing into an intense, addictive pleasure. The sensation of being possessed, of having his mark. The feeling was almost too much to bear, a relentless onslaught of pleasure and pain that left you gasping and trembling in his arms. His hands roamed over your body, fingers digging into your flesh, each touch sending shivers of sensation through your already overloaded nerves.

As he fed, you could feel a strange connection forming, a bond of blood and darkness that tied you to him in ways you couldn't fully comprehend.

— I drink your blood, and I would eat your skin if I could. But you're too beautiful to waste. — He uttered with his sardonic voice, while resuming his thrusts, each one deeper, more painful. With each penetration, a guttural moan escaped his lips, echoing through the damp walls of his chambers. His fangs gleamed with a sick intensity as he watched you writhe beneath him.

The wound on your neck throbbed, a constant reminder of his mark, but the pain was a distant echo compared to the lingering pleasure that coursed through you. Silvair held you close, his touch gentle now, as if he was cradling something precious, in a sickening contradiction.

— I yearn to see your face, your delicate features, twisted in ecstasy once again for me. Come, my rosebud. Come for me. — He tried to sound tender, his voice a low growl against your ear as his cock continued to pound your poor cunt. You felt as if your body were no longer your own, sore and filled with lust, before jolting at the imperious voice of Silvair. — Come on, you little minx! Come for me! — The control slipping from his grasp was evident in the way his hands tightened on your face, his knuckles white against your skin. Each thrust was a hammer blow, driving you deeper, faster, until you couldn't bear it anymore.

As a thread silently snapping, you were engulfed by a wave of ecstasy, a primal scream escaping your lips as your body surrendered completely once more. He followed moments later, a roar of triumph echoing through the room as he spilled himself deep within you with a low hiss.

— By the underworld, you're too beautiful to be real. — Silvair murmured, his voice soft and full of admiration as his fingers traced the line of your jaw. — You felt so good, my precious.

He reached for you with a possessive sense of care, a mix of lust and something deeper. With careful movements, Silvair began to clean you, his hand firm but gentle. He used a damp cloth to wipe away the sweat, the traces of blood, and the other fluids from your skin, each touch a silent promise of care and protection.

— I always knew you were special. — He said, his voice a soft whisper in the quiet of the night. — Now, you are mine in every way. And I will cherish you as the rare jewel that you are.

He wrapped you in his arms, pulling you closer, the proximity of your bodies bringing a sense of security you had never known. Silvair kissed your forehead with unexpected tenderness, his cold lips contrasting with the warmth of your skin.

— Rest now, my love. — He mouthed, his voice like a balm to your exhausted senses. — I am here. I will always be here.

He continued to care for you, each gesture meticulous and full of devotion. His fingers gently combed through your hair, and he whispered words of comfort and affection, as if lulling you into a peaceful sleep. Feeling the weight of your weariness, you closed your eyes, surrendering to Silvair's care, knowing that despite the darkness that surrounded him, there was a strange and profound love in his touch.

As you began to drift off to sleep, his last words echoed softly in your ears.

— You are my eternity, my treasure. Nothing will ever separate us ever. — The soft tickling of his silver hair against your cheek roused you slightly, but you did not stir. Your breath was slow and even, your chest rising and falling rhythmically. He smiled to himself. In this moment, you were his, and he was yours.

Ah. Wild rose, my black rose. Finally, I have plucked you.

You wake up abruptly, your eyes snapping open and locking onto the stained ceiling of Mr. Silvair's underworld laboratory. Chains sway ominously from above, the frigid air pressing against your skin like an unrelenting force. You frown, pushing yourself upright, only to realize you're on his inspection table. Your hand slides over your face as fragmented memories flash before you like feverish dreams — the bizarre notion of Mr. Silvair being a vampire, your unreturned passion, and the sense of suffocating helplessness.

The metallic clinking of chains echoes faintly as you shift.

— Where is he? — You murmur, your voice cracking in the cold silence.

Moments later, a lean figure emerges from the shadows, his presence unsettlingly silent. Mr. Silvair’s lifeless, bandaged gaze fix on you as he approaches with measured steps, a syringe glinting ominously in his bony hand. His clinical gaze sweeps over you, dissecting every detail with unnerving precision.

— You awake. — He states, his monotone voice devoid of inflection. — Big head wound. Bleed. Me treat. Medicine give.

His abrupt, fragmented words make your chest tighten.

— Me medicine need don't. — You stammer, shrinking back slightly. — Me good. Really.

He tilts his head, studying you like an anomaly he can’t yet classify.

— You hurt. Pain slow heal. My job ensure you recover. Medicine now.

You flinch at his commanding tone, instinctively pulling your legs closer to your body.

— No, Silvair. I said I’m fine!

For the first time, his brows twitch — an almost imperceptible reaction. He steps forward, syringe poised.

— Humans lie. Body does not. Me prevent worse outcome.

— Why are you so... — Your words falter as he looms closer. His detached demeanor burns like frostbite. — So clinical about this? Can’t you just... talk to me like a person? Not a science experiment?

Silvair pauses, seemingly processing your outburst. His head tilts once more as if precisely calculating the significance of your plea. — Talk unnecessary. Healing priority. You live, that all matter.

You sigh, passing your hands through your hair.

— No, you don't understand. I've.. Ive had a dream, alright? Me dream.

Mr. Silvair pauses for a moment, his head tilting slightly, like a curious bird.

— Dream? Me not know dream. We not dream do. You must rest.

You furrow your brow, feeling the weight of his words, but something inside you pushes you to continue.

— You blood sucker creature were, in dream. Hostile, but fascinating. And I... I was... — Your voice falters, hesitating to reveal more.

He seems more intrigued now, though his expression remains calm.

— Interesting. Human imagine strange. But you speak strange when weak. Me care for you. Me reverse pain.

Before you could protest, he leans over you, his eyes scanning the fresh wounds on your head. His proximity is unsettling, but somehow comforting. He offers a soft smile, something rare and unsettling.

— Human curious make me. — He murmurs, his words sounding like a mix of observation and fascination.

You shiver, not from fear, but from the intensity of his gaze.

— You don’t understand. — You mutter, trying to look away. — In dream, you want me, but you know not how to show. Like now.

He blinks slowly, pondering your words as though trying to decipher a complex code.

— Me not know want. But me try. For you. Me learn.

Your breath falters for a moment. He is always so cold, so indifferent, but now he seems vulnerable, in a peculiar way.

— Do you really think you can learn to feel something like that?

He tilts his head again, as if considering.

— Feeling is strange science. Me study. You teach?

The question catches you off guard. Could you really teach a being like him the meaning of feeling?

man, if there were doubts before about god’s existence, then all of them have been cleared for me, because i finally managed to finish this text, once again, massive. i can’t measure my words, unfortunately. but i’ve had this idea in my head for about two or three days. initially, this story was supposed to be written with mr. crawling in a gothic setting, but i felt i couldn’t do justice to the vampiric atmosphere with him — not this time. i needed someone more detached, yet complex. and mr. crawling would be too sweet for this, in my view. maybe i’m a bit biased, too. writing for silvair is so much fun, and he’s underrated. it’s a shame, because i think he’d make a great vampire.

i hope you forgive any possible mistakes. this time, i had some issues with my laptop and had to switch to my phone in the middle of writing. please overlook any weird formatting or grammatical details. as always, this text may be revisited for adjustments.

in fact, i've written this whole ass text with only one hand, because...

now, about the smut. usually don’t feel entirely comfortable writing smut, but i think the situation and the whole vampiric act would eventually lead to something like that. i hope it's at least decent.

anyway, have a lovely day or night, and take care! xoxo! ♡

[nunnduuraah-blog]

LOVERS & LEAVERS

There once was a forest and there once was a tree, and atop that tree there once sat a leaf. She was beautiful, she was wonderful, truly a prefect leaf, pretty beyong belief. Emerald green against the sky, like a precious gemstone sitting up high. And when the sun shone through her, oh she glowed, garnering envy from all below. And time moved on, and the days flew by, from season to season, and then one day the cold arrived. From emerald to gold, from gold to copper, nobody could stop her. Then finally crimson, like a rose, she was a vision, her glory arose.

And then a voice rang out, clear and crisp.

"Oh ruby red, I just can't get you out of my head. So fiery, such impeccable, I desire you, you ignite my passion" It was the wind, so pure and clear. He blew everywhere, here and there. and of all the leaves, in this sea of jade, he chose to be with she, on his Autumn parade. "let go of your branch, come let me hold you, without a chance, in my heart you've shot a hole through" She blushed apple-red, her color even deeper, she felt his breeze, wishing to greet her. "Come with me, I'll make you fly, come be free, don't be shy" And so she let go, and the wind caught her, and away she went, the tree's sweet daughter. He lifted her up, so high so high, Blowing so fast, no time for goodbyes. And they danced, and they loved, and he did enchant, and she felt beloved. She flew and she soared, she blew South and she drew North.

Over hills and fields, beyond lakes and wealds. He showed her the world, and he was her world. And if she ever fell, he'd uplift her, his currents would swell, and he'd be a heavenly gifter.

Raising her up, she was so cherished, his love was enough, it would never perish. so whenever she dropped, he'd hug her tight, their dance never stopped, and everything was alright.

Young love, first love, tender love, true love.

And it got colder, but he did delight her, and she got older, and the world grew whiter.

Under a silver sky, one day she dropped, soon again she'd fly, but his song had stopped.

No more, he was gone, even though he swore, swore she was the one.

She felt so heavy, she felt so dry, she wasn't ready, for her love to die.

This wasn't a dream, this wan't a lie, it was what it seemed, but why but why?

Didn't he love her, didn't he promise? Didn't he love her? Didn't he love her...

And finally she came to rest, rest on the forest floor, and she saw the rest, of those he adored.

Leaves leaves leaves! Big and small! Leaves leaves leaves! He forgot them all!

She wasn't the one, just one of many, the world was coming undone, need help need help can she get any?!

He was charming, but oh so cruel, his love was harming, she felt such a fool.

Forgotten love, last love, empty love, false love.

He was her world, she was just a season, why must she hurt, was there even a reason?!

she felt betrayed, she felt so much hate, on the ground she stayed, it was too late.

She cried out, sang out, begged begged begged... but he never answered. She felt ugly, rejected, dejected, no longer a prancer.

This was the end, her love was dead, too far gone to mend, no hope ahead.

Heart-taker, thrill-chaser, heart-breaker, never again would he face her...

She felt humiliated, why was his love so trivial? It was him she hated, he was pure evil.

So she grew bitter, and the Winter bit her, and the snow arrived, she was barely alive, and her voice grew quiet, why'd it why'd it...?

Why'd it turn out like this? What was it so unfair? What was this sick twist? Why such deep despair?

Covered in snow, deep down below, he'll never show, her heart can't take such a blow...

And here comes Spring, songbirds sing, new leaves bud, life busting from the mud.

But she is gone, she is no more, she was wrong, she was never cared for.

When her love was the world, all he saw was a toy, he'd take her for a twirl, just a thing to enjoy.

Love hard? He'll discard. Love deep? He'll lead you on like a sheep.

And the ground is scattered with these sad stories, they have no voices, they have no glory.

[tequiilasunriise]

Summer has been haunting the narrative so hard since the very first trailer of the show, where her daughter who felt so abandoned by her death is fighting monsters by her grave. It’s not just Ruby who is so throughly haunted by the lingering ghost of her mom- but Yang??? Tai??? BOTH the Branwen twins?? The entire family family unit is so haunted by Summer’s death.

The crux of Ruby’s character is the way she holds herself to impossible standards she set based on how she perceived her ‘Super Mom’ Miss Summer Rose and this led to a metric fuckton of issues revolving around imposter syndrome and feeling so worthless as a child soldier leading teams of also children soldiers burdened with saving the whole world. This isn’t even touching Ruby’s mega complicated trauma regarding her mom suddenly disappearing into the night and dying. I shit you at one point the Big Bad of the show, Salem, casually mentioned Summer (and thus implying she was the one who killed her) and Ruby ended up falling to her fucken knees, circled up in her protective’s sister lap on the floor, and started absolutely bawling like. LIKE. Godamnnnnn!!! Summer’s death sparked not one not two but THREE different songs about Ruby’s anguish, anger, and eventual resolve (Red Like Roses III isn’t fully released yet so we’ll see how true ‘resolve’ holds). How exactly she perished is still huge mystery to everyone ten years into the show, and it still holds such significant weight on more than one daughter.

To quote Yang’s exact words when Salem had her captured, “Everything I’ve lost, every person I’ve lost, is because of you!” When Salem asks her who she has taken from her, Yang angrily sobs back, “Summer Rose, my mom!” Yang is a character known fer her abandonment issues from her biological mom Raven ditching her, but Summer, her real mom, also left in her own way that still hurts Yang so deeply to this day. Just like how Ruby still holds so much grief about her late mother, Yang too grieves in her own ways. She doesn’t hold herself to a standard based on examples Summer set, but that doesn’t make her aching abandonment issues any less significant. Like Summer, the mom who was supposed to love her when Raven couldn’t, eventually ALSO disappeared into the middle of the night with zero explanation. Double abandonment mommy issues?? That shit fucken hurts, but six year old Yang (oh yeah Summer died when they were like six and four),didn’t even have the opportunity to process her feelings because she had to take care of a young Ruby.

‘But OP, why did Yang have to take on that responsibility?’ because her dad completely shut down on everyone after Summer’s death. Tai’s first love, Raven, willingly run away from their family and now his second love Summer is gone without a trace? Bro shut down so hard that Yang had to step up and be the one to look after Ruby so like damnnnnn not only did Summer’s ass haunt Tai so hard he completely broke she’s also responsible fer Yang’s double dose of abandonment mommy issues AND parentification trauma??? This isn’t to excuse Tai fer failing his daughters so significantly, who in present day is trying to make up fer being a neglectful father and be there fer his girls however he can, but y’all see what I’m saying here about how so many people are haunted by this milf?? Like, I’m aware Summer didn’t chose to die but she DID chose leaving in the middle of the night on a secret mission.

AND OH BOY. THAT SECRET MISSION. We dunno what went down aside from a small clip of Summer secretly meeting up with Raven and running away to some unknown location but holy shit y’all. Qrow, who was already a drunkard, sunk deeper into his alcoholism and raging depression and self-loathing after Summer died so add him to the list of people Summer haunts, but Raven??? It’s implied she wasn’t always the bitter, cynical as fuck bitchass we see in V5 prior to this small clip revealed in V9. Back then Raven was actually more open and shit?? Woah?? But then The Mission™️ happened, and Raven came out losing all hope fer the world and became a spiteful, jaded as fuck woman who couldn’t care less about Salem trying to end the world so long as she gets gets away from the crossfire. When Summer died, so did any light she gave the gruff Branwen, and even after all of this time (over a decade) Raven still remains so self-serving and cruel.

In conclusion Mara is cool, but she doesn’t hold a candle to the ghost of Summer Rose. Her death still haunts the main characters so profoundly even years upon years after her disappearance and I can only hope V10, should it he greenlit, gives us more details on that fateful night because we’ve barely scratched the surface on this shit.

Haunting the Narrative Round 1

Haunting the narrative means that the character’s absence heavily impacts the plot. They’re not present when their influence is most strongly felt, whether they’re alive or dead!

[frazzledsoul]

Of course I never caught the plague. If I had, perhaps the boy would have stayed with me, feeling that I needed his clinical expertise, his gentle fingers, his eyes boring holes into my uninfected skin. If I had begun to perish beautifully, with a trickle of sparkling ruby blood at the corner of my beestung child's lips, perhaps he would have waited for me, knowing how I needed his clean fingernails and quiet voice, he would have stayed because he would have known how I loved him. He would have stayed and told me I would live forever even as the blood vessels burst in my rose-leaf eyes.

Catherynne M. Valente, The Labyrinth

[sweeneytodddemonbarber]

I have a question to ask you, my dears—-it’s about 21 years ago when the attacks happened? What were you doing back then the day that it happened? How did you feel?

I can definitely tell you how I felt that day. I felt heartbroken for those who lost their loved ones in the horrifying attacks; and this happened when @meiwilliamslittlelove was a year old at the time. I was watching over her while her sisters @rachelwilliams95 and Ruby were in school, and I saw on the Telly that the twin towers in New York City were burning. Each of them collapsed, and Jim, @joshuawilliams74 ‘s father never made it out; he died saving people and getting them out of the buildings. A total of 3000 people never made it past 10:00 a.m.; the firefighters, police officers and loved ones in Manhattan, the Pentagon in Washington D.C., and the one plane that crashed into a field in Shanksville, Pennsylvania, all of them perished.

So, my sweets…hold on to your loved ones and tell them how much you love them; hug them very tightly and never let go. This very day 21 years ago taught us a very important lesson that will be well learned: this day unified us and made us come together in the face of tragedy, and we rose up from the ashes. Never forget the 3,000 who lost their lives. Honour them. Lastly, stay morally upright, show kindness to one another and have a safe day.

@iloveyoutoinfinity

[razieltwelve]

The ‘Best’ Penny Timeline (Final Rose)

Final Rose is something of a mess from a timeline perspective since there are multiple timelines at play, which naturally results in the future (e.g., Final Effect) being different in certain snippets.

In the original timeline, Ruby and Weiss get married. Luna, their daughter, has a crush on Penny. This crush doesn’t actually go anywhere although the pair remain close friends until Luna’s death. Penny subsequently perishes many years later in defence of Atlas Prime.

The ‘best’ Penny timeline has Penny surviving all the way through to (and beyond) the reign of Averia VII. That is, she is present in Final Effect. They key difference in this timeline is the Ruby and Weiss relationship. In the ‘best’ Penny timeline, Ruby and Weiss make the decision to bring Penny into their relationship.

Since it’s now Weiss/Ruby/Penny, Penny takes an even closer interest into the Ruby x Weiss bloodline since she considers their children to be her children too. Due to this, Penny stays a lot closer to the faction that eventually becomes the Schnee Mercantile Alliance. In fact, she is basically the ‘Minister Without Portfolio’ for all of the subsequent presidents of the Alliance.

Penny is acknowledged as family by all of the presidents and it seen as a wise and beloved mentor, someone who has helped shape the Alliance since its foundation and who can be trusted to look out for its best interests. As a result of this, Penny is even more heavily armed and upgraded during the battles that would, in the other timeline, lead to a siege of Atlas Prime. Due to this, Atlas Prime never come sunder siege since the Alliance wins those earlier battles thanks to Penny’s greater influence and superior individual firepower. Penny survives and continues her role as mentor to Ruby and Weiss’s descendants, who she continues to view as her own children.

Penny’s survival also means closer cooperation between the Dia-Farron and the Alliance. Vanille was always very fond of Penny, and that fondness has carried on to her descendants. It’s true that the Dia-Farron love all the synthetics, since they play a hand in their creation, but Penny is the very first synthetic and was treated like a beloved niece/daughter but Vanille. Due to that closer relationship, Penny is able to broker closer cooperation between the Dia-Farron and the Alliance.

Penny in her best timeline also serves as a diplomat since she is trusted and respected by all factions. She is one of the few people who can expect an immediate meeting with the emperor/empress as well as the president. Although she does not rule over the Alliance (she leaves that to the presidents), her words are always carefully considered and much respected.

Penny spends most of her time either on Atlas Prime, the capital of the Alliance, or at the Soul Forges, a facilities jointly operated by the Alliance and the Empire that is responsible for creating the soul matrices that serve as the hearts, minds, and souls of synthetics. The facility is operated by descendants of Hope and Vanille with additional staffing by the Alliance and Empire. There is more than one Soul Forge, so she travels from one to the other. She enjoys greeting her descendants as they awaken for the first time.

She also regularly visits Lumina Prime to hang out with Vanille’s descendants and the lawnmower. That curmudgeon will never admit it, but he looks forward to her visits greatly.

[outcasts-redeemer]

Ruby: “Jaune. Please! Let us help you.”

Jaune: *Visibly shaking* “And then what!?” *Turns to her eyes wide and shaky* “The moment I open up. The very moment I let myself feel! They leave! Every fucking time! And so will you!”

Pyrrha: *Reaches her hand towards him* “Jaune...”

Jaune: *Grips his hair as he growls in anguish* “My Parents! My Sisters! My friends from before Beacon! ALL OF THEM LEFT! I try! Oh gods do I try! Be a good son! Be a good brother. Be strong. Learn to stand on your own! Fight for your DREAMS!”

Weiss, listening from around the corner: *Tears start to fall from her eyes*

Jaune: “Don’t let them see you struggle because they’ll get sad! Watch them go about every day unopposed and with full support from everyone around them while you waste away unable to even get a good try! Always on the sidelines. Always looking in. When I’m out of sight I’m forgotten. When I’m visible I’m in the fucking way!”

Yang: *Steps forward but is stopped by Ren*

Jaune: “All I want to be is useful to people! To be a hero! To have a fucking reason to live! IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK FOR?” *Falls to his knees and clutches his head* “THE VOICES NEVER STOP! USELESS! FAILURE! WEAKLING! DO IT! DIE DIE DIE!!!”

Ruby: *Tears falling from her eyes*

Jaune: “A-and no matter what I do, it’s never enough! You Pyrrha Yang Nora! REN! FUCKING CARDIN! All of you! It comes so fucking easy to you! You don’t even pay attention and you grasp everything the teachers say! Why!? WHY IS IT SO HARD!?” *Begins to sob* “I J-JUST WAN-WANT THIS TO E-END!”

Ruby: *Kneels down in front of him and wraps her arms around his head, dragging him to her chest*

Jaune, cracking to pieces: “W-why? You’re s-supposed to l-leave...”

Ruby: *Is joined by the rest of WBYNPR and they wrap their arms around him* “We’re only strong together... One of us breaks. We all fall. And I’m not going to let you go through this alone.” *Sniffs*  “None of us are.”

Jaune: *shatters*

Ruby: You can't kill yourself! We'd miss you! Suicide is selfish.

Jaune: So I'm supposed to suffer day in and day out for decades because you would 'miss me?' Who's really the selfish one? That's strike one.

Ruby: W-well...

Jaune: Well?

Ruby: Suicide is never the answer?

Jaune: Saying 'suicide isn't the answer' has never helped anyone. In the history of ever. You get one more.

Ruby: Please don't. I love you.

Jaune: *flinches*

Jaune: That was below the belt.

[silkylious]

Limbo (Bakugo Katsuki x Fem!Reader)

Pairing: bakugo katsuki x female reader warnings: heavy angst, eventual tiny bit of fluff at the end

omf this request is so nice i feel so bad that my writing is literally garbage in this, but thank you sm for requesting this!! <3 and im so sorry if i didn’t do your request justice (i legit hate my writing here :’))

To say the state of your relationship was unbearable would be the euphemism of the century.

Your thoughts often ran amuck, always hopelessly crawling back to that one despaired curiosity; wondering if he shared the same sentiment about your wishy-washy “friends” status as you did. He probably didn’t. That’s the seemingly unshakable brick wall that would inevitably dead-end your lovesick daydreams, each and every time. Though when his roughed-up hands linger on your skin a millisecond too long, when his steeled stare melts, hard rubies morphing into blazing lava pits, threatening to mar your very heart and soul with their scorching intensity –you’re not exactly certain you’d mind that– that’s when a flicker of something ignites within you. Hope, longing, doubt. Whatever it is, it terrifies you. Because you’re agonizingly aware of what that entails. He’s got you hook, line and sinker, but torturously he refuses to do anything with that. Almost like pulling someone in for a hug then abruptly and without explanation stopping midway, he keeps you at arm’s length. Not too far, not too close. And how that cycle destroyed you.

Katsuki was the type to jump into action and ask questions later. Except a lot of the times when these questions pertain to his own emotions, he didn’t even try to answer them, opting to shove them to the corners of his psyche, collecting dust, steadily accumulating until they become too much to ignore and he (sometimes quite literally) explodes. It’s a vicious loop that he could never break away from, he’d even come to find a sordid comfort in it. His coping mechanism was by no means healthy, far from it, but he’d grown familiar to the toxicity.

Katsuki couldn’t make heads nor tails of his feelings for you. Whenever he impulsively threw himself into the lion’s den that was your affection, caught in the moment, in the glimmer of genuine adoration in your eyes, he never came back the same. A piece of his heart would irreversibly split off and reside in the palm of your hand, he was scared that nothing would be left of it, that he wouldn’t be able to regain his bearings until it was too late. You so effortlessly juggled with his feelings, all with a single smile, it scared him that you had so much power over the fluttery sensation in his chest and yet, in the moment, it felt good. It felt so good to indulge in whatever fucky feeling was messing with his head, to let you hold him in the depths of obscurity with all prying eyes shut and what little words exchanged hushed. It felt so alleviating to feel skin on his own (for once not in battle), gentle, comforting but not coddling. It was unspoken between you that you were both more than friends. You knew it, he knew it. Neither of you ever mentioned it. What neither of you knew, however, was how far the other’s feelings ran.

But as high as your silent love made him feel, he crashed back down into the concrete when he was left to his own devices. Without your intoxicating scent, distracting touches fogging his rationality, Katsuki had all the time in the world to overthink. And overthink he did. His pride picked apart the delicate flowering in his heart, ripping it petal by petal until nothing was left but a garden of beautifully withered leaves, a condemnation to what he considered a weakness.

Katsuki was a taker by every sense of the word. Basking in your wispy adoration, only to brush you aside in favor of focusing on academics once he’d had his fill of your love. It was sickening.

Maybe it was the fact that you hadn’t outright confessed to him, maybe that’s what soothed the overbearing guilt that crawled up his throat whenever he saw that dejected face of yours, the one you made because of him. If your feelings for him ran deep, surely you would have said something by now, at least that’s what he thought. Or more precisely, that’s the excuse his mind conjured up in hopes of easing his conscious, trying to convince himself that self that yes, he was hurting you, but at least he wasn’t hurting you that bad. He was infinitely aware that this doesn’t put him in any sort of moral high ground, nor does it justify his actions, but, again, it was a last-ditch effort to relieve his anguish if just by a little bit, even if he knew that excuse was bullshit.    

Surely he knew, there’s no way in hell someone as hawk-eyed as him didn’t notice the tyranny he held over the porcelain pitter-pattering of your heart, didn’t notice the fleeting, love-filled glances you sent his way. This was getting ridiculous, you were starting to believe he was taking some twisted sense of pleasure from your heartache, but he wouldn’t do that, right? He didn’t derive some sick kick out of having you indefinitely under his thumb, at his beck and call… right? A few months ago, you would have answered those uncertainties with a resounding “No!” defending his cruel behavior till the bitter end. But now…

Now you weren’t so sure.

And yet you still found yourself in his dorm, on his bed. It was supposed to be another study gathering, but one thing was glaringly missing. Y’know… the gathering. Kirishima was out training and he hadn’t bothered to invite the rest of his brain-dead, self-proclaimed squad. And that’s how you found yourself alone. With your best friend and secret crush. Just dandy.

Your hands were restless. Pulling at the seams of his blanket, cracking your own fingers, picking up your pencil for a brief moment of concentration, answering one or two questions only to drop it back on the mattress again and fidget some more. Katsuki wasn’t fucking blind, and your unease was ticking him off. Though he surprisingly hadn’t said a thing about it just yet, he was clearly nearing his wit’s end. His silence didn’t prevail for much longer, the meek sigh and not so subtle glance you chanced his way being his tipping point.

“What.” It came out as a statement, a demand rather than a question. What was he demanding? He hadn’t thought of that yet, his temperamental limbs already taking the wheel and pressing on the gas without a destination in mind, just being short fused for the sake of it. Was it even his place to be making demands in this situation? Katsuki knew the answer to this one like the back of his hand, a solid no.

“What…?” You really had no idea what Bakugo was expecting with a question like that. He still had the audacity to roll his eyes.

“The hell’s got you so jumpy?”

“It’s nothing…” It was a lot more than nothing, that’s for sure.

“Don’t lie to me, (name). What the fuck is up with you?” Ah, there it is again. That look. His words were as cut-throat as ever, and his mouth was still pulled into that seemingly permanent scowl. But his eyes conveyed something that was whole worlds asunder from his harsh tone. Golden brows furrowed as they usually were, though unusually upturned just the slightest bit. You despised that look. It ensured that you’ll forever be caught in his grasp, forever there for him when he never spared you the time of day.

Your lungs constricted by a force of gorgeously wretched agony. Katsuki wasn’t fair when he bared his soul to you like this, it filled you with such fervent euphoria that torrefied its way through your being, singeing your veins with luminous infatuation. And it hurt. Because you knew he’d cage himself right up as soon as the moment of vulnerability perished.

A crystalline sheen permeated your vision. This wasn’t going to end well.  

“I said it’s nothing,” Your voice raised. You hadn’t meant for the words to be as frosty as they came out, but it seemed like your subconscious was utterly done with the tedium of heartbreak he keeps putting you through.

“What is fucking wrong with you? I was literally just asking why you were being so goddamn obnoxious today and then you go and make a big fuckin’ deal out of nothing!”

“Well, maybe I’m just fucking tired of giving you everything I have and getting nothing in return, Katsuki!”

Your chest rose and fell with each scalding breath that entered your lungs. The blood through your veins was pumping. Never had you been confrontational, and your sudden outburst wasn’t exactly welcome to your system. You wanted to vomit. This was not how you wanted things to turn out, you absolutely needed to leave, distance yourself from the emotional strain he was inflicting on you.  

Without taking notice of the panicked glint in the cherry red of his irises, you bolted out of the suddenly claustrophobic room, leaving Katsuki to stare at his agape door before flickering his unfocused attention to your supplies still laying on his bed.

Katsuki erupted time and time again, with you being as patient as a receiving end could ever be. It’s specifically because of your godly patience that he never considered what he would do once you erupted.

With your back sliding down your dorm room door, and little friction stopping your descent, you wondered and maybe even wished he’d call after you, come banging on your door with bristling apologies on the tip of his tongue. However, the jarring reality was very clear to you. You’d decided on that day, with your head buried in your tear-stained pillow, that these were the last tears you’d ever shed on him, that you were going to put him through the same wringing hell he’d put you through.

You were going to ignore Bakugo Katsuki’s existence just like he’d periodically ignored yours.

The following week had been bleak at best and excruciatingly bitter at its worst for the both of you. It was so strange having to adjust to the absence of the other, even if your company more often than not had been a quiet one, it was company nevertheless. The most grueling part though, was your shared friend group. They’d noticed that something was obviously awry, but since neither of you said a thing about it, they decided it would be best if they didn’t either. The awkward dead silences during lunch were still purgatory to behold. But after a few more slow paced days, the sun seemed to shine bright again. For you, that is.

You didn’t realize how much of your schedule revolved around Bakugo until he was completely out of it. How much time you spent with him, dreading him, thinking about him… him, him, him. He’d consumed your thoughts from the first sparks of dawn till the hallows of dusk. You had so much free time now that he was out of the picture, it was crazy. The more time you spent on yourself, on your hobbies, getting to know other classmates outside of your immediate friend circle, the duller the ache in your chest. Until it was but a static buzz. Yet you couldn’t deny that, with time, your fury had mellowed out, leaving behind a cold loneliness you couldn’t elude whenever your aimless stare landed on him, almost like it was drawn to him by muscle memory.

He was the exact opposite.

You’d think the throbbing within him whenever you finally gazed his way then instantaneously looked in the opposite direction would knock come modicum of sense into his stubborn head. But nope. And seeing you thrive without him only cemented what he already knew. He really was no good for you. So much so that it barely took anytime for you to readjust to the lack of him in your life, and not only did you adjust, you were the best he’s ever seen you both mentally and academically. In the first week of you ditching him completely, his bruised ego kept him for reaching out to you, but now, seeing that elated grin on your face –the one that had been gradually dwindling over the past few months– he didn’t want to take your newfound happiness away, he’d figured he’d done you more than enough harm already.

Heart heavy with reluctance, Katsuki made the decision to give up on your relationship. Deciding to wordlessly cheer you on from the sidelines and watch you bloom, flourishing into the person he robbed you of being for a chunk of your life, though whenever your spring hit, it would be without him. Until some day in the future where his pride wasn’t as suffocating, where he could genuinely, wholeheartedly repent his grievances and only hope for your forgiveness.

Kirishima never took Bakugo for a quitter, hell would freeze over before he even thought such a thing. So this was certainly a shock. What was even more shocking ­– and overwhelmingly concerning– was the fact that Katsuki had willingly, on his own accord confided in him, and he’d, in his own roundabout way, taken accountability for being a gigantic douche to you. As much as the redhead respected his friend’s decision to stay clear of you, he couldn’t help but wish you’d just talk to one another for once. Kirishima really was a saint, having to listen to two idiots ramble about how much they miss the other.

“Listen, man. I know you feel bad and all that, but maybe you should just talk to her? I’m sure she’d like some closure on this just as you do, even if that doesn’t mean things will go back to the way they were.” Eijirou tried to reason, praying to whatever higher being out there that Katsuki would just get the fuck over himself and communicate with you.

“Fuck no. That’s not fucking happening, shitty hair,” Kirishima rolled his eyes at the oh so affectionate nickname, thoroughly done with his best friend’s melodrama. Welp, I guess there’s only one thing left to try. He heaved internally, mentally and physically preparing himself for Bakugo’s tantrum.

“Well, you know that if you won’t talk to her, others will, right? I heard some guys saying they’re gonna ask her ou–”

“Shut the fuck up! I don’t give a rat’s ass who asks her out!” He definitely did. Eijirou hid his smile. Checkmate.

“Whatever you say, dude.”

Later that day, three distinctly powerful knocks woke you up. Needless to say, you didn’t think that night would end up with you and Katsuki staring each other down, seated on your bed at one in the morning. Words got stuck in his throat, so he just… noiselessly watched your face, as if trying to telepathically ram his constipated emotions into you, in hopes that you’d make sense of them. Obviously, that didn’t work.

“Did you come banging on my door at one in the morning just to stare at me, Bakugo? I mean I know I’m pretty but still–”

“Shuddup.” Not really the best thing to say to you after weeks of radio silence. You were about to make another salty remark, but he opened his mouth first.

“I fucked up,” The fact that he was acknowledging he was at fault was… something. But that wasn’t nearly enough to pay off the debt off turmoil he’d caused you.

“No shit.” You replied without missing a beat. The ice that tinged your words caught him off guard, but he really shouldn’t have been surprised. He sighed, knowing he’d have to strip himself of everything, including his pride (especially his pride) down to his very core, to have a go at a second chance.

And so, he did.

He poured his everything out for you to observe, without an ego film distorting his words. Syllables reeked of muted agony, he really had rid himself of anything and everything that wasn’t his deepest soul. He finally offered you himself just as you had done countless times before. Katsuki swore that his heart would –and always has been– explicitly yours, he’d roar that fact at the constellations above if you so wished him to. And while it would take a while to heal from coruscating blisters he’d inflicted, you were more than content mending and welting your heart with his.  

[miracleheart]

yes, he's brought flowers! starring roses & astroemerias, arranged together in a brilliant tricolor of ruby reds, soft whites, & vivid greens: fresh from a place of eternal love! no special occasion needed.

proximity perishes in a crescendo of eager steps, a perfume of earthy sweetness garnished with the tangle of akira's cologne. & all in a fluid instant, hand greets hand. leads with a rise to his lips that gifts it a kind kiss, light as the smile blooming from behind the curl of minato's fingers.

" let's go out for dinner tonight. my treat. "

( true ending?! )

( & cue the invisible applause ! ) a showing unlike anything of the sort, truly, a phantom of the night  ⸺  accompanied ( of course ) by the radiant bouquet offered to no one but the messiah himself. false god. a destruction to all man-kind. ( & yet, he still managing's to be a flirt of sorts. )  ⸺  colorful array of petals arranged perfectly ! ( crimson red & snowy white, ) a parchment of flower languages that nearly played the part of unfamiliarly at first, it is only further examining that he recollect the language that was once taught to him ( memories they kindled together. )

( passion, desire, true love, & romance. ) the classic ❝ I love you ❞ without words being needed, whispers of passion & a blossom of true love ( a story within a fairy-tale )  ⸺  snicker bubble & spill from soft lips at his choosing, simply, evidently enough, still, he does not dismiss such attempts. as for the other. ( love, strength, support & purity, ) although similar in meaning, purpose wise, were different. wedding bouquet, the sole flowers most would see in weddings. truth be told, it got a tint of pink to settle his pale cheeks. ❛ Akira⸺... ❜ name spoken vocally, an odd development ! ( not one to hold his tongue ) he’d properly voiced his feelings out & yet, found himself at a loss of words.

not only, from the language itself in which he brought  ⸺  the tender exchanged from one’s own action is enough to snap him into reality. LOVE. indeed, a word that sounded senseless  ⸺  what should’ve been buried alongside the childhood that once been robbed from him. ( family,  comrades, lovers ) worthless titles, far from any personal interest of his & yet, that itself changed. lonesome nights turn to lively nights, exchange of hesitation & distrust became nothing more than faded memories.

( ❝ so, this what it’s like to be in love? ❞ )

❛ Not this again... ❜ sharp comment slides, free hand brushing back navy blue locks. ( a near attempt to mask away fragments of a pinkish hues that dot along his cheeks ) an annoyance response, appearing nearly disinterested at the mere idea of such a date & yet...

❛ Mn, alright. ❜ followed with softest sigh, nearly feeling as though he had lost a game that hardly began. ❛ I am hungry so... ❜