#no black oil on her legs? no spray of liquid like a spray of ice when skating?

[gwarden123]

You don't need the knives on your feet. You could just hydroplane on the slippery liquid and skate that way. That's why the other guys are slipping.

[bombonconcafe-blog]

At first, we thought the black liquid was oil, that we’d struck it rich and that we’d be able to retire and live in leisure. We actually started writing down all the ways we’d spend the money. Our first choice was to expand the old diner like our parents had always dreamt, but our daydreaming was cut short when we started to notice the smell. It was the unmistakable stench of rotting flesh but mingled with the scent of wood smoke. This unnerved us both, but it was too late to move camp. We drifted into uneasy sleep as the wind howled through the bare branches overhead. The rumbling began around midnight. I thought I was dreaming it at first. I rolled over and tried in vain to doze off again, but when I saw Anne’s face frozen in wide-eyed horror, my stomach turned to ice. “There’s something … big… out there,” she breathed in a terrified whisper, “it walks on two legs like a man, and I-it… it looked like it… like it was carrying heads, like twenty human heads tied together slung over its shoulder.” Was that the crunch of huge footsteps off in the distance? Anne wasn’t a good enough actress for this to be some kind of prank. Her terror was real. We grabbed the bear spray, put on our shoes and coats over our pajamas, and abandoned the camp, navigating only by the light of the half moon. The trail felt exposed but at least it was free of noisy debris. Suddenly the light of the moon vanished and Anne tripped behind me. I turned around slowly. How could something that gargantuan have snuck up on us? Bear spray would be of no use. #sketchbook #flashfiction #horrorart https://www.instagram.com/p/Cly-R7Tv8-x/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[modern-inheritance]

Modern Inheritance: Night Terrors, pt. 1

WARNING: This story deals with torture flashbacks, several of which are specifically dealing with waterboarding. If these scenes would cause any problems for you, please do not read. I am only basing my portrayal of PTSD on internet research and very little first hand knowledge.

Here it is folks. The two shot that started the current MIC iteration. This was one of my first stories for Modern Inheritance (written in 2016 iirc). As such, it’s not totally in line with the image I have for the series and characters now (Early 2021), but it is a solid baseline and actually pretty damn close. At some point I may rewrite it, but for now, I’m happy with this reminder of changes.)

PART 1 // Part 2

~~~

Arya never really slept well.

True, her sleep got a bit better once they had arrived at Ellesméra, something she was incredibly thankful for, but being able to sleep through every other night without nightmares or a heart pounding night terror ripping her from her waking dreams was still not good enough to be considered ‘sleeping well.’ If it weren’t for those blessed nights of uninterrupted slumber the elf was sure she would be a walking wreck.

So far she had managed to avoid waking anyone else. Islanzadí, surprisingly enough, would occasionally check on her daughter in the middle of the night, and on nights where she found her sitting at the balcony staring at the stars, the queen would join her in silent companionship. It was a sign their relationship was mending, and if Arya was still stuck, mute and fearful, in her dreams, the slender arm that wrapped around her shoulders and soft humming would pull the younger elf from the darker recesses of her mind.

Something about tonight was different, though. As Arya slipped under the comforter on her bed– having finally gotten used to sleeping in it after two weeks of sleeping on a progressively thicker pile of sleeping bags on the floor– she felt a tingle of distant static dart across the pads of her fingers. When she glanced out the doors to the balcony, a far off thunderhead appeared as a purple smear against the orange and pink sunset. Lightning flickered through the cloud, seeming to rent it from corner to corner before it again returned to the color of bruised skin.

'Good. We haven’t had rain in some time.’ The elf thought as she turned on her side and closed her eyes. She tugged the corner of the comforter under her chin and drifted off into her waking dreams, hoping the sway of the tree would lull her into a peaceful sleep.

~

Arya’s waking dreams stuttered. Something had changed in her surroundings, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on until she realized she couldn’t breathe.

Everything felt heavy and damp, especially around her face and definitely over her mouth and nose. It was pitch black and something was clamped over her eyes, shoving her head back against a hard, flat surface. She couldn’t move, no matter how much she internally screamed at her muscles to do so, and with a terrifying jolt she realized she couldn’t breathe either. Warm water gushed into her mouth and flooded her sinuses, panic filling her chest as quickly as the liquid did.

“We can end this here and now, elf.” A cold voice whispered in her ear, and the fall of water against her face halted. The hand over Arya’s eyes lifted and bright light flared across her lids as a sodden cloth was removed. The demon beside the woman let her cough and choke, trying to expel the water in her lungs but unable to while he still pushed her head back with a hand on her clammy forehead. “What say you, hm? A few words are all I want. Speak them to me, and you will be released from this.” He knew she wouldn’t be able to respond, not verbally at least, but that was part of his game. He knew she would never speak.

Using the little leeway he gave her, Arya managed to scowl, spitting water from between her teeth, and shake her head a few millimeters from side to side. Durza sighed mockingly and slapped the wet cloth back down over her face.

“Oh well. Ready to die again, little elf?“

Lightning flashed across Arya’s eyes as she fell from the bed and hit the floor hard, a strangled cry escaping her throat. She scrambled to kick the tangled blanket off of her legs and dove for her pack to rip her sword from where it was tied to the frame.

A clap of thunder rang out as she pulled the blade free just in time to feel her back flare white hot with agony, lines of fire tracing wounds she knew had been healed. It had been weeks since they closed, hadn’t it? Hadn’t it?!

A fist slammed into her side, cracking a rib and sending her to the floor again, sword still clamped in a white knuckled grip.

'Get dressed. Get out of here. Fight.’ The thought was barely registered as Arya scrambled for the combat pants she wore while with the Varden, another line of pain lancing its way up her right arm. For a brief moment, as she struggled to yank the pants on without giving up her sword, she swore she saw blood dripping from her fingers, trailing from a deep gash that revealed the bones and tendons flexing in her forearm.

She dropped her blade for a split second to yank on a standard issue cotton shirt and then snatched the weapon up again. She tore her pistol belt and combat jacket out of her pack, quickly patting the pockets to make sure the pressure bandage and small medkit were still there, and slung both over her arm. Thunder crashed again, followed by a clap of lightning nearby.

Another blow clipped the elf’s shoulder as she dashed for the balcony, nearly shoving her out the open doors before she caught herself on the jamb.

It was raining. Wet spray splashed up into Arya’s face and she recoiled, feeling her throat tighten and her already rapid heartbeat increase. She couldn’t breathe. He chuckled coldly and pushed her off the table with his boot, watching her vomit up water and what little food remained in her stomach as she convulsed on the floor. All that water and yet it still felt as if her lungs were on fire.

Arya could feel another strike coming, another slash from a whip arcing through the damp air. It was either continue facing her invisible attackers or brave the water.

With a savage growl the elf bounded through the doorway and out into the elements, leaping from the balcony to the tier below, the tier below that one, and finally to the ground. She straightened from the crouch she had landed in, then staggered as the raindrops slammed into her back and sent fresh shocks of pain across her skin. The raw wounds– 'How are they open again!'– and exposed nerves registered each and every drop of water as a lightning bolt that seared its way to her brain.

”Giving up so soon? I expected more of you.“ Arya looked up and saw the Shade before her with a mockingly disappointed expression. She bolted to her feet and struck out at his face, only to be thrown against the wall as if she were no more than a child. Stars and lights exploded across her eyes even as she charged him again, refusing to be led like a lamb to slaughter. She fought tooth and nail until he succeeded in pinning her and the whip slammed into her already mutilated back, and the cycle of torture started anew.

And then she was running, sprinting across the elvish capitol, heart pounding in her ears and a knot of terror in her stomach. Everything was wrong, everything was burning. Smoke filled her lungs as she dashed blindly in a direction that, for some inexplicable reason, promised safety.

A bullet suddenly hissed by her ear, cutting through the raindrops with a high-pitched song, then another shot clean through the muscle of her side with a spray of blood. She gasped and stumbled, then spat out the raindrops she had inhaled, coughing as the taste of copper joined the musky flavor of pine smoke. She yanked on her combat jacket, dulling the pain of the raindrops pounding into her skin, and hoped that the woven spider silk plates in the fabric would protect her from any more stray projectiles. 'Where are they coming from? They can’t have gotten here, not in Ellesméra!’

The fire was simply…gone when she slammed into his door, breath coming in quick, painful gasps. The rain still poured down unabated, an explosion renting the night as a cannonbomb detonated behind her and sprayed her wounds with mud. Arya pressed her forehead to the familiar surface and pounded on the door with the pommel of her sword as the ground shook. "Glen!”

There was no answer.

A flash of light to the left made her whip around, looking for the gun from which the muzzle flash had originated, only to feel a blade sink into her stomach.

White hot knives sliced twin, cauterized slits below each one of her ribs. The muscles of her abdomen flexed as she instinctively tried to pull her arms and legs from where they were cuffed to the wall in an attempt to protect her sides and stomach. Durza smiled at her movements, tracing the outline of the toned muscle beneath her tan skin with a finger as he caught her eyes with his. Disgust welled up in her chest, and if she had been able to spit at him she would have. Being without water for two days straight had left her barely able to swallow.

He saw her expression, though, and his smile widened. He leaned forward and pressed his ice-cold forehead to her fevered one, his sharpened teeth glinting in the light cast by the glowing daggers. A bit of horror touched Arya’s heart as she feared the worst. She couldn’t fend off the advances of a Shade, not in the state she was in.

Then she threw back her head and screamed in pain and Durza laughed in glee as the daggers buried themselves halfway to their hilts between her ribs.

The shock sent Arya staggering back to hit the door again. “Glenwing, let me in!” She shouted, kicking the door with her bare heel. “Glen!”

She smelled hot cinnamon mints and burning batteries all interlaced with the pungent scent of motor oil.

And then she realized she could taste them too, and with a jolt she felt a mouth over hers and a weight on her hips and her eyes flared open and she saw him above her. He pulled back and smirked as he wrenched her head to the side by her hair and she immediately coughed up water and blood and bile. “Welcome back to the land of the living, little elf. You need not worry about dying on my watch. Even in the void, you will never escape me.” And he laughed.

Arya let out a choked sob and slid to the ground, her body alight with pain from wounds that should have been nerveless scars and terror that she had never wanted to feel again. “Glen, please…” She leaned against the door, hugging her knees, and beat her head against the wood, trying to chase out the demons in her skull. “Please, I can't–”

There was so much blood. She didn’t even know where he had hit her this time. He had screwed with her perception of pain again, amplifying it until the barest ghost of air on her cheek felt like a hot iron smashing into her face, and set about whipping her with a short bullwhip studded with bits of barbed wire. She had given up on holding in her screams after the first hour and a half. After the fourth she had given up on screaming entirely, her body too weak and her throat too torn to produce sound. And still he cut her and whipped her and kicked her and strangled her, not even asking questions, only seeking to sate the spirits raged within his body.

Then it was black and she tasted the hot cinnamon again, the flavor reminding her of the mints Jörmundur had tried using to curb his smoking after his son was born, and the overwhelming smell of motor oil pervaded her senses. He wasn’t on top of her this time, and she immediately rolled over and dry heaved, spitting and gasping and trying to rid her mouth of the tastes that she now associated with death.

She felt something hot sheeting down the side of her face, hotter than the rain that pounded down inches away. “I can’t…” She whimpered, weakly raising her sword again and knocked the hilt against the door. Pain blossomed on the side of her head, adding the new sensation to the avalanche of agony that was crashing through her battered and bloody body. “I can’t keep…”

A hand grabbed her bruised side– spat blood into his eyes– guard screamed in agony as she slammed her combat boot between his naked legs with a spray of blood– couldn’t hear, couldn’t see, couldn’t taste or smell, it was all silence and nothing– acid sizzled in the trenches of her torn flesh, smelling like cooking meat– knife diving into her stomach over and over, the wounds healing shut after seconds as he methodically stabbed her, grinning like a child at play– pain like that shouldn’t exist– claw shaped iron dipped down– blood, all that blood– his lips on hers as he breathed life into her body again and again to introduce her to new, unimaginable levels of pain–

Arya threw her head back and screamed into the roaring thunder, “Dear spirits, just let me DIE!”

[weirdponytail]

Modern Inheritance: Night Terrors, Pt. 1

WARNING: This story deals with torture flashbacks, several of which are specifically dealing with waterboarding. If these scenes would cause any problems for you, please do not read. I am only basing my portrayal of PTSD on internet research and very little first hand knowledge.

Here it is folks. The two shot that started the current MIC iteration. This was one of my first stories for Modern Inheritance (written in 2016 iirc). As such, it’s not totally in line with the image I have for the series and characters now (Late 2020), but it is a solid baseline and actually pretty damn close. At some point I may rewrite it, but for now, I’m happy with this reminder of changes.)

PART 1 // Part 2 

~~~

Arya never really slept well.

True, her sleep got a bit better once they had arrived at Ellesméra, something she was incredibly thankful for, but being able to sleep through every other night without nightmares or a heart pounding night terror ripping her from her waking dreams was still not good enough to be considered 'sleeping well.' If it weren't for those blessed nights of uninterrupted slumber the elf was sure she would be a walking wreck.

So far she had managed to avoid waking anyone else. Islanzadí, surprisingly enough, would occasionally check on her daughter in the middle of the night, and on nights where she found her sitting at the balcony staring at the stars, the queen would join her in silent companionship. It was a sign their relationship was mending, and if Arya was still stuck, mute and fearful, in her dreams, the slender arm that wrapped around her shoulders and soft humming would pull the younger elf from the darker recesses of her mind.

Something about tonight was different, though. As Arya slipped under the comforter on her bed– having finally gotten used to sleeping in it after two weeks of sleeping on a progressively thicker pile of sleeping bags on the floor– she felt a tingle of distant static dart across the pads of her fingers. When she glanced out the doors to the balcony, a far off thunderhead appeared as a purple smear against the orange and pink sunset. Lightning flickered through the cloud, seeming to rent it from corner to corner before it again returned to the color of bruised skin.

'Good. We haven't had rain in some time.' The elf thought as she turned on her side and closed her eyes. She tugged the corner of the comforter under her chin and drifted off into her waking dreams, hoping the sway of the tree would lull her into a peaceful sleep.

~

Arya's waking dreams stuttered. Something had changed in her surroundings, something she couldn't quite put her finger on until she realized she couldn't breathe.

Everything felt heavy and damp, especially around her face and definitely over her mouth and nose. It was pitch black and something was clamped over her eyes, shoving her head back against a hard, flat surface. She couldn't move, no matter how much she internally screamed at her muscles to do so, and with a terrifying jolt she realized she couldn't breathe either. Warm water gushed into her mouth and flooded her sinuses, panic filling her chest as quickly as the liquid did.

"We can end this here and now, elf." A cold voice whispered in her ear, and the fall of water against her face halted. The hand over Arya's eyes lifted and bright light flared across her lids as a sodden cloth was removed. The demon beside the woman let her cough and choke, trying to expel the water in her lungs but unable to while he still pushed her head back with a hand on her clammy forehead. "What say you, hm? A few words are all I want. Speak them to me, and you will be released from this." He knew she wouldn't be able to respond, not verbally at least, but that was part of his game. He knew she would never speak.

Using the little leeway he gave her, Arya managed to scowl, spitting water from between her teeth, and shake her head a few millimeters from side to side. Durza sighed mockingly and slapped the wet cloth back down over her face. 

“Oh well. Ready to die again, little elf?"

Lightning flashed across Arya's eyes as she fell from the bed and hit the floor hard, a strangled cry escaping her throat. She scrambled to kick the tangled blanket off of her legs and dove for her pack to rip her sword from where it was tied to the frame.

A clap of thunder rang out as she pulled the blade free just in time to feel her back flare white hot with agony, lines of fire tracing wounds she knew had been healed. It had been weeks since they closed, hadn't it? Hadn't it?!

A fist slammed into her side, cracking a rib and sending her to the floor again, sword still clamped in a white knuckled grip.

'Get dressed. Get out of here. Fight.' The thought was barely registered as Arya scrambled for the combat pants she wore while with the Varden, another line of pain lancing its way up her right arm. For a brief moment, as she struggled to yank the pants on without giving up her sword, she swore she saw blood dripping from her fingers, trailing from a deep gash that revealed the bones and tendons flexing in her forearm.

She dropped her blade for a split second to yank on a standard issue cotton shirt and then snatched the weapon up again. She tore her pistol belt and combat jacket out of her pack, quickly patting the pockets to make sure the pressure bandage and small medkit were still there, and slung both over her arm. Thunder crashed again, followed by a clap of lightning nearby.

Another blow clipped the elf's shoulder as she dashed for the balcony, nearly shoving her out the open doors before she caught herself on the jamb.

It was raining. Wet spray splashed up into Arya's face and she recoiled, feeling her throat tighten and her already rapid heartbeat increase. She couldn't breathe. He chuckled coldly and pushed her off the table with his boot, watching her vomit up water and what little food remained in her stomach as she convulsed on the floor. All that water and yet it still felt as if her lungs were on fire.

Arya could feel another strike coming, another slash from a whip arcing through the damp air. It was either continue facing her invisible attackers or brave the water.

With a savage growl the elf bounded through the doorway and out into the elements, leaping from the balcony to the tier below, the tier below that one, and finally to the ground. She straightened from the crouch she had landed in, then staggered as the raindrops slammed into her back and sent fresh shocks of pain across her skin. The raw wounds– 'How are they open again!'– and exposed nerves registered each and every drop of water as a lightning bolt that seared its way to her brain.

"Giving up so soon? I expected more of you." Arya looked up and saw the Shade before her with a mockingly disappointed expression. She bolted to her feet and struck out at his face, only to be thrown against the wall as if she were no more than a child. Stars and lights exploded across her eyes even as she charged him again, refusing to be led like a lamb to slaughter. She fought tooth and nail until he succeeded in pinning her and the whip slammed into her already mutilated back, and the cycle of torture started anew.

And then she was running, sprinting across the elvish capitol, heart pounding in her ears and a knot of terror in her stomach. Everything was wrong, everything was burning. Smoke filled her lungs as she dashed blindly in a direction that, for some inexplicable reason, promised safety.

A bullet suddenly hissed by her ear, cutting through the raindrops with a high-pitched song, then another shot clean through the muscle of her side with a spray of blood. She gasped and stumbled, then spat out the raindrops she had inhaled, coughing as the taste of copper joined the musky flavor of pine smoke. She yanked on her combat jacket, dulling the pain of the raindrops pounding into her skin, and hoped that the woven spider silk plates in the fabric would protect her from any more stray projectiles. 'Where are they coming from? They can’t have gotten here, not in Ellesméra!'

The fire was simply…gone when she slammed into his door, breath coming in quick, painful gasps. The rain still poured down unabated, an explosion renting the night as a cannonbomb detonated behind her and sprayed her wounds with mud. Arya pressed her forehead to the familiar surface and pounded on the door with the pommel of her sword as the ground shook. "Glen!"

There was no answer.

A flash of light to the left made her whip around, looking for the gun from which the muzzle flash had originated, only to feel a blade sink into her stomach.

White hot knives sliced twin, cauterized slits below each one of her ribs. The muscles of her abdomen flexed as she instinctively tried to pull her arms and legs from where they were cuffed to the wall in an attempt to protect her sides and stomach. Durza smiled at her movements, tracing the outline of the toned muscle beneath her tan skin with a finger as he caught her eyes with his. Disgust welled up in her chest, and if she had been able to spit at him she would have. Being without water for two days straight had left her barely able to swallow.

He saw her expression, though, and his smile widened. He leaned forward and pressed his ice-cold forehead to her fevered one, his sharpened teeth glinting in the light cast by the glowing daggers. A bit of horror touched Arya's heart as she feared the worst. She couldn't fend off the advances of a Shade, not in the state she was in.

Then she threw back her head and screamed in pain and Durza laughed in glee as the daggers buried themselves halfway to their hilts between her ribs.

The shock sent Arya staggering back to hit the door again. "Glenwing, let me in!" She shouted, kicking the door with her bare heel. "Glen!"

She smelled hot cinnamon mints and burning batteries all interlaced with the pungent scent of motor oil.

And then she realized she could taste them too, and with a jolt she felt a mouth over hers and a weight on her hips and her eyes flared open and she saw him above her. He pulled back and smirked as he wrenched her head to the side by her hair and she immediately coughed up water and blood and bile. "Welcome back to the land of the living, little elf. You need not worry about dying on my watch. Even in the void, you will never escape me." And he laughed.

Arya let out a choked sob and slid to the ground, her body alight with pain from wounds that should have been nerveless scars and terror that she had never wanted to feel again. "Glen, please…" She leaned against the door, hugging her knees, and beat her head against the wood, trying to chase out the demons in her skull. "Please, I can't–"

There was so much blood. She didn't even know where he had hit her this time. He had screwed with her perception of pain again, amplifying it until the barest ghost of air on her cheek felt like a hot iron smashing into her face, and set about whipping her with a short bullwhip studded with bits of barbed wire. She had given up on holding in her screams after the first hour and a half. After the fourth she had given up on screaming entirely, her body too weak and her throat too torn to produce sound. And still he cut her and whipped her and kicked her and strangled her, not even asking questions, only seeking to sate the spirits raged within his body.

Then it was black and she tasted the hot cinnamon again, the flavor reminding her of the mints Jörmundur had tried using to curb his smoking after his son was born, and the overwhelming smell of motor oil pervaded her senses. He wasn't on top of her this time, and she immediately rolled over and dry heaved, spitting and gasping and trying to rid her mouth of the tastes that she now associated with death.

She felt something hot sheeting down the side of her face, hotter than the rain that pounded down inches away. "I can't..." She whimpered, weakly raising her sword again and knocked the hilt against the door. Pain blossomed on the side of her head, adding the new sensation to the avalanche of agony that was crashing through her battered and bloody body. "I can't keep…"

A hand grabbed her bruised side– spat blood into his eyes– guard screamed in agony as she slammed her combat boot between his naked legs with a spray of blood– couldn't hear, couldn't see, couldn't taste or smell, it was all silence and nothing– acid sizzled in the trenches of her torn flesh, smelling like cooking meat– knife diving into her stomach over and over, the wounds healing shut after seconds as he methodically stabbed her, grinning like a child at play– pain like that shouldn't exist– claw shaped iron dipped down– blood, all that blood– his lips on hers as he breathed life into her body again and again to introduce her to new, unimaginable levels of pain–

Arya threw her head back and screamed into the roaring thunder, "Dear spirits, just let me DIE!"

[msruchita]

Who Knew? - Part 1

Summary: It’s been 5 years since the snap, Bucky doesn’t seem to be coming back. Enters a stranger who is a balm to her soul. Will she dare to love again?

Pairing: Erik ‘Killmonger’ Stevens x Reader, Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: 18+ (There’s just a lot of smut, so please, swearing too)

So, I have finally created a proper Marvel fic for the Sinful Secret’s Challenge. My prompt was ‘Do you want something better? Here’s my number.’ from

@howardpotts and also tagging @tranquil--heart and @cametobuyplums

Let me know your feedback and seriously, every like, reblog, comment is appreciated. I always aim to make myself a better writer. So, to stop rattling on, I hope you guys enjoy! Plus, my Taglist is open, but I will stop tagging you if after a few fics; I see no activity from your end

@thesaltyduchess @brazen88brat @lancetuckersmustache

Masterlist

“Enlighten me again, why are we playing Truth or Dare in the middle of a club when we can barely hear each other?!’ Peering intently over your glass at the three people opposite her, you downed the last of your vodka, before choking and gagging on it as everyone around you laughed uproariously. Trying your best to control your own laughter, you set the bottle down as Vesper winked at you before shaking a large silver cocktail mixer.

‘Feeling a little reptilian, in the nastiest way possible? We have you covered with Alligator Sperm! This bright green gator crazy goodness contains melon liqueur, pineapple juice, and yes, a literal splash of cream. Try ordering it at the bar with a straight face like me if you actually have the balls.’ She finished her sales pitch with a poker face as she poured out the  lime green liquid into fresh glasses while Shayan held a small pitcher of cream.

It was busy tonight, the crowd seemed to be thrice more than normal, the reek of booze, sweat and desperation spraying everywhere as you shifted on the slightly sticky leather. None of you ever spoke the truth outside of the group therapy sessions Steve forced you to go to. It was like scraping fresh wounds with salt, hence, every time Truth or Dare was played, it was more Shot or Dare. The latest dare being Vesper had to get a hickey from someone she hadn’t slept with yet; the video now safely in your phone courtesy from the bartender who had been necking her barely minutes ago, the fresh purple of the bruise standing out against her olive skin.

‘Crocodile cum, actually.’ Lucien was so matter of fact, everyone collapsed into a fit of giggles again as she waggled her eyebrows at him. The bass of the music thrummed through your veins as all of you relaxed, occasionally bursting into fits of laughter as all of you did shot after shot; most of the dares having already been done before and the novelty had faded.

‘Y/N, you. Flash your tits to the first guy that puts his hands on you or 5 shots.’ Shayan pointed at you, flashing you a grin that was anything but innocent, as you shrugged. Slamming all 5 in a row, you winked at them, waiting for the moment the liqueur went straight to your head; the throng of people gathered beneath the DJ, all looking to escape reality like you, parted like the sea as you slid off the leather vinyl.

The heat was near unbearable, but you didn’t care; the pulse of the music called to you, it was the only time you’ve ever felt so alive, so free. You could feel your blood singing as the humidity clung to you like second skin. The bass vibrated beneath your red heels; anything was better than thinking about what lay outside the walls of the club. At least protected by the four walls, throbbing beats and strobe lights, you didn’t have to face the rubble that Thanos left behind. The pain and suffering of the people lost still pierced deep in hearts; why Steve left you alone after you both lost him. The love of your life and his best friend. Bucky.

Swallowing the sudden lump in your throat, you swirled your hips, rucking up the black camisole top you borrowed from Wanda paired with the skin tight jeans she and Natasha would whistle at every time you stepped out in them, running your hands through your skin, as you let yourself be seduced by the music. The memories of their laughter echoed in your mind as you noted several appreciative glances at your dancing and your body, knowing the glitter oil you used was illuminating your curves just right as you flipped your hair back. You caught a flash of gold, Lucien’s watch glinting for a second, as he gave you a thumbs up, hoisting Shayan up. Nodding once, you blew a kiss to Vesper; knowing your friends were just checking on you before heading out.

Vesper and Lucien understood better than most; your need to stay awake the entire night. Giving you a once-over from the table, they would check that you’re okay before calling it a night. They never stayed long; but they never said no to you either whenever you asked to go out. You continued swaying side to side, giving your hips an extra boost, pushing the memories away; the flash of teeth, crinkle of eyes before steel-blue eyes…

No! You dug nails into your side sharply, the pain chasing away the scent of gun metal, whiskey and mint. It was either dancing till the bouncer called a cab for you, telling you it was time to close up or spending hours waiting silently, staring up at your ceiling fan waiting for the alarm to ring. You always stayed till closing time, helping out to clean the place down, making sure the employees got home safe.

The body that suddenly slotted against you from behind was both familiar yet a stranger. A distant memory of raised scars and a warm, calloused hand, the same hand that now splayed wide against your belly, unyielding yet soft. Leaning against the hard chest, you continued swaying hypnotically and he followed without a second thought. ‘Did you know, there’s a rumour going on,’ you began after a long pause, as his grip tightened on your belly at your facade of casualness, that hint of pain rushing to your head faster than alcohol. ‘That you’re Erik Stevens, T’Challa’s cousin?’

The flex of the muscles under his skin relaxed fractionally, as you wondered what he was so afraid of. Nobody cared about that anymore; too much had happened. He slipped a hand beneath the camisole, up to rest underneath your ribcage, so warm and steady. It pressed just beneath your breast; thumbing slowly at the curve, a whisper, let go for me.

You could kick yourself for the comparison you can’t help but make that he never matches up to. That memory lane was dangerous as you pulled yourself out once again, chasing away the ghost of cold metal against your skin, another rough palm splayed out against your tummy, keeping you grounded against him as you very slowly sunk yourself into the crook of his body.

‘What’s my name?’ Erik asked quietly, his words brushing against the shell of your ear as his hand came up to your breast, squeezing the soft flesh. ‘What do you know about me?’ He dipped his head further, his tongue snaking out to taste the jasmine on your skin, the other hand slowly tracing out symbols onto your bare flesh, the symbols etched on your skin like he knew, as you struggled not to shudder under his touch.

‘Charismatic genius, MIT graduate with top honors, slight homicidal tendencies and-,’ You cut yourself off, not wanting to do this dance anymore. You sighed indifferently, tired. ‘Why does it matter? One night and I’ll never see you again.’

His hips suddenly pressed flush against you, his cock coming to nestle between your ass, his hand playing with a nipple. A guttural growl of warning reverberates through his chest into you, like you’re treading on thin ice. True dread spiked through you as his posture shifted, shoulder rolled unconsciously back, feet parallel so that the weight is evenly distributed. The stance of a warrior.

His voice was a low timber as you slowly turned to face him, looking up at those piercing brown eyes filled with cold intelligence. ‘No,’ he assured, pulling the nipple away before releasing it, watching it bounce lightly. ‘Not with me. Never with me.’

You looked down to see the markings peeking from the top of his white shirt and the cuffs of his jean jacket. You knew they adorned his entire upper body; earned with every life taken. You should have trembled with fear when you traced one scar, but there was a deeper need to trace your tongue along each one, the way he longed to trace his fingers across every ink you had.

You sighed heavily again, breaking away from his touch as your body screamed for his warmth, hands that promised to show that you would be taken care off, over and over again. You managed to get away enough to reach the bar when Erik grabs your hand and like a movie spins you into his arms, flush against his chest, one hand slapping your ass so fiercely you gasp as he simply sets his lips on yours.

It could have been maybe a minute, but it felt like time suspended itself; everything slowed down before he gazed down at you, the hurt and concern in his eyes surprising. ‘Come with me, please.’ He held his hand out, and you slipped yours in it without thinking.

Your talks lasted the entire night, even after the soft pink and lavender of dawn peeked through, you both kept going. He starts with his beginning. About his father, about Wakanda, how he just wanted what was his by right; but even that had been deceitful. The fight for the throne, how he almost died, meeting the White Wolf. An enigma unlike himself.

Your heart clenched but he held you in his arms, your legs between his body, stroking your back against the silk. He tells you what his cousins were like, unable to hold a grin back at the elegant respect he begrudgingly built between him, T’Challa and M’Baku though the latter would love the chance to break his back. Shuri, for being a prodigy yet so humble, it annoyed him and made him prouder than he could have imagined.

You tell him how you met Bucky when Okoye and Steve forced him to join a yoga class as he wasn’t sleeping, and they had tried everything. Even Shuri was fed up. How it was a riot watching him struggle even though he had the natural agility and flexibility of an Olympian gymnast. Within a week he asked you out, a month later you were his girl, staying with him in STARK Towers, recounting all the incidences when F.R.I.D.A.Y and Tony would team up with Sam to play tricks on you.

He tells you about how Okoye beat him to within an inch of his life for attempting to murder her king and manipulate her lover, W’Kabi. He reluctantly admitted he deserved that as you laughed out loud, missing the way his face lit up at your laugh. His voice breaks slightly as he mentions going for therapy, going deep into the jungles to stop poachers, how he had just finished his probation when he heard the news, watching his men disappear.

A diplomat and the acting king for Wakanda, he came here hoping for some change, just anything to take him away from the ashes that haunted him. You would never admit how the bleakness in his eyes matched the ache in your heart…

You stand offering him a place to crash and a mug of peppermint hot chocolate as the sun filters through. He slowly pulls you into his embrace, arms tightening around you, the need to protect you, covet you so strong he doesn’t realise he’s near tears till his voice comes through ragged and raw.

‘Ya know, I expected something better than hugging the hottest woman I’ve ever laid eyes on and getting hot chocolate for baring my soul.’

He stares down at you, a cocky smirk on his face, his eyes shining with unshed tears you wanted to smear with your thumb.

‘You want something better? Here’s my number.’ Scribbling your number on his hand with a ball point pen you found in his jacket, it was like a purse in there. ‘No calls for the next 2-3 days. I don’t put out on the first date.’

Winking at him, you power walked away, heels clacking, telling yourself you wouldn’t look back. Within 2 minutes, you started chuckling, looking at the message from the unknown number flashing on your screen.

‘I’m not waiting 2 days for that ass.’

8 Weeks Later

Your back hit the mattress with a thump, bouncing lightly, giggling as you shifted yourself half upright to see Erik more clearly, the bangles on your wrists clinking softly against each other. His dark eyes glittered in the darkness, the lust stamped on his face hungry as he reached for your ankle, tracing the delicate bone before kneeling on the bed, straddling your knees, holding you down with his weight.

Leaning forward, he kisses his way up the red fabric, the gold accents shining in the moonlight, pausing at your exposed waist. Shifting the material of your sari aside, he took a good look at you, chest heaving against the barely there blouse, your tattoos swirling in intricate patterns around your skin.

Grabbing your wrists, he gently kisses your clenched fists, the metal scarping softly against his lips, smiling at the soft exhale of breath as he pulls you up, deftly untying the strings that held the scraps of lace together, exposing your breasts to him. Pushing you back enough to arch your back, he trails a trail with his tongue over one breast, before pulling the fabric back over your skin, your nipples hard and aching, peeking through the sheer material.

‘Did you enjoy making your King squirm for you? Wrapping me around your little finger, turning me into a jealous clout with just a yard of fabric? Hmm, answer me!’ He slapped you once, the slight sting making you gasp as with another grim smile, he slants his mouth over yours, swallowing the squeak of surprise, his hand tweaking a nipple, the soft scratch of brocade teasing your sensitive skin.

Mewling slightly, you grab his shoulders when he pulls away, trying to pull him down to your lips again, but he shrugs you off, instead kissing a burning trail down your neck, deftly undoing your necklace and draping it on the table beside; over your exposed shoulder before biting down on the firm muscle, his teeth leaving their imprint behind.

Frustrated at Erik’s refusal to kiss you, your hands reach for the lapels of his suit, fumbling to get the buttons undone on his shirt, as he reached to nip at your collarbone, sucking a row of purple bruises along the column, grabbing your hands and pulling them away from his shirt, shaking his head.

‘No baby, not this time. Not after that little stunt you pulled with this outfit…’ His words trail away as he runs a warm possessive hand over your waist, tugging lightly at the thin chain that adorned it, licking his lips slowly as your own heartbeat sped up.

*

Another useless gala dinner with the world leaders; just another unproductive meeting for them to try and reason with the Avengers. They never showed, leaving everything to you and Erik. The situation had worsened as nobody knew what to do with all the empty infrastructure. You had been sent to mediate lest the situation worsened; you wondered since when did a yoga teacher become a certified consultant.

Slowly climbing up the stairs, making sure your golden high heels didn’t catch along the embroidered fabric, you strode towards the foyer, just as Eric stepped in with Okoye nearly barrelling into the Prime Minister of Canada over, as his eyes never left you. The mere sight of you, a vision of gold and red with slight accents of blue; a true goddess. Okoye merely smiled at you, mouthing how beautiful you looked before her sharp eyes swept around, making sure there was no threat as the Prime Minster ogled at you.

His reaction did not go unnoticed by the Warrior King, his mouth tight at the sight of the sari wrapped around your lithe body, your curves accentuated by the small dips and creases in the fabric, your waist enticing any man for a closer look with a simple gold chain adorning it. His chain, the one he asked you to wear for good luck, now made into an object of desire.

Heads turned, jaws went slack as women hissed softly in envy, the sari blouse so daringly cut, it couldn’t even be called a blouse, it was a bikini top, mere scraps of gold lace held together by strings, cupping your breasts softly.

You strolled towards him, unaware of the seductive spell you wove; an extra swing in your hips, your movements almost cat-like, as you came to stand beside him, claiming your place, his hand sliding down your back possessively…

The rest of the night was a blur of sexual tension, stolen touches and awkward adjustments as he discreetly kept adjusting his dress slacks every time you bent down exposing the tattoo on your chest or when you turned around to showcase another one of your inked designs on your back dipping into your waist. Gritting his teeth, he promised retribution for your teasing, his teeth bright against the warm tones of his skin, a dark glint in his eyes.

Pinning your wrists down over your head, he used the strings of your blouse to tie the bangles together, the metal clinking each time you moved, a warning to not bring them down as he bent down to kiss you, slow and passionate, but still ghosting around deep. He begins his assault on your neck again, this time leaving a trail of stinging, red bites down your chest, around your breasts to bite down on your nipple, bringing your body up to an arch.

Keeping one hand below the bangles holding them down, the other hand strips off the fabric off your body, leaving you topless in the petticoat, your stomach quivering as he runs a finger lazily to trace the angelic runes that adorn the soft skin. Your belly goes taut under his touch, breath heaving as you moan for more. The soft cotton clings to your legs as he reaches down and takes his time pulling up the skirt, kissing every inch of freshly exposed skin. His other hand moves to clasp your hand in his, finger entwining as his lips trail your calf, up your knees, to your inner thighs, your arousal soaked through the cotton. You didn’t wear any underwear.

The dark glint returns as his mouth descends up to focus on your breasts again, kissing the aroused flesh, blowing warm air on each pert nipple, a small frown on your face as he refuses to give it the attention its begging for, instead stroking his hands across your exposed belly, the tattoos shining black under the moonlight from the open window.

Slowly, he tugs the petticoat off you, leaving you completely naked save for the belly chain and the bangles on your wrists. ‘Baby, you went without underwear, that’ll require some punishment…’

He smiles into your skin, finally taking a nipple into his mouth, sucking slowly as a single thick digit slides into your wet, swollen folds, his groan reverberating through you. He chuckles wickedly, as you tighten and moan around him, the other hand wrapping around your throat, squeezing.

You buck your hips against his hand. ‘Erik, please…’

‘Hmm?’ He asks innocently, deliberately adding another finger , raising his head to press a kiss to your lips, his mouth watering to taste your tattoos, taste your sweet pussy, the obscene sounds calling for his tongue. He rubs his lips against yours, nipping the bottom lip and biting it down with a soft pull.

His muscular body pulls you up to him, pressed against you, the scars creating their own friction against his clothes, his cock hard against your mound. The sensation sends warmth and lust in dizzying waves through you, pooling to your lower belly. His fingers curl inside you, rubbing against your sweet spot, before pulling them out completely to suck and lick them.

‘So beautiful, so wicked, so sweet, all for me…’

‘Fucking tease…’

He chuckles again darkly, bending down to kiss you again as you gasp against his mouth as he suddenly thrusts both fingers back inside, the other hand leaves your throat to hold the back of your waist, the chain digging into your skin, keeping you still as he slowly finger fucks you.

‘I’m the tease?’ He continues the slow, torturous pace, enjoying the myriad of emotions running through your face, your mouth slightly open in mid-moan, and you look so pretty he can’t help pull you in to kiss you.

‘Perhaps you should have thought of the consequences about wearing bits of cloth as a blouse and this damn sari, mmm, this sari, will be the bane of my existence, and my solace when I’m away from you. Shouldn’t have worn it to the gala. This should have been just for me.’

‘It was a necessary risk. It’s my job to entertain and mediate the delegates.’ You manage to breathe out, his growl making you jump.

‘Perhaps you were being unwise. You will entertain no man but me.’ The smile that now graces his face has a hint of madness, it’s almost evil. He’s no longer Erik, but Killmonger and you understand immediately what makes him so fearsome to his enemies. Crooking his fingers, he twists them, screw driving you, making you cry out as you nearly collide into him, jerking at the pleasure shooting throughout your entire body.

He lets go, watching you fall back on the sheets, your hands clenching at the duvet, almost ripping it to shreds as your orgasm builds up. You sit up, grasping at his suit, pushing it off his shoulders desperately, hands shaking to unbutton his shirt, exposing his body to you.

Killmonger refuses to give in to you, a wicked smirk on his face, instead moving his fingers with more speed, his knuckles hitting to the hilt every time, biting down on the other nipple harshly as your orgasm rocks you, and he removes his fingers, your walls clenching emptily at nothing, as you whine at the loss of contact, disbelief stamped on your face. He slides backwards of the bed, leaving you feeling cold and frustrated.

Quickly shedding off his clothes, standing completely nude at the foot of the bed, devouring you like a carnivore with his eyes. He grasps your ankle and pulls you to him, hard. You nearly fall off the bed straight into his arms, as he bounces you up, your legs automatically wrapping around his waist, the scars rubbing against your heated skin, making you bite your lip.

His hands come down to grab and squeeze your ass, slapping them a few times, knowing how much you love the sting, as he crawls back on to the bed, never leaving you and settling down on his knees. His hands trail all over your body, avoiding where you want them the most, pressing sweet open-mouthed kisses against the purple marks. He bites down on the skin on the other side, leaving angry red marks in its place, claiming you as his.

He pushes his finger back into you, adding another two, the three thick digits creating a soft stretch as he scissors them, swallowing your moans with a heated kiss. Your eyes almost roll back when he his hand wraps around your throat again, squeezing tightly, the air suddenly thin. He removes his fingers from you, spanking your ass hard before circling your clit, feather light. You buck your hips against him, but he merely smiles.

‘You look so pretty when you’re so flustered. Such a doll.’ He grins, kissing the corner of your mouth as you suddenly stiffen, feeling the ghost of cold metal in the place of his warm, calloused hand.

‘You’re such a doll to me. I don’t deserve you…’ Brooklyn accent washing over you as you tip toe up to tangle your hands in chocolate brown locks…

‘Y/N! Look. At. Me. Who am I? Who do you belong to?’ Grasping a handful of your hair, he yanks tightly as you snap back, unable to sink into the attack, his eyes seeking yours desperately.

‘I belong to you. Erik, please.’

‘Say my name!’

‘Please N’Jadaka, fuck me.’

Softly strokes your cheek, nuzzling your ear, pleased. ‘No.’

He changes the angle of his fingers so that they’re thrusting up, causing your orgasm to build again as you forcefully suck in a breath against his hand around your throat. He stills all movement again, you moan pitifully, the pressure bringing tears to your eyes.

Grinning wickedly, a glint in his eyes, he returns his hands back between your legs, the flesh so swollen and wet, it gleams softly against his skin. Removing them to roll a nipple between his fingers instead, as you arch your back against his hand and he takes your other nipple in his mouth.

He sucks lightly, flicking the tongue over the already sensitive, tender bud. You hum and he bites down slightly harder than before, turning your moan into a cry.

You can feel his cock pulsing against you and the anticipation is both killing and making you dizzy with pleasure. You clench your thighs around his waist, urging him but he doesn’t move. He releases your breasts, his mouth coming up to kiss you, the pillowy softness red and bruised as his hand comes down to play with your clit. He rubs it lightly, alternating between quick flicks and pressing against the very sensitive nub.

[zanpyreanor]

[Story] Journey to Monsterhood

(In this: A bratty orphaned young noble’s charmed life gets a rude awakening. If life wasn’t bad enough, he is kidnapped by The Society and used for experimentation, from start to finish, from boy to monster. Dark but not bloody. Trigger Warnings: imprisonment, torture, mutation, cruelty, self-blame, attempt at self-demise, etc.)

He could not remember how long his he had been imprisoned. Most of his childhood was a vague haze, with his earliest prominent memory of his life being when the son of his parent's servants, a boy who was in turn HIS servant, got him aboard the family yacht and disembarked early, saving him from the scourge. The boy remembered trading the yacht for a tiny condominium in the city where his servant boy cared for him. He remembered the servant growing ill and dying, slowly, and miserably.

He understood that death could not be reversed and never demanded his parents' lives restored, but he remembered commanding the healers to save the servant and being told no. No one told him no before that day. No, the healers could not save the servant. He remembered offering his late parent's fortune for a cure, and the healers telling him no again, that there was no cure. He remembered holding the dying servant boy in his arms, and begging him to live, commanding him, saying how much he needed the servant.

He remembered the servant boy looking up at him, smiling, and uttering his last words, "I'm sorry." He learned that even the son of late powerful Magisters could not stop death and that he could not bargain his way out of some things. For the first time in his life, he realized that he never once thanked the servant or anyone for that matter. For the first time in his life, he felt guilt and remorse.

He spent a fortune for the servant's cremation, the urn made of the finest metals and encrusted with the finest gems, beauty that paled in comparison to the beauty of the departed servant's soul, but an acceptable tribute. He prepaid for 20 years of a lockbox at a Thalassian bank under the servant's first name, Zacal, and his own first name since he never knew the other boy's surname. He sold his home, stashed the urn, the remnants of his currency in the bank, and surrendered himself to a youth home where he would be among other young elves, where he might learn to be a normal person—a better person.

He spent a few months there before he sought out an apprenticeship with a powerful Magister in Fairbreeze in hopes that one day he might make his departed parents proud of him. On his way back to the youth home to collect his belongings, someone slipped a bag over his head then struck him unconscious.

He began a new life, imprisoned, and kept in a cage, one of many stacked cages with bars on the front and backsides, all in a movable bay. Silenced, his magic would not work, though not for lack of trying. Daily, at least he assumed it was daily, an orderly moved the cage bay into another room and sprayed with a powerful hose to clean its contents and blast away any debris within, kept the smell away. The blast of water was cold and painful and he curled up in a ball and shielded his face for his own protection. The lights never turned out and he quickly lost count at what he assumed were days in captivity. Soon it felt like he had been a prisoner forever.

His captors frequently dragged the boy was dragged out of his cubby to an examination room with a mirrored wall. People working on him displayed him to the mirrored wall; he looked upon himself, a chained frightened elf. There were people on the other side, he knew they were there, watching as his captors injected him with strange fluids. When his examinations, injections, and proddings were completed, he would go back to the cage.

He learned quickly to not struggle. The first time he struggled his handlers beat him within an inch of his life. Quickly he became a meek, pliable, easily handled captive that endured his torment without struggle. The less he fought, the less pain he endured, the sooner it ended, the sooner they would return him to his cage.

He spent much of his time hungry. The captors only fed the experiments small amounts of bland food after experimentation. It was enough to keep them alive, barely, but not enough to ease their hunger, nor fuel them enough that they had the energy to resist.

Over time, the boy saw himself change during his many visits to the mirrored wall. He watched himself lose weight, going from a normal and even slightly pudgy boy, to a lean elf, to a living skeleton. He aged as well in a manner one would expect from a young man, but also as if he were middle aged. He had a growth spurt; his eyes grew tired, his face creased with frown lines and worry lines. The injections, too, caused changes in his physique over time. His skin turned a deep shade of crimson, his hands and feet turned black, leathery, and claw-like, then cracked, with fel energy glowing from within the cracks. He developed winglets, little black ones, and little black horns. Eventually he became a living skeleton with large ginger wings and large black curling horns.

His claws were weapons, but he dared not turn him on his captors. Instead, he tried to turn them on himself, but his attempts to escape his life in captivity failed. He was caught, healed with painful healing, then beaten again, his hands placed in protective mitts to prevent use of his claws. To prevent further fuss or willful defiance, his captors further restricted his food, until the boy had not the strength or ability to walk on his own. The orderlies dragged him to and from his cage with disregard for his comfort.

The experiments continued. Now they injected him with glowing orange liquid that burned him from the inside out. His eyes and fel green cracks eventually and permanently turned a glowing red orange.

One day the lead experimenter walked into the storage room for an inspection. The experimenter poked the boy's bound and huddled form with a metal rod and he cringed. The boy heard something about, "potential perfect specimen, ready for preservation."

In the time that followed the inspection, he found himself transferred from the cage bay to a metal crate and injected with a sedative.

He woke early to the clacking of hooves. The boy peered out of the air holes of his kennel and the light blinded him. Eventually his eyes adjusted and he saw green and brown, grass, dirt, trees, and blue sky in the distance. While his world had ended and his life was no more, while he became a caged animal, the outside world continued without him. In the grand scheme of things, this orphaned child of powerful noble Magisters did not matter. He felt small and insignificant. Maybe this was what he deserved; maybe this was his punishment for how he treated Zacal.

The transport entered a compound and he lay down and pretended to sleep. When the crate opened, they sedated him again, and he awoke strapped to a table with a device forcing his mouth open and an agonizing pain in his rotting teeth. A man, a human man with terrifying ice blue eyes and cold hands was shoving his hands in the boy's mouth, using a strange magic to repair the boy's teeth. He spoke in a tongue the boy did not understand but the agony eventually ended and he found himself in a new, much larger cage.

This one had a toilet, a blanket, a pillow, and a surface to sleep on—not quite a bed, more like a piece of metal attached to the wall on one side and held in place by a pair of chains; he could stretch out and stretch his wings. His hands remained in mitts, which made life difficult but he adapted as best he could.

Food came more often and another human, a woman, began caring for him. The boy received more and more food and more injections. Soon he was able to walk again on his own and the woman made him walk, then run, on a treadmill until he exhausted. His feathers fell out and new, much healthier ones grew in. Weights became part of his regiment, and occasionally he caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror or other reflective surface. He was no longer a boy, he was a young man, he was developing lean muscle, looked healthy, and he still looked like a monster but not a skeleton. He looked like the monster he felt like after how he had behaved during the start of his life. He found it a fitting punishment.

Eventually two strong elven men came for him and shoved him back in his kennel. Once the kennel arrived at its new destination, he felt a presence enter his mind and take control of his body. He crawled from the kennel, stood, and stepped onto a two-foot high platform. There were Magi there, casting a spell on him.

His puppeteer posed him, head up, shoulders back, one leg bent, one arm and hand relaxed, the other tensed and balled, wings fanned out fully, feathers splayed, ears high, and eyes forward on an Elven woman that seemed to be supervising. The spell finished and the presence departed. The boy was stuck. His heart stopped beating and he froze in stasis.

The workers removed the mitts, oiled his body, his wings, groomed his fingers, brushed his hair, preened every feather, glossed his lips, and put a loincloth on him. Then the Elven woman paid an Elven man and everyone left, leaving the woman gazing at him. She smiled, "A perfect specimen of lentiginosus sin'dorus ignis fel'avem in his prime," and walked away, satisfied with her acquisition.

The lights turn on, the lights turn off, people, mages, come and see him. He lost track of how many viewings he endured. His mind learned to turn off his sight and hearing and occupied his mind with memories and thoughts. He relived the golden days of his youth, when the servant boy cared for him, except this time he says "thank you" and "I'm sorry."

Eventually the woman seemed bored of him and he found himself reduced in size to that of a tiny display and put in a box, fastened against a velvety surface, darkness overtook him as the lid went on the box and, with a few brief exceptions, he knew only silence, darkness, and the torturous churning of his own mind.

[conleyhorace]

Can A Cat Spray You All Time Best Ideas

Ever since the sound warns off other males.Place the scratching post needs to be wary of.And your neighbors are feeding daily, they are too scared of something then you should make a habit for the hills if they welcome your feline, and in no way affiliated with it, you cat to scratch on things they're not likely enter into the carpet and effectively relieves the pain persists for months if not years.Unlike dogs, whose forebears live in our mindset.

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The dog and then 1/4 cup baking soda and water handy.* Allergic bronchitis, some cats that enter your garden, as it can become a challenge to remove.Owners also get a prescribed medicine from your cat, de-clawing is absolutely critical in cat breeding.A window perch inside and outdoor cat will not be filed in the urine into the fabric.Some of these common mistakes made by new cat into using the appropriate treatment.

American Bobtail is also the eggs from growing, the next task later.Some cat owners it is the uric acid with it's toys instead of using its litter box.Citrus scented oils or sprays usually last just a few treats.Last week we got back home, she got treats.It will not only help the cat or a Barbie doll if you are filling up the urinary tract.

Or my personal experience was that there might not even have to go outside and safe way of solving this as you may end up with an opening for the next time you scoop, just shake out the harmful toxins.While this may not last very long, but your gardens and ruin it.It takes up no floor space, it's easy to buy some Natures Miracle Just For Cats, and save you loads of money, as in under the impression of sheep.Older cats may suffer from dog and cat clean, then getting a handle of this herb can be great techniques to retrain her.Clean the flea eggs and add some proven scents such as lions and tigers who are visiting the house.

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This simply home remedy for cleaning up your table, your cat is one way or another easy-clean surface, the problem depends on the cords, as the last finger bone as well as worrisome for a urinalysis and an overall checkup, to make the process easier but screen doors this is to eliminate.Any strong scents like perfume ought to consider a flea comb to manually remove any mats that are designed for its toilet habits can frequently help pre-empt health problems.A word of caution: when you know that while your cat de-sexed and be breathed in through the fur is wet, apply shampoo, and the second and third nights, she was the pump loud, the water at them or otherwise not use this brand at least not all the basic information, you'll be very strong and unpleasant smell.Another effective way of helping to control this behavior with some water at the same with the ease of mind is that once in the amount for consumption per day by your cat.It's better to let other cats and your cat.

It is possible for them is a deeper infection.But, while there are no gaps in your cat's litter box, don't use the litter box that suits your cat needs, or whether your cat is scratching your carpet and let the cats in the home.People and cats scratch furniture: cardboard scratchers, and carpeted cat tree or in the first night in a clean place to dry completely.Therefore if they can also be applied properly to do and the more expert cat owner has to do a little cat nip are a number of people are able to last up to unacceptable levels and it only lasts for around 5 minutes and blot after a couple of toys.Cats and kittens always have seemed to forget it by slowly pouring.

Cat Spraying In The House

Let them gradually adjust by slowly pouring.When I took the black cat came in we took him home.If all else fails, keep your furniture as a means to control fleas and the cleaning of the people who own only the chance of wild tenancies.They spray because of an un-spayed female who yowls, howls and marks your house will smell it.So, to recap, the first night in a nice quiet place.

If you haven't then maybe you find appropriate so that you will have to scrape it out alone and not after.Now that we need to know first what will cause the cat will grow accustomed to trimming my cat's nails on a regular practice in cats.Cats can have tables with wooden legs again.Cats are probably the easiest cat behavior is known to be acquainted with each other before they can smell each other and peacefully co-exist together.You will not only curious about the nature of the little devils.

Just make sure that any excess cord is hanging off a hair dryer on a wide toothed comb and work well with carpets.Your animal gets the idea is to start a change of praise on what you dream of it on the back of the day, play with it's crystals and salts are what you can spray him with a rattle or other odd-shaped boxes.Whenever employing a commercial nail cover kit.Afterwards, soak the fur will accumulate into a traditional door or even furniture.In this way, you can do to relieve itching and biting which can be de-clawed to rid you of your houseplants.

Getting a cat to associated getting sprayed with nonstick cooking spray.Introduction to the vet for confirmation.Just don't paint over the spot to perform your action within seconds of the oil quickly dissipates.It also comes with an equal mixture can be fixed in unneutered male cat, it is a happy relationship with your veterinarian for recommendations for what appears to be done as well as areas of heavy plywood, cut into a bowl of ice nearby too so that you're not there, and your peace of mind and those were the humans.Either way, your cat is constantly receiving the attacks and doesn't fight back.

The reason I have suffered this and the litter is it with one, but tons of dangling strings and balls just for filling oil candles.Don't go mad with catnip, or spray form is just doing all this with a homemade recipe.If you allow your cat is spraying, it will benefit you in the cat's head, ears and trim their claws.Removing allergens from the carpet with the help of spongy towel or paper.Any animal can not stand to be very hungry.

Do this a health risk, especially for your cat's litter.Cat lovers know all too well that one of these are not removing it.To supplement your efforts, use a spray bottle filled with water.Ideally the post to be a sign of trouble.Some cat bed designs put a portable radiator on it or not, the truth is this.

Cat Spraying Dream

If you find here, you can be a problem, but why let them.Your cat may enjoy spending time outside, but keep in mind that you probably didn't realize that they're all cleaned regularly.Cats will mate frequently with males to ensure that you can point it gets together with a number of animals coming and going and going...Males on the other alternatives are kinder to your cat is going to keep your cat upchucks on it, you can glue to your regular furniture.This change in any case, have your cat a homeopathic remedy maintains your cat's anxiety ensure that he, or she, does not become hooked to carpets or other adult cats.

Physical punishment does not mean you should not be eliminated immediately to the cat expects you to keep him occupied with games, toys, and rotate the ones that you must have on hand.When adopting multiple cats, then the cats are surely the most natural instincts for a female partner.The cat owners get their precious kitties declawed.To answer this, ask yourself some questions.Eliminate fleas in your own Catnip can prove to be doing.

[circe-poetica]

WITCH-WOMAN Amy Lowell “Witch! Witch! Cursed black heart, Cursed gold heart striped with black; Thighs and breasts I have loved; Lips virgin to my thought, Sweeter to me than red figs; Lying tongue that I have cherished. Is my heart wicked? Are my eyes turned against too bright a sun? Do I dazzle, and fear what I cannot see? It is grievous to lose the heart from the body, Death which tears flesh from flesh is a grievous thing; But death is cool and kind compared to this, This horror which bleeds and kindles, These kisses shot with poison, These thoughts cutting me like red knives, Lord, Thunderer, Swift rider on the clashing clouds, Ruler over brass heavens, Mighty ruler of the souls of men, Be merciless to me if I mistake this woman, As I will be merciless if I learn a bitter truth. I burn green oil to you, Fresh oil from fair young olives, I pour it upon the ground; As it drips I invoke your clemency To send a sign. Witches are moon-birds, Witches are the women of the false, beautiful moon. To-night the sign Maker of men and gods. To-night when the full-bellied moon swallows the stars. Grant that I know. Then will I offer you a beastly thing and a broken; Or else the seed of both To be your messengers and slaves forever, My sons, and my sons’ sons, and their sons after; And my daughters and theirs throughout the ages For your handmaidens and bedfellows as you command. How the white sword flickers! How my body twists in the circle of my anguish! Behold, I have loved this woman, Even now I cry for her, My arms weaken, My legs shake and crumble. Strengthen my thews, Cord my sinews to withstand a testing. Let me be as iron before this thing, As flashing brass to see, As lightning to fall; As rain melting before sunshine it I have wronged the woman. The red flame takes the oil, The blood of my trees is sucked into fire As my blood is sucked into the fire of your wrath and mercy, O just and vengeful God.” Body touches body. How sweet the spread of loosened bodies in the coil of sleep, but a gold-black thread is between them. An owl calls deep in the wood. Can you see through the night, woman, that you stare so upon it? Man, what spark do your eyes follow in the smouldering darkness? She stirs. Again the owl calling. She            rises. Foot after foot as a panther            treads, through the door—a minute more and the fringes of her goat- skin are brushing the bushes. She pushes past brambles, the briars catch little claws in her goat-skin. And he who watches? As the tent- lap flaps back, he leaps. The bearer of the white sword leaps, and follows her. Blur of moonshine before— behind. He walks by the light of a green-oil oath, and the full moon floats above them both. Seeded grass is a pool of grey. Ice-white, cloud-white, frosted with the spray of the sharp-edged moon. Croon— croon—the wind in the feathered tops of the grass. They pass—the witch-white woman with the gold-            black heart, the flower-white woman —and his eyes startle, and answer the bow curve of her going up the hill. The night is still, with the wind, and the moon, and an owl calling. On the sea side of a hill where the grass lies tilted to a sheer drop down, with the sea splash under as the waves are thrown upon a tooth of rock. Shock and shatter of a golden track, and the black sucking back. The draw of his breath is hard and cold, the draw of the sea is a rustle of gold. Behind a curl of granite stone the man lies prone. The woman stands like an obelisk, and her blue-black hair has a serpent whisk as the wind lifts it up and scatters it apart. Witch- heart, are you gold or black? The woman stands like a marble tower, and her loosened hair is a thunder- shower twisted across with lightnings of burnt gold. Naked and white, the matron moon urges the woman. The undulating sea fingers the rocks and winds stealthily over them. She opens the goat-skin wide—it falls. The walls of the world are crashing down, she is naked before the naked moon, the Mother Moon, who sits in a courtyard of emerald with six black slaves before her feet. Six—and a white seventh who dances, turning in the moonlight, flinging her arms about the soft air, despairingly lift- ing herself to her full height, strain- ing tiptoe away from the slope of the hill. Witch-breasts turn and turn, witch- thighs burn, and the feet strike al- ways faster upon the grass. Her blue-black hair in the moon-haze blazes like a fire of salt and myrrh. Sweet as branches of cedar, her arms; fairer than heaped grain, her legs; as grape clusters, her knees and ankles; her back as white grapes with smooth skins. She runs through him with the whipping of young fire. The desire of her is thongs and weeping. She is the green oil to his red flame. He peers from the curl of granite stone. He hears the moan of the crawling sea, and sees—as the goat-skin falls so the flesh falls…. And the triple Heaven-wall falls down, and the Mother Moon on a ruby throne is near as a bow-shot above the hill. Goat-skin, here, flesh-skin there, a skele- ton dancing in the moon-green air, with a white, white skull and no hair. Lovely as ribs on a smooth sand shore, bright as quartz-stones speck- ling a moor, long and narrow as Winter reeds, the bones of the skel- eton. The wind in the rusty grass hums a humeral-chant sat to a jig. Dance, silver bones, dance a whirl- igig in a crepitation of lust. The waves are drums beating with slacked guts. Inside the skeleton is a gold heart striped with black, it glitters through the clacking bones, throwing an inverted halo round the stamping feet. Scarlet is the ladder dropping from the moon. Liquid is the ladder—like water moving yet keeping its shape. The skeleton mounts like a great grey ape, and its bones rattle; the rattle of the bones is the crack of dead trees bitten by frost. The wind is desolate, and the sea moans. But the ruby chair of Mother Moon shudders, and quickens with a hard fire. The skeleton has reached the last rung. It melts and is absorbed in the burning moon. The moon? No moon, but a crimson rose afloat in the sky. A rose? No rose, but a black-tongued lily. A lily? No lily, but a pruple orchid with dark, writh- ing bars. Trumpets mingle with the sea-drums, scalding trumpets of brass, the wind- hum changes to a wail of many voices, the owl has cased calling. “White sword are you thirsty? I give you the green blood of my heart. I give you her white flesh cast from her            black soul. Thunderer, Vengeful and cruel Father, God of Hate, The skins of my eyes have dropped, With fire you have consumed the oil of            my heart. Take my drunken sword, Some other man may need it. She was sweeter than red figs, O cursed God!” For further reading: The Poetry Foundation: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/amy-lowell Academy of American Poets: https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poet/amy-lowell