#pale nob

[mafaldaknows]

Instagram: justinliamobrien

The notebook @lo20 1️⃣3️⃣🐞👀😜

[stranger-rants]

Billy is tired.

So tired, but he wants to shower.

It took a lot out of him just to get undressed.

He's gotten used to washing himself with wash cloths and a basin of water, but his hair feels gross and there's spots he still can't reach.

He's too prideful to ask for help.

He just wants to feel the water rain down on him and wash it all away. Wash away the dirt and grime. The blood. The pain.

His wounds are crusted over with scabs and there are staples in his skin. He's pale. So pale he can see his veins, and his brain plays tricks on him.

Maybe that thing is still there. Black ink yet to be flushed out. Laying dormant. Ready to infect him again when he least expects it.

He wants to wash it all away.

When Billy steps into the shower, he's barely got his hand on the nob when his vision gets spotty. Dizzy. He catches himself, sliding down the wall before he passes out.

He comes to within seconds, but he can't push himself up. He reaches a hand out weakly but it's no use. Can't turn on the shower. Can't get up.

He sits there for what feels like hours. It will be a while until Steve comes home from work. Maybe he will just sleep there.

He feels pathetic, unable to move without effort. Drifts off to sleep, despite the cool tiles on his naked skin chilling him.

"Hey," Steve gently shakes him, "Billy. Wake up."

Billy stirs, a shiver seizing him.

"Are you okay?"

Billy begins to sob.

"I just want to be clean."

"Oh, baby..."

Steve pulls Billy into his arms, careful still of his exposed stitches and staples despite the doctor insisting they were fine.

Steve strips down to nothing, and helps Billy stand. He turns on the shower and holds Billy up as best as he can.

The warm spray of the water feels divine. Billy opens his mouth and takes a deep breath of the humid air, lungs opening up.

Steve instructs Billy to hold onto the wall. Billy closes his eyes as Steve's fingers work through his hair and scalp, lathering and rinsing.

He washes Billy's back... and lower, between his thighs.

They've seen each other naked plenty of times, but Billy is embarrassed nonetheless that this is what it has come to. Steve doesn't seem to mind.

Steve helps Billy out of the shower and into a towel, sitting him on a stool while he finishes showering himself.

"I'm sorry"

"It's okay"

"I wanted to do it myself"

"It's okay"

"I can't -"

"It's okay"

It's not okay, though. When he's not there, Steve is stressed. Worried. This is exactly the kind of thing he thinks about all day.

Billy falling.

Apart.

Steve kisses his forehead and helps him get dressed in warm pajamas. They settle into bed, and he tries to think about what he can do.

"I've got something to show you," Steve says to Billy a couple days later.

Billy grunts in reply, lazily spooning cereal in his mouth at the breakfast table.

"C'mere"

Steve guides him to the bathroom with a hand on his back, and opens the door. Billy stands there for a minute. Confused.

Steve opens the shower door.

Inside is a plastic shower chair and hand rails installed into the wall. Billy doesn't move. Doesn't say anything.

Steve scratches his head, hand on his hip. Nervous.

"This... for me?"

"Uh, yeah..."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Billy wipes a tear from his face and sniffs.

"Yeah," Billy nods.

He grasps Steve's face, kissing his lips. Steve's hands move up his side tentatively, deepening the kiss but afraid to hurt him.

Billy grabs his arm. Encourages him to hold him tighter.

"You're not gonna break me," Billy says between a kiss, "You're never gonna break me"

[coolheadofficial]

Once you've learned to correctly pronounce every word in this poem, you will be speaking English better than 90% of the native English speakers in the world

Dearest creature in creation, Study English pronunciation. I will teach you in my verse Sounds like corpse, corps, horse, and worse. I will keep you, Suzy, busy, Make your head with heat grow dizzy. Tear in eye, your dress will tear. So shall I! Oh hear my prayer.

Just compare heart, beard, and heard, Dies and diet, lord and word, Sword and sward, retain and Britain. (Mind the latter, how it's written.) Now I surely will not plague you With such words as plaque and ague. But be careful how you speak: Say break and steak, but bleak and streak; Cloven, oven, how and low, Script, receipt, show, poem, and toe.

Hear me say, devoid of trickery, Daughter, laughter, and Terpsichore, Typhoid, measles, topsails, aisles, Exiles, similes, and reviles; Scholar, vicar, and cigar, Solar, mica, war and far; One, anemone, Balmoral, Kitchen, lichen, laundry, laurel; Gertrude, German, wind and mind, Scene, Melpomene, mankind.

Billet does not rhyme with ballet, Bouquet, wallet, mallet, chalet. Blood and flood are not like food, Nor is mould like should and would. Viscous, viscount, load and broad, Toward, to forward, to reward. And your pronunciation's OK When you correctly say croquet, Rounded, wounded, grieve and sieve, Friend and fiend, alive and live.

Ivy, privy, famous; clamour And enamour rhyme with hammer. River, rival, tomb, bomb, comb, Doll and roll and some and home. Stranger does not rhyme with anger, Neither does devour with clangour. Souls but foul, haunt but aunt, Font, front, wont, want, grand, and grant, Shoes, goes, does. Now first say finger, And then singer, ginger, linger, Real, zeal, mauve, gauze, gouge and gauge, Marriage, foliage, mirage, and age.

Query does not rhyme with very, Nor does fury sound like bury. Dost, lost, post and doth, cloth, loth. Job, nob, bosom, transom, oath. Though the differences seem little, We say actual but victual. Refer does not rhyme with deafer. Foeffer does, and zephyr, heifer. Mint, pint, senate and sedate; Dull, bull, and George ate late. Scenic, Arabic, Pacific, Science, conscience, scientific.

Liberty, library, heave and heaven, Rachel, ache, moustache, eleven. We say hallowed, but allowed, People, leopard, towed, but vowed. Mark the differences, moreover, Between mover, cover, clover; Leeches, breeches, wise, precise, Chalice, but police and lice; Camel, constable, unstable, Principle, disciple, label.

Petal, panel, and canal, Wait, surprise, plait, promise, pal. Worm and storm, chaise, chaos, chair, Senator, spectator, mayor. Tour, but our and succour, four. Gas, alas, and Arkansas. Sea, idea, Korea, area, Psalm, Maria, but malaria. Youth, south, southern, cleanse and clean. Doctrine, turpentine, marine.

Compare alien with Italian, Dandelion and battalion. Sally with ally, yea, ye, Eye, I, ay, aye, whey, and key. Say aver, but ever, fever, Neither, leisure, skein, deceiver. Heron, granary, canary. Crevice and device and aerie.

Face, but preface, not efface. Phlegm, phlegmatic, ass, glass, bass. Large, but target, gin, give, verging, Ought, out, joust and scour, scourging. Ear, but earn and wear and tear Do not rhyme with here but ere. Seven is right, but so is even, Hyphen, roughen, nephew Stephen, Monkey, donkey, Turk and jerk, Ask, grasp, wasp, and cork and work.

Pronunciation -- think of Psyche! Is a paling stout and spikey? Won't it make you lose your wits, Writing groats and saying grits? It's a dark abyss or tunnel: Strewn with stones, stowed, solace, gunwale, Islington and Isle of Wight, Housewife, verdict and indict.

Finally, which rhymes with enough -- Though, through, plough, or dough, or cough? Hiccough has the sound of cup. My advice is to give up!!!

[valdiis]

FFXIV Site Write #11: Surrogate

"...Once the contract holder has appointed a surrogate, the barrister must..."

Daephrin's eyes crossed. He'd been studying contract law for the last five hours. At this point, the seventeen-year-old boy would beg for arithmetic just to break up the monotony - and he hated sums. Sure, the way one could twist contracts up in knots to benefit the one drawing up the contract was interesting, but even that could only hold so much water.

"I am so bored!" he groaned as he fell back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling. At least he was alone, so he was free to gripe in peace. If he didn't know he would have an exam on this in the morning, he would've entirely slacked off and not bothered with it at all. Failing the exam - any exam - was not an option for an Astramente boy. Lucarian would probably beat him bloody, and while he'd developed a peculiar taste for pain, black eyes weren't the type he enjoyed.

Still, the thought of turning his attention back to the book nearly made him sick to his stomach. Five hours was plenty. Another one wouldn't change what he did or didn't know.

Daephrin got up from his desk and crossed his room to his bed. No one would be checking in on him tonight on account of not wanting to bother him while he was studying, but just in case, he arranged his pillows in a particular fashion so that it would look like he slept soundly in his bed. That done, he found a coat, shrugged it on, and went to the window. His bedroom was on the second floor, but he was very good at climbing. No one saw him as he crept out the window and climbed down the trellis to the ground. Carefully, he sneaked past the house and off the grounds.

Freedom was a heady thing. Daephrin had fled the house in this fashion many times before, but every time made his heart sing with elation. He couldn't stand all the restrictions of his life. It drove him crazy.

He followed winding streets at random, letting himself get lost in a city he couldn't truly get lost in. Before he knew it, he was at the edge of the Brume - not exactly the best place for a well-dressed youth to be. He was about to turn around when a flash of pale hair caught his attention - just in time for a hard object to press into his right side. The owner of the pale hair had something pressed to him as a slender arm wrapped around his middle and groped at his waist.

"Go a little lower," he drawled, "if you're looking for the prize."

Great. Sassing his robber. He was going to get himself stabbed.

The ruffian giggled and Daephrin realized he was being mugged by a girl. A girl was no less dangerous, he knew, but this one was a waif and he had a pretty good chance of overpowering her, if he didn't get gutted first.

"Is that a knife?"

"O' course 'tis," she retorted, jabbing him a little harder as she searched for his money pouch. The joke was on her, though; he didn't have one on him. The fact that she was pressing the object pretty firmly against him and he wasn't yet bleeding meant it probably wasn't sharp - if it was a knife at all. Dae decided to risk it.

He dropped his weight straight down, slipping free of the girl's arms and twisting as he did so to sweep an arm out at the side of her knee. She yelped as she went down, a short stick clattering to the ground beside her. A full turn and a swing of one leg and he had her pinned to the cold cobblestone, sitting on her small chest. That's when he realized she was a Hyur, which made it all the easier to manhandle her smaller frame.

"Gerrof!" she growled, fists flailing.

"Not a chance," Dae said. "That was very rude of you to try to stab me with a stick. I don't even have any money to give you."

"Fuckin' nob!"

He chuckled and caught one of her hands. She was small and dirty and fierce, but under the dirt she was rather pretty. Daephrin liked pretty things - especially dangerous pretty things. He stared at her narrowed brown eyes. "How about I bring you dinner to make up for having no gil?"

"Wot." Her tone was flat. "Why would ye do that?"

"Because you're hungry?"

The girl scowled darkly at him. "Am not," she said mulishly. She couldn't have been more than sixteen herself. After a moment, she relented, "A'right, so I am. Gerrof me. I ent takin' yer charity. Like yer some bleedin' saint?" Her free hand whacked his thigh, but not hard enough that he couldn't ignore it.

"Definitely not a saint," Dae said. "Because my price is a kiss. I bring you dinner, you give me a kiss."

Daephrin, why are you flirting with your mugger?

He gave her a charming grin and let go of her hand. She stopped wiggling underneath him and stared at him like he had just turned into a dragon. "Yer fuckin' bonkers," she said, but her voice held a note of intrigue.

"I'm bored. You're entertaining. And pretty."

She snarled.

"My name's Daephrin. What's yours?"

The girl growled at him for a moment before relenting. "Sophia."

[ahbts]

Kinktober day 2: Rosekiller - Vampire || NSFW || Words: 1827|| Tags: Vampire Barty - Human Evan - blood

The music is loud in Evan’s ear, all around him are people dancing, close together and sweating from every pore. Evan is moving to the sound, his body moving on its own accord with the bass vibrating in his bones. There are hands on his hips, guiding his movements as Evan loses himself in the rhythm. 

He lost James long ago, to some dark-haired stranger in a mesh top and leather skirt who had winked one time and his friend was making excuses to follow the man into the crowd. Evan doesn’t mind. The house is big but there are people everywhere and the combination of drugs and alcohol running through his body are making his head spin in the best way possible. 

When he opens his eyes for a second the world around him is in multicolour, purple, blue, green and red blurring his vision, making it spin and resulting in a manic laugh falling from his mouth. He wants to close his eyes again, lose himself in the euphoria but there is a man in front of him and all of a sudden Evan can’t look away. His eyes are stuck on the most electric blue he has ever seen. All other colours fall away and there is only that blue, as bright as a lightning bolt shooting through the night sky. They are beyond gorgeous. 

The man smiles lovely and lowers his head a bit so his mouth is aligned with Evan’s ear. “You are beyond gorgeous.” 

Oh, he had said that out loud. Evan doesn’t know what is going on but his whole body feels like it’s on fire, a sweat breaking out and the only thing he can think about is how amazing the man smells. a mixture of cologne, sweat and a distinguished scent Evan can’t place.

There are hands on his hips, lips on his neck and the outlining of a hard cock against his own rapid-filling one. There is no way the man isn’t feeling the clear sign of his arousal and Evan’s head is in such a ‘not-caring-about-anything’ mode that he bucks his hips forward, his hands on the man’s arse to pull him even closer. 

“Eager boy,” the man chuckles low and Evan’s head spins from the warmth of his voice. 

“I have no idea who I even am but all I know is that you are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” Evan tells him, leaning back to look at the man again. He has to look. Pale skin, almost luminescent under the lights of the room and when he lowers his eyes to the man’s lips he can see the plumpness in them from the man biting down on the pink cushions. 

“Why thank you,” he says, smiling back and revealing pearl white teeth, his canines a bit more pointy than normal canines. Almost like fangs. Evan looks back up to the man’s eyes and the electric blue is gone, the lightning colour that had intrigued him morphed into something darker. “Want to get out of here, pretty boy?” 

Something in the back of Evan’s mind is screaming at him not to, shake his head and get away from the man, but his body is already moving, following the man out the door and up a staircase. He is walking backwards, but with a grace that Evan has never seen before. How the man is not tripping over his own feet is a mystery to Evan but they reach the landing of the first floor and without looking the man reaches behind him, turning the nob and taking hold of Evan’s shirt to drag him inside. 

“I’m Barty by the way,” he smiles, grinning more likely, before Evan is pushed against the door and Barty is caching him in with his hands. “And I have never wanted someone more than I want you.”    

“Then take me,” Evan answers automatically, his whole body standing behind the words. 

Barty doesn’t wait a second after the verbal encouragement and surges forward to kiss Evan, hard and deep, his tongue licking into his mouth with a fire Evan had never encountered before. He moans when the pointy canines find his lip, first from pleasure but there is pain when Barty bites a bit too hard and he draws blood. 

Evan expects the man to lean back, apologise and take a moment to insect his lip. To his utter surprise, he is pushed up to the door even more forcefully, their crotches sliding together with delicious friction while Barty sucked the blood from his lip. 

Okay, bloodkink is something people have. Evan isn’t going to shame people for their kinks but when Barty lets go and moves his sharp canines over Evan’s pulse point with purpose Evan’s breath hitches and his foggy mind clears considerably. 

“Are you–” he doesn’t even know what he wants to ask but brings his fingers to Barty’s hair to pull the man back from his neck. His intoxicated state clears when he is met with deep crimson eyes. “What are you?” 

The question should have come out in a terrified tremble but Evan recognises the curiosity in his voice and lifts one simple brow when Barty smirks. 

“Hungry.” 

“Not what I asked,” Evan drawls when Barty tries to move into his neck again. He holds his hair and a soft whine comes from the beautiful creature in front of him. Barty probably is strong enough to free himself but he doesn’t, just staring at Evan with the salacious grin.

Evan studies the man, his bloodred eyes, the smooth pale skin, the longed canines. He feels the strain on his hand from the strength of the man and the elegance and speed with which Evan had been ushered into the room. It clicks in his brain and he should be scared, should go running, but everything Evan has ever read about vampires always turned out in either romance or mindblowing sex and both he wouldn’t mind. 

“You’re a vampire, aren’t you?”

“Very good,” Barty’s grin turns into a smile and he leans back a little, creating space between his and Evan’s body. He mourns the loss of the pressure against him and tries to move back in but Barty is moving. Like lightning speed the man –vampire– is across the room and on the bed. He rakes his hand through his shoulder length hair, revealing the streaks of red underneath the black that match the colour of his eyes had a moment ago. They seem to be back to blue now. “But you don’t seem scared?”

He is right. Evan isn’t scared. The rush in his blood is excitement, adrinaline, curiosity. “Never interesting ever happens to me,” he shrugs, sauntering over to the bed in a deliberate slow walk, sinking down and crawling over the man. “Why would I be scared of an interesting creature I thought only to be true in fantasy.” 

It’s a flash, one millisecond and Evan is on his back, Barty pushing him down, grinning his fangs on display. “I could kill you.”

“But you won’t.” 

“Why wouldn’t I?” 

“Because I can’t die without knowing how mind-blowing sex with a vampire can be,” Evan grins, dragging Barty down and working quickly to get his clothes off while he kisses him again, wanting to be eaten whole by the vampire. “Is it as hot as in the movies?” 

Barty grins, moving his teeth to Evan’s neck and nipping at it, making the smallest nick in his skin. “Even more so.”

They kiss and bite and there are nails and bruising hands everywhere. Evan is panting quickly, his cock weeping against his skin when Barty moves down and looks up from between his legs. “I need to know your name to moan it, darling,” the man whispers before licking up Evan’s cock. 

“E-Evan,” he stuttered in a gasp. 

“Evan,” Barty whispers, the name sounding like velvet from his mouth. “Evan, if I tell you I want to suck you dry in all ways possible what would you say?”

“Yes, please,” Evan groans, bucking his hips up to meet Barty’s grinning mouth, the fangs gracing his cock, making it jump in anticipation. 

“Excellent,” Barty grins, winking his teeth into Evan’s thigh and sucking hard. Evan’s head spins from the lack of blood and something intoxicating that might be coming from Barty but he is not sure. He just wants to touch himself and at the same time please Barty. 

A hand finds his cock and starts working it while the sucking on his thigh continues. He moans loudly and begs for more as Barty moves his mouth to the other leg. “Barty, please, I want you, want to feel you.” 

He looks down, finding the deep red eyes staring up at him, blood around his lips and Evan had never before seen something so beautiful. There is a wind and a flash, Barty is gone and back again in two seconds, lube in hand. 

“Open wide for me, puppet,” Barty drawls and Evan’s legs fall open to give access to the man to slide two of his fingers into him. He is opened up quickly and when Barty comes up to hang over him Evan throws his head back exposing his neck for the vampire to latch onto his artery. “Oh, look at you,” he drawls, kissing Evan before he moves back down his neck, “so eager for me, so good. You taste so good, I hope I can stop when I have to.” 

There is a kiss against Evan’s neck, his heart is thundering when he feels Barty pushing into him. “Forgive me if I can’t, Evan,” he whispers against Evan’s neck before his teeth sink in and the sharp pain of punctuating skin shoots through Evan. It’s glorious. 

They move together, Barty sucking his neck dry while he works hard to pump him full. Loud moans fill the room and Evan is floating, his head feels light and his eyes roll back more with every thrust. Barty is so strong and Evan is holding onto his hair, shoulders, and hips, for his life, literally. 

“Barty, fuck, please, I–” he stutters, moaning uncontrollably when he feels his consciousness slipping away. Barty picks up his pace even more, powerfully thrusting into Evan to chase his climax. He hits the right spot inside Evan over and over and when the thrusts get sloppier a hand reaches between them, wrapping around Evan and undoing him completely.

He comes with a soft whimper, unable to produce more sound than that. He feels Barty letting go of his neck faintly but the world is a fuzz and he knows he is going to pass out. There is a cloth against his skin and another voice floating into the room.

“Jesus Barty, did you kill him?”

The last thing Evan thinks before he blacks out is; that if he is dying he would die a very happy man.

[moorishflower]

Have begun writing a sort of...anachronistic fantasy setting inspired a lot by Discworld and it's reached the point where I think it's successfully grabbed my attention so here, have a snippet

It might be a bit disingenuous to say that the city has walked through a doorway, but to Hob’s ale-soaked and slightly wobbly view, that’s precisely what happens. He goes through the five step process of sobering up in a record time of a few seconds – these steps being cotton-mouth, thirst, salivation, headache, and relief – and abruptly finds himself no longer needing to use his staff as a counterweight against his skull to keep himself upright.

The man is beautiful. Therein is the comparison to the city, though Hob couldn’t have imagined how beautiful. There’s a woman beside him, tugging him inside, and they’re talking (“Come on, then. What are you waiting for?” she asks, and he answers, “Very well. But I do not see what purpose this will serve.”), but most of Hob’s higher intelligence has been reserved for the cataloguing of the man’s sheer presence.

He’s a severe-looking man, dressed head to toe in black robes, and with a black hood pulled up over the crown of his black hair, as if he thinks it will do anything to hide precisely how gorgeous he is. His skin’s the sort of translucent, delicate paleness of ivory sheared thin as paper, and when he accepts a tankard from his lady Hob can see the web of fine blue veins standing out on the backs of his hands. His reverie is briefly interrupted by a snort of amusement as he watches the man give the contents of his tankard a wary look before surreptitiously setting it down. Probably for the best. A man like that is the sort who’s used to…to fine wines and smears of fig jam on toast, and suchlike. What is a man like that doing here?

He makes a motion to the bartender, who rolls their eyes so hard it’s a wonder they don’t fly right out of their skull, and briefly abandons their duty of further begriming the bartop in order to lean in close. The beautiful man turns his head; his eyes are so blue, like chips of ice or cornflowers or the sky in summer, and Hob’s mouth goes dry again.

“Who…” he says, and then clears his throat. “Who is that?”

“Some nob, maybe.” The bartender eloquently displays what they think of nobs with a telling flick of their fingers. “Never seen him before.”

“I’ve got to know him,” Hob insists. “I’ve got to…to introduce myself to him?”

The bartender laughs. If one were realistic, one might call it a snigger. “You? Talking to him?”

“Yeah. Yeah.”

“You couldn’t catch his attention in a thousand years. A hundred-thousand. If’n you never died, you still wouldn’t have half the time you’d need.”

“I know death,” Hob insists. “I’ve seen death. My whole family was wiped out by the plague.”

“You’re a fool.”

“Nobody has to die,” he says, feeling increasingly desperate. He must sound like an absolute fool, but he can’t seem to stop his mouth. The bartender has given him an option, absurd as it is, and Hob’s fool brain is determined to take it. “The only reason people die is... s'cause everyone does it. You all just go along with it. But not me. I've made up my mind. I'm not going to die.” The man is looking at him. Hob’s heart soars somewhere up behind his Adam’s apple and lodges there, wriggling like an excited puppy. There is something special about this man. Not just for the fact that he’s beautiful, but something other, something more. He’s more real than the rest of the room, real in the way that the scholars over at the University talk about quantum, whatever that is. You could line this man up alongside eight twins of him, and Hob thinks he could pick the real one out every time.

[aurorasilverthorne]

Unholy Notions

Chapter #2: Bargains & Broken Chains

___________________

Rosie took a deep breath to steady herself before knocking on Alastor’s door. “Al, dear, can we talk?” No reply. She turned the nob only to find it locked. Undeterred, she took a pin from her hair and picked the lock until she heard it click. Rosie pushed the door open and poked her head inside. “Alastor?”

The room was equal parts swamp and luxury suite. Rustic, yet quaint, like The Radio Demon himself. Rosie stepped through the entry and the door swung closed behind her. Another sharp click told her the deadbolt was in place. She kept moving her heels clacking against the dark hardwood.

Two plush chairs sat in front of a giant marble fireplace, the wall above adorned with a set a massive antlers and picture frames whose portraits were half hidden in shadow. Fire crackled and hissed, a myriad of white, orange, yellow, blue, and red licking at the grey stone hearth.

Alastor occupied one of the armchairs, a glencairn full of homemade whiskey in his hand.

Rosie sighed. “Oh, Alastor…” She closed the distance between them and took his hand as she lowered herself into the empty seat beside him. “Turn to me, baby, not the bottle.”

Alastor stared at the dancing flames, their pale light casting dark shadows across his strained expression. “What was she thinking? The sheer audacity of that child…”

“Charlie means well,” Rosie said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Is it really her you’re upset with, or your father?”

Alastor bristled. “Don’t—” His face became a twisted blend of sorrow and fury. “Rosie, please…”

“Al, you’re nothing like that bastard,” she persisted. “You’re not abusive or neglectful and you’d never abandon the ones you love. He wasn’t a real man. You are.”

“Have you forgotten my seven year sabbatical?”

Rosie grimaced. “That wasn’t by choice. That bitch forced you to leave. If not for that damn deal I’d —”

“Let’s not speak of it. Just thinking about her makes my head ache.”

Rosie reached out and gently eased the cup out of his hand. “We need to decide what to do about Charlie. She wouldn’t have come to us unless it was necessary.”

Alastor tilted his head to look at her. “You want this…don’t you?” It wasn’t a question so much as a realization slamming into him like a full speed freight train running off its track.

Rosie wrapped her arms around herself rubbing her arms more from anxiety than a lack of warmth. Alastor always kept his room toasty. It was a nice contrast to her own skin, which was always cool to the touch. “She’s offering us the chance to start a family. It’s what we’ve always wanted, something we thought we’d never have.”

“The child would be Charlie’s heir—not ours.”

“Her heir in name only,” Rosie corrected him. “Charlie doesn’t know the first thing about being a parent. She’ll be too busy with the hotel to raise a kid. We’d be the main influences in the baby’s life. Al, our child would be the next king or queen of Hell.”

“And what do you think that vile woman will do when she learns we’ve conceived? That our progeny will inherit Lucifer’s throne? You and the fawn would never be safe.”

Rosie tsked. “Alastor, sweetheart, you’re not thinking straight. We wouldn’t be doing this out of the goodness of our hearts. You made a bargain with the princess, didn’t you? Use that to cancel your agreement with that slithering skank whore.”

If Alastor could’ve frowned, he would have. “Charlotte’s not powerful enough to nullify a soul contract—not from a demon that strong.”

“She isn’t,” Rosie replied, “but her father is.”

Alastor’s eyes widened. He hummed in thought, the look on his face pensive. Rosie had a point. Charlie refused to embrace the darker side of her nature. This hindered her abilities. Lucifer had no such qualms. He was the devil. His power absolute in Hell. “Rosie, darling, you’re brilliant!”

“Oh? How kind of you to notice,” she teased.

He leapt up from his chair, pulled her into a tight hug, and twirled her as she laughed before pulling back to look at her with what was likely the first genuine smile she’d seen from him since his return to Pentagram City. “I’ll regain my freedom. We’ll have our family. And that harlot can go fuck herself!”

Rosie giggled. “You promise?”

Alastor rested his forehead against hers. “I promise.”

Rosie peppered his face with kisses. It’d been so long since they’d been affectionate. Any time Alastor showed even the slightest bit of positive emotion, the cunt at the other end of his leash would give it a painful tug, a reminder that he’d never be happy or free so long as he was tethered to her. Rosie hated that woman more than anyone else in heaven, earth, or hell.

Alastor cupped her cheek and leaned in for an actual kiss. Rosie wrapped her arms around his neck moaning against his lips. He only stopped when the need for them to breathe forced him to.

“I love you,” he whispered.

Rosie opened her mouth to reply, but paused when she felt him tense in her embrace. “Al? Honey? What’s wrong?” He began to choke and wheeze.

To her absolute horror, a glowing collar and chain appeared around his neck, each thick, heavy, and made of black steel. She grabbed the metal in a futile attempt to remove it only to let go with a hiss, her hands blistered from mere moments of physical contact.

Alastor raked at his throat with his claws fighting for air. The person holding the other end of his chain jerked him upward where he dangled in midair. Rosie screamed Alastor’s name as he clung to the chain to avoid being strangled.

The door to his suite burst open. Charlie ran in first followed by Lucifer and the rest of the hotel residents. Charlie gasped while the others froze horrified by what they were seeing. It was Lucifer who acted. “His contract—was it signed willingly or under duress?”

“She tortured him and threatened to kill me if he didn’t submit,” Rosie cried.

“Good enough for me!” Lucifer cracked his knuckles then unfolded his wings. He flew toward Alastor pinning him to the nearest wall. “Hold still, Antlers. This is gonna sting.” Lucifer wrapped his hands around the collar. An electrical current tore through Alastor’s body making him shriek in agony.

Three harsh yanks from the king of hell shattered the collar like glass. The chain whipped back disintegrating as it disappeared back into the darkness along with the collar shards that had littered the floor.

Alastor hit the ground hard enough to break bone. Rosie ran to him rolling him onto his side so he wouldn’t suffocate on his own blood in case there was internal bleeding. “Alastor, are you okay? Speak to me!”

All she got in response was a groan.

Lucifer landed nearby livid. “Who the fuck was on the other end of that chain?”

“She…she said her name was Roo,” Rosie said. She was afraid he’d harm her or Alastor if she didn’t answer.

Lucifer’s eyes burned red and yellow as they narrowed “Eve.” He turned on his heel and headed for the door.

“Dad? Where are you going?” Charlie asked.

“I need to get in contact with heaven,” he told her. “Someone needs to catch Adam’s wife before she causes any more trouble. Stay here and make sure no one enters or leaves the hotel until I get back.”

“Okay.”

Charlie waited for her father to leave before she hurried over and knelt down beside Alastor. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“We couldn’t,” Rosie explained. “That was part of the deal. He wasn’t allowed to tell anyone. Eve would’ve killed him if either of us spoke up.”

“You should’ve come to me anyway,” Charlie protested. “I would’ve helped—protected you from her.”

Alastor pushed himself up into a sitting position his body still trembling from the onslaught. He looked exhausted and his voice was breathy when he spoke. “Forgive me, Charlotte, but while your powers are admirable, they’re nothing compared to the monster on the opposite end of that chain.”

“Is that why you and Rosie refused the surrogacy?”

“About that,” Rosie began.

Charlie shook her head. “We can discuss it in the morning if you want. Right now you and Alastor need to rest. Get some sleep. We’ll have breakfast ready by the time you wake up.”

Rosie nodded. “Alright. Thank you, Charlie.”

The princess left their room with the others in toe. Husk was the last to leave, closing the door on his way out. Rosie examined Alastor for any visible injuries. There were none that she could see.

“I thought I was going to lose you forever this time,” she confessed, her voice breaking under the weight of unshed tears.

“I’ll be fine,” he assured her. “You’ll never lose me, Rosie.”

She helped him undress and get into bed. Nothing else was said. They just held each other close and waited for sleep to claim them too worn out to do anything else. For the first time in seven long years, their dreams weren’t plagued with images of Roo or the torture they’d suffered at her hands. They were free.

___________________

Disclaimer: I OWN NOTHING!!! Hazbin Hotel and all of its characters belong to Vivziepop and Amazon Prime.

[serene-starss]

𝕴𝖙'𝖘 𝖆𝖑𝖗𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙

Pairing: anyone x reader

Warnings: SH, blood, cuts, your being doctored

“Are you ok? You’ve been in there awhile,” his voice says from behind the bathroom door.

I wipe my face and quickly clear my throat of the tears and sorrow that filled it. “I’m fine, stomach just hurts.” I lie.

“You’ve been in there a long time though.” He draws out the ‘long’ part and it makes my heart ache.

How could I do something to such a caring person?

I sniffle as my voice breaks, “I’m fine.”

I continue dabbing at the deep cuts on my thigh with the wet cloth, I double-check to be sure the door is locked.

“What’s going on? Why are you on the floor?” He asks a little more concerned.

I stumbled to find the right words, I guess he can see my shadow, or maybe the edge of my socks is poking out from under the door. “Uh..”

It’s like every word I spit out makes more bright red blood surface my pale skin.

“Please open the door,” he demands as he raddles the door nob.

I panic and try to pull my pants back on with a hiss, I swallow the pain. After all, it’s what I wanted.

I open the door and hope the puffiness of my red cheeks and swollen lips from being picked won’t give off how horrible I’ve been doing.

He looks at me like his heart shattered as soon as the door so much as cracked

“Oh, what happened?” He asks as he places a hand on my shoulder, he wants to hug me, I can feel it.

“Nothing, what happened to you?” I try to play it off but his eyes dart down to my now bloody jeans.

Shit.

I want to cry, I want to drop to the floor and forget about this world. Maybe if I push him away he will get the idea but it’s too late as he pushed passed me to grab a towel.

His eyes see the smudged blood on the toilet seat and counter, his whole body stops as his shoulder relaxes after taking in the scene.

I start to cry.

“Please, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, please don’t be mad I never wanted you to see.” I blurt out a train of apologies as he looks back at me with low and sad eyes.

It sucks because of how beautiful he looks in the dim hallway light that fills the small bathroom. His eyes give off a warm feeling of protection. I started to cry harder, if he was mad he would start yelling already. Or maybe he's like the others and would get aroused at the pink strokes across my skin.

“Here, sit down and take your pants off.” He says as he grabs the alcohol from under the sink.

I don’t want to make him mad so I just do as he says and wait, he’s never been mad at me though. Not even when I mess up or talk too much, or even when I beat him in that band competition in middle school.

The way his whisky-colored eyes swell with tears makes my heart shatter, I know I hurt him and I know it’s my fault. It sends a wave of pain piercing down my body, but the feeling of a wet makeup pad dabbing the wound drowns it out as I’m brought back to reality

“I’m sorry,” I try to say, but it’s interrupted with another silent cry.

“No reason to be sorry, I understand that this is what helps you cope.” He says as he cleans the blood off of my leg.

I was shocked at his words, everyone else just looked at me disgusted or yelled questions at me. Why is he so forgiving?

“Promise me you will let me help you, and don’t make this a dangerous thing.” He adds as he grabs gauze.

I just nodded, I didn’t know what else to do. “Ok,”

“Alright,” he replies as my tears dry and makes my face raw.

“I’m sorry,” I conclude.

“No reason to be,” he flashes me an honest smile before carefully sliding my pants back on.

“I’m sorry.” I look him in the eyes this time as I’m overwhelmed with a sense of care.

“I know, I love you.” He hugs me

[serene-sun]

𝕴𝖙'𝖘 𝖆𝖑𝖗𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙

Pairing: anyone x reader

Warnings: SH, blood, cuts, your being doctored

“Are you ok? You’ve been in there awhile,” his voice says from behind the bathroom door.

I wipe my face and quickly clear my throat of the tears and sorrow that filled it. “I’m fine, stomach just hurts.” I lie.

“You’ve been in there a long time though.” He draws out the ‘long’ part and it makes my heart ache.

How could I do something to such a caring person?

I sniffle as my voice breaks, “I’m fine.”

I continue dabbing at the deep cuts on my thigh with the wet cloth, I double-check to be sure the door is locked.

“What’s going on? Why are you on the floor?” He asks a little more concerned.

I stumbled to find the right words, I guess he can see my shadow, or maybe the edge of my socks is poking out from under the door. “Uh..”

It’s like every word I spit out makes more bright red blood surface my pale skin.

“Please open the door,” he demands as he raddles the door nob.

I panic and try to pull my pants back on with a hiss, I swallow the pain. After all, it’s what I wanted.

I open the door and hope the puffiness of my red cheeks and swollen lips from being picked won’t give off how horrible I’ve been doing.

He looks at me like his heart shattered as soon as the door so much as cracked

“Oh, what happened?” He asks as he places a hand on my shoulder, he wants to hug me, I can feel it.

“Nothing, what happened to you?” I try to play it off but his eyes dart down to my now bloody jeans.

Shit.

I want to cry, I want to drop to the floor and forget about this world. Maybe if I push him away he will get the idea but it’s too late as he pushed passed me to grab a towel.

His eyes see the smudged blood on the toilet seat and counter, his whole body stops as his shoulder relaxes after taking in the scene.

I start to cry.

“Please, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, please don’t be mad I never wanted you to see.” I blurt out a train of apologies as he looks back at me with low and sad eyes.

It sucks because of how beautiful he looks in the dim hallway light that fills the small bathroom. His eyes give off a warm feeling of protection. I started to cry harder, if he was mad he would start yelling already. Or maybe he's like the others and would get aroused at the pink strokes across my skin.

“Here, sit down and take your pants off.” He says as he grabs the alcohol from under the sink.

I don’t want to make him mad so I just do as he says and wait, he’s never been mad at me though. Not even when I mess up or talk too much, or even when I beat him in that band competition in middle school.

The way his whisky-colored eyes swell with tears makes my heart shatter, I know I hurt him and I know it’s my fault. It sends a wave of pain piercing down my body, but the feeling of a wet makeup pad dabbing the wound drowns it out as I’m brought back to reality

“I’m sorry,” I try to say, but it’s interrupted with another silent cry.

“No reason to be sorry, I understand that this is what helps you cope.” He says as he cleans the blood off of my leg.

I was shocked at his words, everyone else just looked at me disgusted or yelled questions at me. Why is he so forgiving?

“Promise me you will let me help you, and don’t make this a dangerous thing.” He adds as he grabs gauze.

I just nodded, I didn’t know what else to do. “Ok,”

“Alright,” he replies as my tears dry and makes my face raw.

“I’m sorry,” I conclude.

“No reason to be,” he flashes me an honest smile before carefully sliding my pants back on.

“I’m sorry.” I look him in the eyes this time as I’m overwhelmed with a sense of care.

“I know, I love you.” He hugs me

[limerental]

ficletvember 2023 - day 19

meve/reynard pegging pwp

Meve and Reynard finally find the time and privacy to test out Barnabas' gifted invention for releasing tension. this follows from day 7's ficlet and contains the promised smut

Meve paused, breath held, as her command was readily obeyed. 

The sight alone should not have been so disarming, but though she and her general had fumbled together for months now, it had ever been in the dark or wholly-clothed or with her pressed beneath him. Little time spent simply looking.

Reynard's shoulders were broad and lightly-freckled, the dip of his spine and the muscle of his arms accentuated by his lean forward against his elbows. The browned line of a tan stood out on the nape of his neck, meeting skin deeply pale. 

Giving to an impulse, Meve leaned to press her mouth there against the nob of his spine, feeling Reynard shudder as her bare breasts pressed to his shoulder.

On the open road, there had always been some reason to be found which made taking their time impractical. There was work to be done. Recruits were too near. The canvas walls were too thin. Anyone could walk into the command tent. 

Meve had tried not to take offense at how swiftly Reynard seemed to right himself after their affairs, returning to his uniform neatness and composure before she could even catch her panting breath. 

And Barnabas had been right in their conversation several weeks past. He rarely seemed more relaxed during or after their engagements. He tensed for any foot fall and resumed his duties immediately afterward, never lingering. 

Once Meve noticed Reynard's tension, she pledged to launch a campaign to ease it. If even for a moment.

It had taken some rigorous planning, including an uncomfortable conversation with Isbel about logistics and a similarly uncomfortable chat with the eavesdropping Gascon, whose vulgar hand gestures had unfortunately proven quite helpful. 

Then, there was the matter of a private location. The opportunity arose when a baron whose estate the army travelled past offered her lodging for the night. The poor man had been dumbfounded when his proud queen requested the use of his gardener's cottage. 

It was quaint and humble, but at last, there was a door that locked and a bed with a half-decent mattress and little chance of being overheard.

With some coaxing and prodding and promises that Gascon would make the proper excuses for them if any asked, Reynard had agreed to join her. 

All that careful planning had prepared her neither for the way his face flushed as she lay out her intentions nor the swiftness with which he agreed. 

It was a vulnerable position that she asked him to take. If it were not wholly in pursuit of his pleasure, she may have felt a tug of guilt at asking it of him at all. She was not ignorant of crass camp jests about the demeaning nature of such an act, how a receptive role diminished a man's masculinity.

Reynard had scoffed at her concerns. No touch of her hand could ever be demeaning and any man with such misguided notions must not be secure in his manhood.

And so, after helping one another shed each piece of their armour, sharing slow kisses as their bare skin brushed, Meve had bid Reynard to lie on his belly.

She had been advised to start with careful slowness and would not have considered otherwise.

Candlelight flickered across the muscled plane of his back, and though Meve could not claim to have had many male lovers, she had never seen a man's body so alluring.

Her hand smoothed down the soft curve of his back, her calloused hands feeling small against the breadth of him. His waist was comparatively narrow, and she tightened her grip there a moment, pleased to hear his hitch of breath and feel the shift of muscle beneath her palm. The contrast was delightful, like velvet over steel.

She was surprised to find his backside, though horribly and blindingly pale, to be an ample handful, soft and supple as she dared to cup the flesh in her hand. Gathering from what she enjoyed in such a position, she firmed her touch into a squeeze and murmured her every intention against the span of his shoulder.

Meve wished to see him give to her, to lose the taut stiffness of his shoulders and forget himself. She wanted to hear him call out his pleasure without heeding volume. She wanted him to feel the same care that she felt beneath his hands.

And of course, she assured him that other pleasures could be had if the sensation was not to his liking.

They had all night and nothing to concern themselves with but one another.

Reaching to the table beside the bed, she cracked the lid of the small jar Isbel had given her and pressed her fingers into the oily concoction. Feeling it warm in hand, faintly humming with magic, she fought against further hesitation and slipped her slick fingers down the cleft of his arse.

Rubbing with careful pressure, she let herself look. Reynard's sparse body hair thickened at his tailbone. Though that private part of his body appeared perfectly average and mundane, not particularly arousing, a thrill of excitement went through her as she watched a finger slip past the pink ring of muscle. It required an exquisite sort of trust. That he allowed her to touch there. That he believed do readily in her sworn promise to help him feel good, even though she felt less certain given her lack of experience.

At first, he clenched against her, his unmatched self-control and desire to please her warring with the uptight tension he naturally held in every line of his body.

When at last he managed to relax the appropriate muscles, her finger slipping in easily to the last knuckle, Meve muttered senseless praise as she held there. How warm he was inside, how velvet-soft, how good it was to see the tension loosen from his shoulders.

Determined to see that looseness follow through his whole body, she rubbed with careful pressure and gently crooked her fingers in the ways she had been instructed.

She had been told that some men found the stimulation of the nerve-rich organ to be oversensitive rather than pleasurable, but she learned almost at once that it was not so for Reynard. 

He breathed that he'd always wondered what drove a man to buggery and oh, now he understood.

Quietly, he confessed that his attraction to men had only gone so far as the use of hands and mouths, had never trusted another man enough to engage in what he had assumed to be an unpleasant experience for the receptive partner.

Meve pressed a second finger in to join the other, pleased with Reynard's small grunts and whines of sound but desiring to inspire more. At last, he cried out on a firm stroke. He spoke into the mattress that if her fingers alone felt like this, he could only imagine her cock, and Meve felt so wet between her legs she felt she would drip with it.

Patience had never been one of Meve's virtues, but she did not wish to cause the man beneath her any discomfort in her haste. She took great and thorough care with her ministrations and was rewarded with the sight of Reynard's back arched below her, the meat of her hand cupping his arse as he breathed open-mouthed against the bed linens. 

Straining her own self-control, she waited until his began to fray at the edges, trembling through his shoulders as his reassurances that he could handle more took on a desperate edge.

Unfortunately, readying herself required leaving the bed to fetch Barnabas’ gifted invention and recall how the contraption was meant to be worn.

Reynard rose beside her. He held the harness out for her to step into with hands on his shoulders, made clumsy in her haste. The brush of his fingers as he helped adjust the buckles at her hips and test their tightness like one would a horse's bridle nearly drove her to madness with their gentle attention.

Without being asked, he lay back down on his belly, propped on his elbows with neck dropped forward in quiet submission.

She nearly wept with the feeling that struck her then. How satisfying it felt to be trusted so completely, to be respected equally.

When Reynard had first confessed his years of yearning for her, she had feared that her reality would not live up to his ideal of her, that he had made her more grand in his mind as his Queen than the woman she was when stripped bare before him.

She had worried also that her station would make him feel unfairly compelled to obey, forgetting his own needs to appease hers. That even asking him to relent to his own pleasure would be something he did out of honour-bound duty rather than earnestly enjoyed.

Her hesitance led him to look back over his shoulder, a flush of anticipation colouring his cheekbones. His expression was as softened as she had ever seen it, and Meve knew she need not have worried.

He had told her plainly that he wanted her in any way that she desired and expressed a hope that she felt the same.

Meve certainly wanted him. She wanted with a crushing depth and intensity that surprised her.

With that desire quickening her heartbeat, she lay her body over his, her pelvis flush to his backside, knowing he would keenly feel the solid firmness of the phallus. 

Sneaking a hand between their bodies, she found him loose and open for her. The slick sound of her oiled hand warmed through her belly, and Reynard breathed in measured huffs, more cracks showing in his collection. 

Fearing that further delay would drive both of them mad, Meve pressed a kiss to the bone of Reynard's shoulderblade and guided the weight of the phallus inside him.

Barnabas had explained that there was a touch of ancient gnomish magic woven into the device, and she understood his meaning now as tingles of sensation crept up her spine. It was not quite as tangible as she imagined her own flesh and blood would be, but there was clear sensation. A heat and a pressure. It spread to her own core in an echo of feeling.

When she asked if Reynard was well, sweeping her hand up through his sweat-damp hair in a soothing gesture, he cursed aloud with a vulgarity that she had never heard from him and bid her to move her hips.

Clumsy at first and unsure of the proper angle, Meve steadied his hips with both hands, brow furrowed in concentration. She drove forward in even thrusts as he visibly willed his muscles to bear down and welcome her.

Praise fell from her lips, sweet and earnestly filthy in ways she hadn't thought herself capable. The words had the desired effect on Reynard, soon looking overwhelmed and deeply flustered.

Leaning across his broad back, she snuck a hand beneath him, not able to do much more in the limited space than to hold her palm against the overheated firmness of his cock and feel him rut against his belly and the ridges of her fingers.

Time seemed to stretch. Their bodies grew slippery with the sweat of exertion. Meve was glad for the strength of her thighs. The pace required to inspire deepening groans and curses would have been difficult to maintain if her legs and back were not well-muscled and used to strain.

Were she a man, no muscle would have helped her. She would have embarrassed herself within a few, short thrusts inside him.

To their joint surprise, the phallus began to hum and vibrate as their pleasure crested, driving them both to their peaks, and together, they were lost.

Meve had barely regained her breath when the sight before her fluttering eyes took it again. This time with a deep swell of affection. Collapsed forward on the mattress, his body loose and pliant, pinched brow finally relaxed, Reynard half-dozed beneath her. 

As she withdrew the phallus, he shifted to look at her, but she shushed him with a long stroke of both hands down his back, lest he tense again. She hurried to release herself from the harness, kicking it free of her legs, and lay down beside him with an arm slung across his shoulders. 

She rested their foreheads together and neither moved for a long while.

Later, when she lay on her back with his body moving above and within her, curled down with consuming heat around her, she snuck her hand behind him to delve two searching fingers into his entrance still loose with oil. His helpless cry and the stutter of his thrusts as he spent almost at once surprised them both, and she laughed against the slump of his shoulder as he moaned in embarrassment at his failure to contain himself. 

With whispered reassurance, he laughed as well, quiet huffs into her hair that felt more precious than any sound she had ever heard. 

She had never heard him laugh. 

When she told him how dearly she liked that sound and should like to hear more of it, he drew back to look at her, eyes brimming with tenderness. She was sorry to have sobered him, apology forgotten when he leaned close for a deep kiss full of words unspoken.

If they survived this war unscathed and victorious, she knew there would be many years of laughter and released tension to come.

[residentrookie]

dream girl evil (lily's version)

a lily evans microfic set after the snape incident // inspired by the song dream girl evil (florence + the machine) // word count: 745

Lily Evans, perfect prefect. 

Lily Evans, Head Girl. 

Lily Evans, top of her class. 

She’s heard all these things said in various tones and with various intentions. Whispered in awe by some first years she passes in the hall. Muttered with distaste and thinly failed jealousy by her peers. She can’t help that she draws people’s attention, for better or for worse. Maybe it’s the flaming hair, maybe it’s the fiery tongue, maybe it's the fact that she’s the brightest witch of her age. 

She feels the eyes wherever she goes. She hears their whispers. Most days she can ignore them.

Some days she can’t. 

Did you hear what Snape called her yesterday? 

Snape and his cronies totally tore into that Evans girl. 

I thought they were supposed to be friends. 

That’s what she gets for hanging out with such a fucking prick. 

She walks down the hall with a blank face. No expression. Chin up. She won’t cower today, there was far too much of that yesterday. It’s not often your so-called best friend humiliates you in front of the entire school. And she thought James Potter would always take the cake on that front. No, turns out Severus has done a thorough job of it all by himself. 

Mudblood. 

A filthy fucking word. She’s heard it countless times, been called it countless times, but never by him. Her friend. Her Sev. 

“Lily!” she hears and almost trips over smooth ground. 

No. Absolutely fucking not. She does not turn, does not pause.

“Lily, fucking wait!” 

Her mind is a ticking bomb, her body is a bundle of dynamite. Severus is an open flame and the closer he comes, the closer she get to combustion. 

“Don’t,” she murmurs, almost to herself. Teeth gritted, shoulders rigid. 

“Lily, please—” 

He’s too close. The fuse is lit. She whirls, waiting to ignite. 

“What,” she spits. 

Severus shrinks back at her tone and something in her smiles with sharp teeth. 

Good, she thinks, it’s my turn to make you bleed. 

He licks his lips. “I want to talk.” 

“No.” 

“Please, Lily, I—” 

“Oh, it’s Lily now, is it? Sorry, I can’t seem to keep up with all the names you have for me lately, Sev.” 

He winces, reaching out. “I want to apologize. I didn’t mean—” 

“I think I know exactly what you meant. There aren’t many other ways to interpret it.”

Her friend stares at her with sorry eyes, but for once she feels nothing. There is no urge to smooth things over, to let old wrongs die. She is not willing to let this go. There is no forgiveness in her for this. 

“I’m done,” she says, and hears her voice crack, not from weakness, but from anger. “This is over. We are not friends. You've lost that priviledge. You threw it away."

Severus looks broken. The worst parts of her rejoice.

"But," she adds, "there is something I want to know. Something I want you to tell me,” she admits, and watches Severus perk up, eager. 

“Anything” 

“Why were you ever my friend, if I was only ever some dirty nothing unfit to be near you? Why did you always seek me out for comfort, why did you always come running back to me, if I was so unworthy? What the fuck was I to you?” 

Snape pales. “You're not unworthy. You are my friend. My best friend. You— you are all the best parts of me, Lily. You always were. You push me to be better. I can always count on you to see the light in the world, the beautiful things. I always— I could always count on you to remind me of… goodness. Always.” 

At that she goes still. So that’s the truth, then. That’s the whole of it. She can see it all so clearly now. She was never a person to him. Just a something to prescribe traits to whenever he found it convenient, to make him feel good when he needed it.

His perfect girl some days. His punching bag other days.

She was never a person to Severus Snape. 

And that makes her want to burn down the whole fucking world. 

“Severus,” she says, low. Threatening. “I am nobody’s moral center.” 

His eyes widen and she pushes the knife in further, deeper, twisting. 

“I can promise you, whatever version of me you’ve created in your head, you love her much more than you ever loved me.”

Lily turns to go, but pauses, looking back one last time.

“I hope she’ll keep you company, Sev. Whatever dream girl you thought I was. She’s all you’ll have left of me, after this.”

[theoakandthemistletoe]

Journey

While Morris plunged into a boiling ocean, another ship, on calmer seas, slid gracefully away from Scrantz, bound for the Grey Harbour of Baldur's Gate.

With land out of sight, the second watch were free to rest, gamble, or, in the case of the cooper, swing herself up onto a barrel and lean over the guard rail. As a gnome, she made up for what she lacked in height with the length of her trident, which she levelled at the ocean, frowning in concentration. Fish kept away from the larger military ships close to port, but perhaps here, in a sea few vessels from the kingdom of Anken ever crossed, perhaps--

A pat on her back broke her focus. Behind her stood the cook, a half-orc whose finger alone had nearly been enough to knock her over the side, and a few idle sailors. The cook's grin revealed two broken tusks.

'Stocking up, Kipper?'

'I was going to, before you interrupted.'

'Wouldn't want you falling in. Leave it, we'll trawl a net later. Hangman's dice?'

Kipper sat on the rail and leaned her trident against the side. Soon the dice were splayed across the top of the barrel. An assortment of fish bones, buttons, and shells made up the pot. This was a friendly game, more about conversation than the winnings, and after a few rolls of the dice Kipper nodded behind her.

'Who's the nob?' she asked. The cook glanced round, at the hands hauling on lines and the ornate doors beneath the quarterdeck.

'What?'

'The one in with the captain. Haven't seen 'em since we got under way.'

'I heard they're a soldier, scouting for House Skullduggan,' supplied one of the sailors, as he totted up his dice. Kipper shook her head as the cup was passed to her.

'That weren't no common soldier. They had real nice boots on.'

Dice rattled onto wood. The sailor leered at the gnome.

'You would notice that.'

'Watch it, bigjob, or I'll have your stinking boots off and over the side.'

Another sailor finished tamping down her pipe and leaned forwards. A veil of smoke fell across the group, shielding them from the watchful eyes of the mates on duty.

'I heard as they're one of the Skullduggans themselves,' she said. The revelation was met with a mixture of denial, contemplation, and general dismissal, until the cook slammed her hand down over the dice. The barrel buckled under its weight.

'You're all wrong. I heard they're the Skullduggan. You know. The Marquis.'

She raised her hand and threw her dice in silence. The sailors watched. Two sixes and a three, a good fall. Kipper spoke first, hesitantly.

'Nah, can't be. Who'd be in charge back home?'

'There's loads of 'em, right? They'll probably fight for it. Like rats.'

'I still don't believe it.'

'D'you reckon they've got the sword?' asked a sailor. This seemed to encourage the others, who began to chime in at an increasing volume.

'The sword's made up.'

'No it isn't, I seen it on a statue.'

'What about the Helm? That's real, saw it myself, back during the war with Enkannil.'

'Is it true it turns 'em into a ten foot tall skeleton?'

'Aye, and the bones're so cold they freeze anyone who touches 'em. That's how they survive in the desert.'

'I heard a rumour they kill the captains of the ships they sail on, so's nobody can try and run home.'

'What if they kill our captain? Could we take 'em?'

'No one fights a Skullduggan and lives. They'd take us all out, easy.'

Kipper let them chatter away and stared at the door again. Her expression this time was much more thoughtful, and after a while she reached out to pat her trident, the weight of its shaft reassuring in her tiny hand.

---

Behind the door, the noble guest, foremost of County Scrantz, advisor to the king, decorated war leader and Royal Troublemaker the Marquis Skullduggan was pale, sweating, and propped up in their bunk beside a tin basin, clenching a fist in their limp hair.

'I don't get seasick. The twins get seasick. It must have been the food on this godsforsaken peasant barge, if you can call that sawdust food. Or the wine, it was definitely inferior to ours. That must be it. It was practically poison, I--'

The servant turned his head for a tactful few seconds, while the Marquis was necessarily distracted, and took in the rest of the cabin. There, indeed, was the Helm of Skullduggan, sat inert on the flap of a fold down desk, and propped up on the deck beneath it lay the sword, sheathed in leather embossed with the House motto. Rocking, swaying light danced through the only porthole and played around the ruby on the hilt, a dizzying spangle of pink sunlight in the otherwise darkened cabin.

Behind him, Skullduggan fell back against the pillow, panting.

'Sola mors bloody pacem. I'd rather die than arrive like this. Do you know how Skullduggans are supposed to make their entrance?'

Since this appeared to require an answer, the servant cleared his throat.

'Rioting, shouting, and pillaging, your grace?'

'A simple yes would have sufficed.' They pushed the basin away and winced, but managed to remain upright. 'They don't lose fights against a puddle. Why couldn't we get a wizard to teleport us or something?'

'After County Tirynn voted to outlaw magic--'

'That vote failed. I bribed Dwylionn and Rodyn a lot of money to make sure it failed.'

'Indeed, your grace, but many citizens are now reluctant to admit to the study of magical arts, lest they be persecuted later.'

'Cowards.'

Further condemnation proved impossible as the ship swung upwards on a swell and brought another wave of alleged food poisoning with it. After a while, and some muffled whimpering from under the blankets, the servant chose to tactfully retreat from the cabin and head deeper into the ship, in the direction of the captain's quarters.

He returned some time later to find the Marquis making progress in the war against their own constitution. It had been bitterly won, but they were sat at the desk on a stool bolted to the deck, the Helm taking their place in the bunk, and although their head was resting on their hands they had abandoned the comfort of the basin in favour of a map of Faerûn. As the servant slipped past them to empty the basin through the porthole, they mumbled,

'Any word from the captain?'

'He wishes to speak to your grace at the first available opportunity.'

'Must I? I suppose he wants to tell me about the local exports and trade routes of the Sword Coast.' The Marquis took a deep breath and rose. One second, two seconds, and they were able to open their eyes, although they kept themselves propped against the bulkhead. 'I'll see him now.'

The servant watched doubtfully as they strode, on trembling legs, towards the door. On balance, however, forging ahead with the meeting was probably no less wise than it would be to argue with a determined Skullduggan, and so he settled for clearing his throat again.

'Before you go, I must remind you, your grace, that by order of the King and the noble houses, you are required to remain discreet.'

The Marquis waved a hand.

'Yeah, yeah.'

'We are not on this voyage seeking a war, and even the smallest of diplomatic incidents could have disastrous-- please, your grace!'

And the door clattered shut behind them.

[technoarcanist]

"It's not fair. It's just not bloody fair, I say," said Vimes, glaring down at the bilge of Ankh-Morpork from on high in much the same way he used to stare at a plate of vegetables with his breakfast.

"Most people get to retire. I've seen to it they get bloody good compensation, too. And their families. And their kids."

Vimes leaned over the edge of his looking platform* and focused his viewpoint on Botney Street. Nobby Nobs was questioning two people who Vimes had just seen about to rob a family's home. When Nobby Nobs told you that you were nicked, he was mostly referring to any shiny bits you had in your pockets.

"But not me", he continued, "Never me. Can't let old Sammy retire, they always said, he's got too many responsibilities."

The two men Nobby was talking to seemed to finally crack. Spending any length of time in close proximity to the unique smells and sounds of Old Nobbs were usually enough to get even the most hardened mind to confess to things. Crimes, secrets, the pocket money they spent on sweets when they were a kid.

"And now look at me, worshipped as a god? Pah! I've met the gods now and they're every bit as disappointing as I thought they'd be. Bunch of stuffy knobs, I say. At least Sybil was nice enough to let me pretend that I was still scum class."

YOU KNOW, said a figure beside him, MOST PEOPLE I MEET WOULD NOT SAY NO TO UNENDING EXISTENCE AS A GOD.

"Oh yes?" said Vimes, scrunching up his nose, "Well then, tell me, since you're the expert after all, do you think any of them would be satisfied with it after they got it?"

Death considered the question.

NO.

"No," Vimes bitterly agreed.

TO BE UNENDING IS TO BE UNCHANGING, Death continued, with a subtle intensity that was the closest thing to emotional Vimes had ever head them get, TO BE FREE FROM TIME IS TO NOT HAVE ANY TIME TO SPEND. WITHOUT DEATH, THERE IS NO TRUE LIFE.

Vimes nodded, as if he understood. As far as he was concerned, being able to watch Ankh Morpork in its every detail without being allowed to touch it was the universe's idea of eternal punishment.

After a while, Vimes spoke again.

"Hey," he said, looking at Death with wider eyes, "I don't suppose you could, you know."

The god of watches twirled a finger at Death's Scythe.

I CANNOT. THIS TOOL IS FOR MORTALS. YOU ARE NO LONGER MORTAL.

"Well, yeah, but. I mean, I was mortal once, right? Can't you just make an exception?"

DO YOU WANT TO DIE?

It was Vimes' turn to consider. He answered with a dejected sigh.

"I just can't bloody stand the idea of being worshipped. Doesn't feel right. Feels like they're all making a big fuss over me when they should be down there dealing with what's still in the city."

"My city," he added.

Death turned their infinite gaze to Vimes. Those pale blue dots were showing an expression Vimes was usually used to being on the sending end of. Death looked inquisitive.

GODS CANNNOT EXIST WITHOUT WORSHIP, WITHOUT BELIEF. IF YOU WISH TO FADE AS OTHERS HAVE, WHY THEN DO YOU ANSWER THEIR PRAYERS? WHY, ACROSS THE DISC, DO YOU LEND YOUR POWER TO THOSE WHO SEEK JUSTICE?

"Listen here, you," said Vimes, prodding Death's indifferent cloak, "you try spending existence able to do nothing but watch them bumble about without you. Answering prayers is about the closest things I can get to my old job."

AND YET, said Death, YOU COULD STOP. YOU COULD LEAVE THEM TO IT. ALLOW YOURSELF TO FADE.

Vimes scowled. Then, he softened.

"If I don't do it," he said, "who will? It'll all fall to chaos without me. I don't want to do it, you understand. I've just got to."

Death nodded.

OF COURSE YOU DO. AS DO WE ALL.

The god and the philosophical concept looked back down to the pulsating arteries of Ankh-Morpork's streets. The city breathed and hummed, strained and sighed. Death followed those streets every single day. Yet, Vimes realised, there was possibly nowhere else on the disc that was more unapologetically, and irresistibly alive.

"Hey," Vimes said eventually, "One more question. Does it ever get boring? Watching it all happen from afar?"

Death's grin smiled. From this angle, even the sharp ridges of their skulls brow seemed soft, and arched in the way a kindly grandfather my smile to a child on their lap.

WATCHING THE WORLD OF THE LIVING... IS THE SINGLE GREATEST PRIVILAGE OUR JOB AFFORDS.

Vimes relaxed his shoulders and kicked at his boots. He'd insisted on keeping his old boots.

Just a bit longer, he thought.

Just a bit longer.

*all gods on the Discworld who make it all the way to Cori Celesti are given a looking platform. Or a crystal ball. Or a looking glass. Or a terravision set. Something to keep an eye on what all the mortals are up to without having to go to the trouble of actually going down to hear them talk about the day they're having. Vimes was still new to the land of the gods, and so was told to make do with a balcony and a railing until he could be trusted with the TV remote.

I like to imagine that Sam Vimes, instead of dying properly, instead got minor godhood. All watchmen at some point thank him for his actions, his actions a ripple across the Disc. There's precedent in the Duchess of Borogravia, and in his arc. He keeps getting promotions, and hates each one. What higher status could he be unwillingly raised to than divinity, eternally watching the watchman?

Anyways, that's just a headcanon i've got

[redsolocup36]

One Last Call

Part of a series of short stories I will be posting. They exist in an interconnected universe, to tell one story. Warning for violence and language in this one.

It's the first post I'll be making on Tumblr, so obviously I'm unfamiliar with the site. But, I'm more in it to share some of my creative stuff, so I'll just be happy if anyone reads it.

- - - -

Another frigid gust of wind tousles the headfur of two pale white foxes staring at one another with tired eyes. A few grey hairs stick out, following a narrow jaw that he runs a slender finger against. Still, there is a gleam in his dark green eyes, one he shares with his niece and nephew. Closing his eyes, he thinks of them, finding peace for a moment. Opening them again, he prepares himself. He returns to my full height, looking away from the mirror.

A thin path, shrouded in forest sits before him, lit only by the truck's high beams. His partner is in there, somewhere, investigating the house that they were called to. A report from a neighbour of a scream, crashing, then silence. No lights can be seen between the trees, though faintly a building can be made out. The old fox looks over his shoulder at the road they came off of, scuffing his boot in the gravel. Letting out another deep breath, he works his jaw returning his look towards the dark path.

A figure is there, far in the distance. It walks towards him, then calls out. "Gabriel! I need ya'!" An ominous gleam reflects in his partner's eyes, a yellow sheen cast by the truck. Being a falcon, that boy can see for miles, but it's still unnerving.

"What do you need, Isaiah?" The fox's voice is gruff, projecting himself towards his distant companion.

The young officer replies quickly, an uncharacteristic shakiness to his voice; "I found the homeowners. They're - it's…" He glances back towards the house, gripping at the holster on his belt. "I couldn't go in."

"It's okay, Isaiah. Is it our feral?"

The young man simply nods in response. Gabriel mutters, gripping the top of the truck door. Looking up, the radio antenna flails wildly, despite being strapped down. He leans into the cab, appreciating the momentary respite, toying with the dispatch CV. He calls into the radio, only for grainy white noise to blare out in reply. Continuing to turn various nobs yields nothing, and he tosses the radio onto the passenger seat in frustration.

Slamming the door shut, he steps with purpose towards the trunk, tearing it open. Removing the lid of a hard case with equal tenacity, he brandishes a trusty shotgun. Loading it, the old fox elects to take a few more with him, keeping them in an interior pocket of his windbreaker. resting the gun sling across his shoulder, he makes his way towards the path, electing to leave the truck's headlights on.

If it really is the Feral, he has every right to gun the thing down on sight. It's lost its ability to reason, acting only on animalistic impulses. Many choose to think that they aren't people anymore because putting any more thought into it would drive them mad. The ferals are living proof that nobody quite knows what makes us different from any other animals. We can walk, we can use tools, and we can communicate, but in just the right conditions our minds would snap, and then we go right back to being senseless. It doesn't happen often, or not often enough for many people to be concerned. But government officials are much more aware of it. A missing person, a violent crime, a mental breakdown. Anything could suggest it.

But, there's always a victim. A family member, a coworker, or some poor random on the street. They get torn to shreds, eaten alive, with nothing remaining to suggest they were more than butcher's scraps. That, he thinks, is what unnerves people most about them. Not that ferals used to be like them, but that ferals can reduce you to nothing but another animal, a food source.

And so, many people are judicious with the force they use against them. They don't stop until they're dead, and their no known cure. Anyone who tries to work towards it gets maimed eventually, so no one bothers. Better to just put them out of their misery. He slowly racks the gun's slide, watching the shell appear, before pushing it back in. 12 gauge, it ought to get the job done.

As he walks, he stops momentarily, noticing a singular snowflake drifting in the air, and landing on his hand. It blends immediately into his white fur and melts before he gets a chance to look at it. Despite being mid-November, the town had yet to get its first snow. Soon, probably, he can feel it.

His other hand grips the shotgun's sling intently. Noticing the sensation of his claws digging into his own skin, he forces himself to relax. Another deep breath and he takes a confident stride. He needs to keep calm, so Isaiah can stick through this. The trees stretch up into a dark sky absent of stars. Petrified, Gabriel forces himself to look forward, only to be greeted by an infinitely more disturbing sight.

The homeowner's house sits along the natural harbour, with a sight of the town far on the opposite bank. But, despite the quaint look, there are no lights on in the house, and more concerning, the front door appears absent. Isaiah stands on the porch, scrutinising the front of the house with a flashlight. "The front door got tore up," Isaiah comments.

Gabriel sidles past his partner, taking a brief glance inside the house. Chunks of wood and splinters litter the ground, and the bottom portion of the door wilts loosely from a hinge. "I can see that." Gabriel picks up a larger piece, running his hand along the face. Four distinct claw marks run along it, the rightmost substantially shorter. "This looks like a medium-weight animal."

"A B-Class, that'd be someone like you right?"

"Yeah." Gabriel continues to stare at the marks on the wood. Something about the particular marks reminds him of his days in basic training. When they were training to kick down doors, he missed the correct point and injured his foot. Notably, he also left a distinct mark on the door, like most inexperienced people do. Marks like that are useful for forensics to identify a potential species, but Gabriel remains uncertain.

Letting it fall back on the floor, he turns his attention to the rest of the damage on the doorframe. "It was completely torn from the damn frame…"

Isaiah shifts uncomfortably, looking over his shoulder at the dark forest, seeming to creep ever closer when he doesn't watch. "You don't think a B could do that - right?"

"No." Gabriel shakes his head, "No A-Weight people went missing recently, right?"

Isaiah shrugs, "Nah. Not nearby, at least." He pauses, bringing his light up to a window on the second floor. "I think a bear went missing in Hobart, but that's too far. 'Less he's an Olympian sprinter or somethin'."     "Yeah, alright." Gabriel nods, stepping over the debris into a cramped hallway. There are four doors and a staircase between the two on the left. "Have you cleared the house, Isaiah?"

"For the most part, yeah. The bottoms torn to shit and the homeowners - er, victims are up top."

"Bedroom?"

"Yeah, both in bed."

"In bed, like sleepin'?"

Isaiah simply nods, looking down at his feet as he steps over a smashed picture frame. Gabriel tears his eyes away from it before he can get a good look at the figures in it, looking up the dark staircase. It goes up a few steps and then turns to the right, probably leading to another hallway. Without a second thought, Gabriel shifts the sling off his shoulder and bears the gun in his hands.

One by one, he creeps up the steps, pausing at the turn. Turning it, he sees nothing but evokes a loud creak from the ageing wood flooring. Isaiah stands close behind, a hand on his shoulder, lighting the way for Gabriel. With each step, Isaiah's talons seem to dig deeper into Gabriel's shoulder, but he makes no comment. Slowly, they make their way up the steps, leading to yet another dark hallway. Illuminated only by a framed window on the opposite side, four more closed doors taunt Gabriel's instincts.

Isaiah puts down the flashlight as they crest the final steps, but keeps his hand on Gabriel's shoulder. "They're in the back left room. These other rooms are empty - just a bathroom, office and a guest room I think."

"Alright, thank you, Isaiah." Gabriel continues forward, eyes flicking between each door as they pass them. "Clear them again please, and keep the doors open."

"Yes, sir," Isaiah breaks away, and Gabriel hears one of the doors slowly creak open. He keeps his attention on the door, the brass nob glinting slightly in the moonlight. Standing outside of the door, he lowers the gun and rests his hand on the nob. Already, the stench of blood and refuse reaches his nose, and he holds down a gag. Trembling, his hand still rests on the doorknob, and he flinches as another door opens.

"We're good, sir," Isaiah reports. "Do you wanna go in?"

- - -

Gabriel leans against the wall, staring out the gaping front door. Isaiah sits on the stairs across from him, attempting to light a cigarette with shaking hands. "You alright, son?" Gabriel's voice is quiet and soothing.

"I dunno'," Isaiah's voice shakes, eventually dropping the lighter.

Gabriel steps towards him, digging in his pockets. Retrieving a lighter of his own, he bends over, lighting the dry cigarette resting between Isaiah's beak. He closes his eyes as he takes a long drag, "Thank you, sir."

Patting his shoulder, Gabriel turns his attention back to the destroyed door. Like a large beast bearing its fangs, it demands Gabriel's attention. Stray beams of yellow light cut through the dense trees, their truck otherwise hidden from view. He shifts, uncertain if he'd rather be there, exposed, or back upstairs.

Looking back down at Isaiah, he seems to finally have relaxed. The young man only recently joined Cheshires police force, graduating from the academy in Juneau and coming back home. A month after he ends up in a lonely house in the middle of the woods, combing through a room covered in gore. They couldn't even identify what parts belonged to who, and left before either got sick. Even if the person they're tracking is feral, they are exceptionally violent. Gabriel shakes the thought from his head, turning his gaze back towards the door.

A figure, gone as quickly as he noticed it.

"Jesus fuck!" Gabriel whips the shotgun back up to his shoulder, and Isaiah jumps, clawing at the pistol in his holster.

"What, what'd you see?"

Gabriels' heart pounds in his head. Instinct and training takes over. "It moved to the right, into the living room. Watch the back door." Gabriel points to the door to the back left room. "They're connected, right?" Isaiah nods, turning away from him.

Gabriel reorients, stepping cautiously towards the open door to his right. It's deathly silent, nothing suggesting another person just entered the house. Still, he steps forward, gun raised, holding his breath. Inching closer to the empty frame, his grip tightens, until in an instant he enters.

The room is demolished, a split table and overturned couch take up most of the room, but most pertinent is the door opposite Gabriel. It closes slowly, screeching from unoiled hinges. With careful steps, he steps over the damaged furniture, and calls out to his partner; "Isaiah! Clear the room on three!" Hearing a quick reply, he braces himself against the door.

One, he takes a step back.

Two, he checks a shell is loaded.

Three, with all of his might, Gabriel kicks open the door.

Immediately a small, white creature is in view. A loud scream cuts through the air, and it jumps at Gabriel. Just before it makes contact, he gets off a shot. The deafening gunshot followed by an immediate weight knocks him down, taking his breath. It claws at his arm, attempting to pull his gun away from him.

A shout makes its way to Gabriel, but he can't make out what was said. Then, three quick shots, and the thing recoils, screeching out again. It bounds off of Gabriel, again winding him. In its place, Isaiah appears, pulling him up. "You okay? Your arm is fucked…"

Gabriel gasps for air, leaning against Isaiah. "Did you get a good look at it?"

"No, sir. It bounded off before I could really make out any details, but it looked small, white. Maybe a woman? Probably a canid."

Gabriel shakes his head. A small animal knocking him down like that? Can't be. After reorienting, Gabriel racks a new round, the old plastic casing clattering on the floor. His arm burns, blood pouring out of five large cuts. Without a word, he quickly navigates back to the front door, looking out.

It's empty, and utterly silent aside from the deafening ringing in his ears. Not a single sound, not even wind. Gabriel coughs, watching blood drip off his fingers onto the floor. "We need to leave."

"Yeah," Isaiah's voice is weak, trembling.

Gabriel looks at him, grabbing his shoulder. "We're gonna be alright son. The trucks are just a few yards away. Take it slow, watch our back, we'll be alright." Gabriel manages to put on a confident tone, despite his reeling mind. He's tired and in agony. Strangely, his niece and nephew come to mind. Could they have heard the shots just now?

Step by step they creep across the front yard, and into the path through the woods. Adrenaline pumps rapidly through his veins, and for a moment Gabriel thinks he can hear a heartbeat aside from his own. He can feel himself losing his speed. Maybe it's a lack of sleep. Maybe it's blood loss.

Isaiah bumps into him when they stop, looking at the roadside clearing where the truck sits. It's untouched. A branch cracks. "Come on, go." They pick up the pace, each step towards the truck taking ages. "Go!"

The thing yelps in the woods, and rapid footsteps come at them. He doesn't look back, sprinting towards the truck; procedure be damned. Tearing open the driver's door, he leaps in and turns over the engine. The two slam the doors in tandem, and Gabriel peels out of the gravel parking lot before his ass hits the seat.

"What the fuck is that thing?" Isaiah's breathing is rapid and uncontrolled, his pistol shaking in his hands. Gabriel knows who exactly it is, or was. Still, he refuses to acknowledge it, not replying to Isaiah. Looking away from the road for a moment, he pulls the shotgun sling off my head and shoves it towards his partner.

"Gabriel, ahead!."

Looking up as the weight of the gun leaves his hand, a thin white figure stands in the road. Its gaunt frame is coated in fresh viscera. A visage of death.

Without concern, Gabriel runs it down in the street, and it slams against the windshield, shattering it "God above!" It reaches toward Isaiah, grabbing at his throat. He chokes as its claws puncture. As Gabriel slams on the brakes, it pulls away from Isaiah. It's just enough distance for him to align the shotgun with its abdomen. Pulling the trigger, the thing screeches in pain.

It rolls back out on the hood, blood pouring from an open wound in its stomach. As he accelerates again, it slides off the hood. Wind blasts through the gaping hole where a windshield should have been. Glass shards cover his lap and the dashboard. Quiet chokes come from his right as Isaiah grabs at his neck. "You're gonna be alright son… We're gettin' you help."

Something crackles over the radio, but Gabriel can't make it out. Blinding lights emanate from a blind turn, and in an instant I find myself facing another patrol car. We both stop, and two deputies jump out, running towards us. They shout, "Good God, what happened?"

"I don't know, just… bring him to the hospital he's critical." The first deputy begins pulling Isaiah out of the seat, wrapping gauze around his neck.

The second speaks up. "You too, come on, we can take you."

"Nah, I'll be good, there's still civ's in danger." Andrew. Sophia. That thing is probably still out there. "I need to make sure it's dead."

"What?"

He doesn't elaborate, and slowly reverses the car away from them. The second deputy shrugs in resignation, helping the other pull Isaiah into their car. Turning around, Gabriel finds the spot he ran the thing down."

A streak of blood in the street is all that's left. "Goddammnit, should've stopped."

Elijah's house is nearby though. Gabriel's hands clench on the wheel, deciding he needs to make sure they're okay. He speeds down the side road leading to their house. It's isolated, just like the last house. Finding their hidden driveway, he pulls the truck in.

The gate is closed.

Without a second thought, he stumbles out of the car and lifts the pike. The gashing wound on his arm burns like hell, but he manages to lift and push the gate. Leaving it open, he returns to the car and drives through, turning off the headlights to not wake the kids.

He stops in the yard, staring at the house. It's silent, tranquil. Untouched, so far. But still, it's too quiet. There are no natural sounds to be heard, as though a predator lurks. He warily glances around the yard, staring into the forest. Nothing…

Pulling the shotgun from the passenger footwell, Gabriel struggles to keep hold of it. Between his arm and it being coated in another man's blood, he probably couldn't use it. Still, he takes it and opens the car door.

Another feral scream from the forest, bearing down on him from all directions. Sprinting towards the front door, he digs through his pocket for his keys. Something is watching him.

He slides the key into the lock. It's coming. It was probably waiting, it knew.

He turns the key. It knows he's afraid.

Gabriel steps in, slamming the door shut, hands shaking as he replaces the deadlocks. Letting out an uneven breath, he waits, looking back out the peephole. Nothing.

"I need to calm down."For a moment, he sits there, calming himself. Resolving to check the house, he walks up the stairs while taking care to avoid the soft spots. The kids are light sleepers; the slightest sound could wake them, and the front door probably awoke them.

Slowly opening the door, he looks in. They're asleep in their bunks, blissfully unaware of what happened. He'll keep it that way. Closing the door, he walks back down the stairs. Reaching into my coat pocket, I find a few shells and slide one back into the gun.

Gabriel falls onto the living room couch, exhausted, but continuing to stare out the rear door. Large glass panes line up on either side. If anything comes, he'll see it.

He'll see it. He'll be ready. His eyelids gradually get heavier. He loses the ability to even lift his arm.

"Hey, look."

"Don't bother him."

"He's moving though…"

Gabriel opens his eyes, squinting from the light. A small child, a fox kit looks up at him from the carpeted floor, like looking at a past version of himself. It's Andrew. "I think Uncle Gabriel is waking up." Sophia sits next to him, the two seated in front of a TV playing cartoons.

His brother's voice calls from beside him. "Then let him wake up, don't bother him. He had a rough night."

Gabriel is lying on the couch now, covered with a blanket. Lifting it, he sees again why it's there. Elijah didn't want the kids to see what's underneath. Sitting up, he makes an effort to keep the blanket draped over himself. Elijah sits on the recliner next to the couch, the shotgun propped against the table. The kids are engrossed in their show again, and he watches Gabriel solemnly; "What happened?"

Gabriel shakes his head, watching a cartoon wolf in a police uniform chase after a red fox. "I don't know."

"You're hurt, Gabriel."

"Yeah." Standing, exhaustion courses through his muscles.

"You've never been like this, not even in Anchorage."

"No," Gabriel replies hoarsely.

Elijah's voice is barely audible over the show, and Gabriel has to lean over to hear him."You left the door to your patrol car open. It's covered in blood, and you're missing a windshield. I've had to keep the kids distracted so they don't see that."

Gabriel simply nods, trying to step away from Elijah so he can clean myself. "I'm gonna clean myself up."

"I've got peroxide in the bathroom. We'll take you to a hospital after." Elijah continues to stare at his children. He drums his fingers quietly on the armrest, looking as though he's bracing for something. "The tracks in the mud - you were running. You were afraid, Gabriel." He looks up at his brother, with a terrified, lost look. "You saw it, didn't you?"

[sugaryuuji]

"Nob kayaknya gue ga bakal ikut deh...gamau ah kalo party kayak gitu, gue gamau minum-minum" ujarmu sambil mengambil langkah jauh

"Iiihhh gapapa kali, udah ada gue ini. Gausah minum-minum. Lagian ini kita acara di punclut, anak-anak juga pada ikut semua loh. Ga ada yang langsung balik ke daerah kampus, mereka langsung ke shelter" jawab nobara sambil menarikmu.

Dan benar saja, sesampainya disana, club yang cukup sangat terkenal itu seperti menjadi tempat reuni dari kelasmu. Dan kamu pun sadar, bahwa Nobara telah menjebakmu. Kenapa? Karena kamu sadar ada sekitar 10 orang anak kelasmu yang tidak ikut. Benar-benar anak ini-

"Eh? Loh, ada y/n loh! Hahahaha gue ga nyangka lo bakal ikut aslii!! Gokil!!!" Kamu mengenali nada riang gembira itu dengan suara khasnya. Diantara lautan manusia, Gojo Satoru sangat sangat mencolok. Ya karena paras dan tinggi badannya yang sempurna di seluruh mata manusia.

"Ikut apanya, ini gue mau pulang. Nobara nipu banget katanya pada kesini ternyata engga tuh, Nanami aja gaada" ujarmu yang sudah sangat kepalang tidak nyaman. Kemana pula sahabatmu yang berambut merah itu?

"Idihh emang seru main sama kanebo kering? Udah sini aja. Malem ini spesial, gue buka tab buat semuaaaaa anak kelas. Alias gue te-rak-tir!" Teriak Satoru diiringi sambutan anak-anak kelasmu

"Makasih jo, tapi ga ada kata ya lo macem-macem ke y/n. Gue gigit lo" akhirnya ada suara yang sangat kamu familiar, Nobara. Dan dibalas dengan muka ledekan Satoru yang akhirnya pergi meninggalkan kalian.

"Rara, lo kemana aja sih. Ayo pulang..." tanpa ragu kamu langsung menggaet tangan Nobara

"Nih, minum ini aja. Gabakal bikin mabok kok asli, cuma bikin badan anget. Ini dia jatuhnya lebih ke jamu" kata lelaki berambut putih itu.

Kamu sebenarnya tidak terlalu dekat dengan satoru. Ia hanya teman kelasmu yang senang bercanda, dan kamu hanya beberapa kali bercanda dan berbicara dengannya. Lebih sering mengenai tugas. Dia adalah si cowo popular kesukaan semua orang. Walau ada sih yang kesal dengannya karena kadang dia sombong dan jahil. Tetapi dia anak yang baik. Hal-hal yang sering ia sombongi justru sering ia gunakan untuk menolong orang. Selain itu, satoru juga terkenal karena hal lain. Hal yang cukup tidak senonoh. Kamu sering mendengar desas-desus (gosip dari nobara) bahwa satoru, suguru, naoya, dan anak-anak sepertinya sering mencari "ayam kampus".

Dan kamu adalah seorang yang cukup naif. Mudah mempercayai orang lain. Apalagi yang seperti satoru. Karena kamu tahu pengalamannya banyak, dan ia tahu mana yang buruk dan yang baik. Kamu yakin dia tidak akan menjahatimu.

Dan memang benar itu niatnya, hanya saja ia tidak tahu. Kamu belum pernah minum sebelumnya, jadi minuman yang katanya "seperti jamu" ini termasuk hal yang cukup sangat memabukkan untukmu yang baru pertama kali minum.

"Shit, gus. Gue ga sengaja bikin mabok y/n gimana dong" teriak satoru ke sahabatnya

"Haaa? Y/n si pendiem itu? Aih, yaudah lah lu pantau aja terus. Ajak ngomong jangan sampe dia ngelonos" ujar suguru.

Satoru pun menarik badanmu, memegangimu sambil mengarahkanmu yang setengah sadar agak menjauh dari kerumunan panggung DJ. Dia membuka Tab baru hanya untuk dirimu dan dirinya. Niatnya, agar dia bisa fokus membantumu sadar.

"Toru....kamu kenapa sih suka ngewe?" Mendengar pertanyaanmu satoru tersedak minumannya. Kamu mabuk saja sudah hal yang mengejutkan untuknya. Apalagi pertanyaanmu.

"Ummm...anu.....lo kenapa nanya itu?" Satoru memegang cangkir minumnya didekat bibirnya. Keheranan dengan pertanyaan absurdmu.

"Habis kata anak-anak, kalian sering banget nyari buat begituan. Aku kepo emang seenak apa? Rasanya kayak gimana toru?" Tanyamu seraya melihatnya dengan pandangan yang seolah-olah satoru adalah orang paling hebat dalam hidupmu yang akan memberimu pelajaran berharga.

"Hmmm aaahhh bingung gue jelasinnya. Ya ini karena POV gue sbg cowo yaa. Uhh, enak karena yaa enak? Ngilu2 gimanaaa gitu. Perut lo rasanya lemes gitu tapi lo kayak ada tenaganya sendiri? Apa ya, yang bikin enak....kalo gue sih nagih bgt ngerasain cum di dalem meki tuh beeehhhh ga ada dua rasanya. Apalagi pas diapit rahim gitu kyk lembut2 gitu dah jadi-" tiba-tiba satoru terdiam. Hilang sudah fokusnya saat menyadari mukamu yang memerah begitu dekat dengannya. Ia bisa merasakan nafasmu, dan terpampang jelas pula bibirmu yang....sangat menggugah seleranya.

'Ga lah dongo, lagi mabok ini cewe'

Tapi, bukan gojo satoru namanya kalo ga suka ngegodain cewe.

"Yn...kamu penasaran bgt ya sama rasa 'itu'? Mau gue kasih icip dikit ga?" Ucapnya sambil menyeringai licik

Jujur, satoru tahu pasti bahwa kamu adalah gadis yang cukup sangat polos. Ia tidak begitu dekat denganmu sebelumnya, dia pun tidak pernah berpikir akan melihatmu mabuk. Semua tentangmu malam ini sangat mengejutkannya, terutama jawabanmu.

"Mau....." ucapmu sambil menarik perlahan kaos satoru.

'Duh, kelewat mabok ini bocah'

Bohong bila satoru tidak tergoda saat tanganmu meremas perlahan kaos ketatnya.

"Boleh, tapi syaratnya kamu ga boleh mabok"

"A-aku ga mabok kok! Asli!"

"Oke, 5 + 5 x 0 berapa?"

"Hah? 10 lah"

"Gajadi deh, kamu mabok" ujar satoru dengan nada ledekannya yang khas.

Situasi yang makin memanas membuatnya sangat sesak- dia pun langsung sigap berdiri, siap-siap untuk meninggalkanmu dan mengambil secangkir air. Tapi tetap saja, satoru kalah dengan godaanmu.

"Njir yn, yakin lo? Satu jari gue aja udah sempit ga muat"

"Toru....kamu....ga suka yah?...bajunya?"

Satoru terdiam, matanya jelalatan menuruni sekujur tubuhmu. 'Persetan lah' pikirnya. Satoru selalu ingin terlihat dominan dan kasar didepan lawan mainnya. Namun melihat dirimu dengan pakaian rumahan mini, manis nan imut seperti ini...

Bila sebelumnya ia sering berpikiran kotor saat bersamamu, kali ini bukan kotor saja. Pikiran satoru tentangmu adalah salah satu contoh paling utama dari '7 deadly sins: Lust'.

"T-toru..ngh! Ma-maafhhf. Ngghhh janji...ga bakal pake baju kayak gini lagih-ah!"

"Toru...pelan-pelan please..."

"To-toru, too much!ga kuat! Udah-aangh"

"Satu lagi."

"K-kamu udh blg itu tadi! Ah...."

Satoru paham betul cara untuk membuatmu nurut. Hanya perlu satu dorongan dalam mengenai rahim-mu. Seperti sepasang suami-istri. Tidak ada rasa ragu dan khawatir setiap saat kalian bersetubuh. Gojo Satoru memang cukup terkenal dalam hal nakal ini, tapi ia selalu bermain aman. Kondom lebih sering keluar masuk dompetnya daripada recehan uang. Tetapi, semenjak kehadiranmu entah kenapa Satoru merasa berbeda.

Setiap saat ia ingat dirimu yang dulu, cewe polos teman sekelasnya yang bahkan mengobrol pun jarang. Bisa berakhir di kasur besar apartemennya, bermain bersamanya seperti kalian sedang berusaha membuat anak.

Ya,

Bayi sepertinya bukan hal yang buruk bila ia membuatnya denganmu.

Salah,

Bila ia menjalaninya denganmu.

Hilang sudah akal sehat Satoru. Suara rancu desahanmu juga mendukung. Satoru lupa, apakah ia sudah memberikanmu pil kb atau belum. Pil kb yang diberikan sahabatnya shoko sebagai kado ulang tahun katanya. Yang akhirnya dia gunakan padamu. Tapi bagaimana bila ternyata kamu tidak meminumnya? Tentu sperma Satoru yang sedari 3 jam lalu mengisi penuh rahim-mu mungkin sudah dalam proses membentuk janin. Apakah itu hal yang buruk? Tentu tidak. Tidak untuk Satoru.

Justru itu hal yang bagus kan? Ada alasan untuk Satoru terus tetap bersamamu. Ia tidak peduli bila orang tua dan keluarganya tidak menyetujui hubungannya dengan gadis biasa. Jika ini salah satunya cara agar bisa terus bersamamu, tentu akan ia lakukan.

: SUGURU

SUGURU ANJIN

ANJING LAH

:paan

:CAKEP BGT

CANTIK

SEKSI

ÀAAAAAAA

PGN GUE NIKAHIN

:ya nikahin lah

: jangan

Kasian

Tuntutan keluarga gue banyak

Ga tega gue

: yaudah selamat menikmati ia jadi milik org lain

: YA JANGAN GT

:LU MAH ANEH ANJING LU SENDIRI YG BILANG JGN SUKA SM FWB-AN MAKAN TUH LUDAH LU

:emg enak kok ludah gue wle banyak yg buktiin

:

---------

"Toru, kamu lagi pake parfum apaa?" Tanyamu sambil menatap mukanya

"Hmm? Lg ga pake apa-apa, parfum gue belum dateng" jawab satoru santai sambil tangannya sibuk memencet remot TV

"Oh ya? Tapi kamu wangi banget. Wanginya satoru enak" katamu sambil terus menciumi dada bidang satoru.

Dari ucapanmu ia teringat ucapan shoko;

"Kalo ada orang yang suka sama aroma badan lo yang natural alias lagi ga pake apa-apa, berarti dia suka sama lo"

Seketika jantungnya berdebar kencang, ia meletakkan remot TV di meja kecil sampingnya sebelum ia mendekapmu. Ia tanam hidungnya di telungkup lehermu, dan ia hirup dalam-dalam aroma tubuhmu.

"Kalo lo? Pake parfum apa?"

Tanya satoru

"Lagi ga pake, males" jawabmu dengan nada mengantuk

Tanpa sadar satoru perlahan tersenyum. Dan mencium keningmu sebelum rasa kantuk menghantui kalian berdua siang itu.

[genedara]

Everything in its right place

You know, there are two kinds of evil. There's the evil that exists as an external force that threatens the well-being of the tribe. Survival depends on understanding and awareness and fear of physical threat to our daily lives. The other kind of evil lives inside of us. Like a sickness or an infection. It's more dangerous because we may not know we're infected.

(( The following contains subject material that may be triggering to some. Themes included are graphic violence. ))

(( Recommended listening: https://youtu.be/NUnXxh5U25Y?si=HjUHAb4bVH-8hSlT ))

It was morning in Elwynn Forest and Genedara was just rolling out of bed. She let loose a mighty yawn and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. Somewhere up in the rafters of her tower came the caw of a raven. A large, black bird swooped down and landed on the elf’s shoulder, looking at her with beady black eyes.

“Good morning, Myth,” Genedara said, reaching up and affectionately scratching behind the raven’s ear.

In response the bird let out a squawk and flapped his wings playfully before settling back down. Genedara stood up and walked over to her large dresser, filled to the brim with high end outfits and accessories. She pushed aside outfit after outfit, each one carefully laid out on a metal clothes hanger. After a moment of digging the elf eventually removed a set of robes and light armor. With her outfit for the day picked out, she walked over to space reserved for her small bathroom.

Given the fact that Genedara lived in a tower, space was limited. Her bed was situated in the center of the room, set right in front of the curved wall. To the left of her bed was her dresser and to the right was her bathtub, sink and full body mirror. The elf stepped in front of the mirror and started to undress. Myth hopped around on her shoulder, staying put but not getting in the way. The bird let out a caw upon seeing its reflection, looking at it with a single black eye.

“I need to borrow your eyes, Myth.”

A spell was cast and the elf’s eyes flared to life, glowing a bright baby blue. She looked at herself through the eyes of her familiar, taking a moment to adjust to the change. Her eyes came into focus and a gasp rang out, Genedara’s eyes wide as he looked at herself in the mirror. Her pale flesh was covered in dried, crusty blood.

“What in the..?” came her shocked realization that something was very wrong.

With a wave of her hand, Genedara dismissed Myth and speed walked over to her bath. She reached out and twisted the two nobs that controlled the flow of water. Not bothering to check to see if the temperature was tolerable, the elf slipped into the water and started to scrub the blood off with her bare hands. Just as she was about to clean her hair, the elf’s body went limp. She slid down deeper into the water, eventually coming to a halt when her bath water was up to her chin. Milky white eyes stared straight ahead, a blank and lifeless look settling onto her features.

———

When Genedara came to she found herself standing in a vast, open space. A heavy fog hung over the area, making it impossible to see more than a few feet. Figures moved around just on the edge of what was visible, talking in hushed voices. Their words overlapped each other, making it sound as if there was a couple hundred people all speaking at once. It was maddening as her mind struggled to pull words out of the gibberish.

“Good morning, Genedara.”

The new voice cut through the mess, a strong, dominating tone that commanded obedience. From the fog emerged a mirror copy of Genedara, right down to the freckles on her butt. The two elves stared at each other, one with milky white eyes, the other with shiny silver discs set in an impossibly dark void. The light reflected off those unnatural eyes, flashing like a cat’s eyes in the dark.

“Who are you?” one elf asked the other.

“A god,” the silver eyed elf said, puffing out her chest. “An angel to some, demon to others.”

“I serve no god,” Genedara said, taking a single step back. “I want nothing to do with you. Release me so I can continue about my day.”

“SILENCE!” the other elf shouted, her words ringing out like an explosion.

Genedara’s mouth snapped shut, both hands flying up to probe her face. She tried to talk but was unable to. Her lips had fused together, forever dooming her to living the life of a mute. Her fingernails dug into the new flesh, trying hard to cut her way through. Blood dribbled down her chin and down onto her breasts. Her hands tore away chunks of meat, discarding it as if it were trash.

“Look at you,” the other elf said as it approached its opposite. “Desperate to talk yet unable to. What words would you cry out? “Oh gods help me! Someone save me from this monster!” What a joke. So strong yet so weak. What would your husband think of you now?”

Genedara’s facial expression quickly shifted from scared out of her mind to a righteous fury. Her hands dropped down to her sides and she sucked in a lung full of crisp air. The runes tattooed all over her body flared to life, giving off a brilliant blue glow. The very air itself started to vibrate as more power was drawn into the naked elf. She let loose a muffled roar of anger, thrusting her hands forward, one palm overlapping the other.

A shockwave burst forth from the palm of her hand, forcing the other Genedara backward by at least twenty feet. The fog surrounding both elves thinned out and they were both able to see a sea of bodies standing just at the edge of the fog. The silver eyed elf chuckled and dropped the form of its host, revealing its true form to her.

A dense cloud of black smoke stood before Genedara, its form in a constant state of motion, folding in on itself and expanding at the same time. When the elf stared down the cloud she could feel it gazing back at her, boring deep into her mind. One moment the cloud was there, the next five year old Leana stood in front of her mother.

“Only a monster hides behind the visage of a child,” Genedara spat out, refusing to fall for this creature’s tricks. “You can’t fool me anymore. I know you’ve been using my body to do horrible things. How many people have to killed using my body?”

“Untold millions have died at my hand,” the child said, speaking with two voices overlapping each other. A deep, commanding male voice and the high pitched tone of a little girl, no older than six.

“That isn’t what I asked you. How many people have you killed using my body?”

“Do you really want to know that answer? What purpose does it serve to know how much blood has been spilled with by your hand? What, do you think you have a chance of beating me? You, a lowly mortal stripped of her family history. You’re nothing to me, an ant ready to be squashed under my boot.”

“He speaks truth,” a woman’s voice called out from the dense fog. “He only speaks the truth. You would be wise to listen to His words. Through Him we find peace, forever locked in His loving embrace. Come, child. Join us. Only then will you know true power.”

Joining her master, a woman stood next to the small child, grinning at Genedara with sickly yellow teeth. The woman looked to be in her fifties her forehead a mess of worry lines and freckles. Her silver hair was cut short, barely making it to her shoulders. A pair of silver eyes looked down at the elf, the cocky woman overjoyed to be standing next to her master.

“Who are you, his slave?” Genedara asked the other woman, ignoring the demon in the shape of her youngest child.

“Slave? Hah!” The woman chuckled and shook her head. “What a simple little mind. You see us and assume I am his slave, unable to act of my own accord. You couldn’t be anymore wrong, little one.

“I am his preacher, His most loyal and devout follower. It was through me that His love and light is spread across the world. But that was then and this is now. Now we live in you, elf girl. We are the lord and you the slave. Failure to act will result in swift punishment. And trust me, you do not want to be on His bad side.”

“I will never be a slave,” Genedara spat out, her runes flaring to life once more. “I am done playing your little games. I am Genedara, first born daughter to Jen’nis Silverfury, grand master of the Arcane arts. My family has taught the power of magic to others for thousands of years. The collective knowledge of my entire bloodline lies within me and we will NEVER submit to you and your “god.””

Genedara reached up at the colorless sky and grabbed a fistful of air and balled her hand into a white-knuckled fist. She roared with fury and brought the heavens down on the being and its preacher. Large, flaming boulders began to rain down on the field of fog. With each impact an explosion would ring out, the rocks slamming into the ground and leaving behind smoking craters. Before the dust cleared the elf was already working on her next spell. Another roar slipped past her usually stony disposition as a jet of blue flame shot out of the palms of her hands. She took several steps forward with the strength and determination needed to put an end to her nightmare.

Once the smoke cleared Genedara let out a sign of relief when she saw the dismembered bits and pieces of the human woman scattered about the battlefield. A rope of intestine and half a heart sat at the elf’s feet, slick with fresh blood. An eyeball stared at the elf from a distance of ten feet, its twin nowhere to be seen. Just as Genedara began to relax the pieces of the human woman started to wriggle in place with wet, slapping noises. Birds and pieces of internal organs started crawling toward each other and eventually linking up and slowly rebuilding the preacher.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Genedara said to herself, swearing for the first time in years.

“What?” the pile of organs asked. “Did you think that your magic could kill us? I am apart of our god! He and I are one, and soon, so will you.”

———

Genedara woke with a scream, trashing around in her bathtub. The water had gone cold and night had descended on the Eastern Kingdoms. She sat there, breathing heavy and struggling to gain her bearings. The familiar scent of home and the sounds of her familiars signified that she was back in her tower.

The elf dragged herself out of the bathtub, summoning a robe to swoop over and wrap itself around her petite frame. She shivered into the fabric, teeth chattering loudly. How long had she been lying in the tub? Was that just a dream or was it real? She had a dozen questions and answers to none of them. Whatever had just transpired would sit in the elf’s mind for some time. Was she really possessed by this thing and its preacher? What does someone even do about a situation like this?

“Fuck,” Genedara muttered with a shake of her head, cursing for the second time today. “As if my life wasn’t difficult enough, now I have a lunatic and a monster living rent free in my head. That’s just dandy.”

As she dried herself off, Genedara started to warm up, finally shaking off the cold bath. She pulled on a nightgown that stopped just above her groin and light pink in color. It had been a style her husband had picked out for her. He made it know that he loved when she wore it, giving her husband an opportunity to gaze at his wife’s near naked form. The warmth of the memory hung in her chest, a hand resting over her heart. Without another word the elf climbed into bed, pulled herself under the covers and settled in for the night despite not being truly tired.

Just as Genedara fell asleep her eyes snapped back open. A pair of silver discs hung in her eyes, reflecting off the moonlight visible through the roof window. She threw aside the covers and crawled out of bed, letting out a groan as she stretched out. An outfit was picked at random a quickly put on before the elven woman made her way downstairs.

It was time to get back to work, for He had grandiose plans. And so Genedara went, carrying out into the night. Death followed in her wake and the terrified screams of innocents filled the air.