#rage against the moons

[trinitybloodbr]

SWORD DANCER  - ソード ダンサー – ESPADA DANÇARINA

----------------- ⚠️ ESSA OBRA EM HIPÓTESE ALGUMA É DE MINHA AUTORIA. TRADUÇÃO REALIZADA DE FÃ PARA FÃS. NÃO REPUBLIQUE OU POSTE EM OUTRAS PLATAFORMAS SEM AUTORIZAÇÃO. SE CASO POSSÍVEL, DÊ SUPORTE AOS AUTORES E ARTISTAS COMPRANDO AS OBRAS ORIGINAIS. ⚠️

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

SWORD DANCER

ソード ダンサー

ESPADA DANÇARINA

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

PRÓLOGO

Para todas as portas envio a espada da matança.

Como um relâmpago, a espada que brilha é retirada da bainha para matar.

(Eszequiel 21:20) Versão Japonesa

"Quanto ao Tres-kun, que está em tratamento em Milão, não se observou nenhum problema na fase de exames. Hum! Também deu negativo para infecção viral nas partes biológicas... Ótimo. Nesse caso, ele deverá se recuperar em cerca de um mês."

Palácio das Espadas — Escritório do Chefe da Sede da Secretaria de Estado.

Jogando a pasta grossa sobre a mesa, o homem no sofá passou levemente a mão sobre seu rosto magro. Um sorriso confiante surgiu em seus lábios enquanto ele segurava um cachimbo Meerschaum apagado na boca.

"Quanto a mim, a universidade entrou em recesso de provas desde ontem. Deixei muitas tarefas para os estudantes, então posso voar para Milão até mesmo amanhã... O que acha, Sua Santidade?"

"Deixarei a recuperação do Padre Tres a seu cargo, Professor."

Com o cotovelo apoiado sobre a mesa de trabalho, a Cardeal Caterina Sforza, chefe do Ministério dos Assuntos Eclesiásticos, suspirou. Uma leve preocupação parecia formar-se, como que desenhada, entre suas finas sobrancelhas.

“Já temos uma falta de agentes executores séria. Espero que ele retorne ao campo o mais rápido possível.”

"Pode deixar comigo, Eminência. Vou terminar antes do início da universidade."

Se existisse algo nesse mundo como uma verdadeira personificação da autoconfiança, esse seria certamente o agente executor conhecido como 'Professor', Dr. William W. (Walter) Wordsworth. Ele sorriu de canto e, retirando um fósforo de sua batina, acendeu o cachimbo com gestos pomposos… Foi nesse momento, antes de o fósforo tocar o cachimbo, que o holograma de uma graciosa freira surgiu diante dele.

〈Boa noite, Dr. Wordsworth. Aqui é proibido fumar. Se quiser fumar, por favor, vá até o corredor ou a varanda. 〉

"Oh, que falta de educação minha... Ainda assim, você está tão linda como sempre, Irmã Kate."

〈Você é muito bom em elogios. Mas por favor, pare de fumar, sim?〉

A freira, olhando calmamente com seus olhos ligeiramente caídos, repreendeu o 'Professor' enquanto ele largava o cachimbo, e então voltou-se para sua senhora.

〈Acabei de retornar, Caterina-sama. Conforme instruído, uma unidade foi implantada em Amsterdã. Recebi o relatório de que as operações começarão durante esta noite. 〉

"Bom trabalho, Kate. Por favor, continue transmitindo os relatórios."

"Ora, quando menciona Amsterdã... ah, entendo, trata-se daquele incidente na antiga igreja Oude Kerk, não é?"

A voz levemente anasalada que interrompeu foi a do 'Professor'. Ele girava o dedo da mão direita perto da têmpora, com uma expressão de tédio, mordendo um cachimbo apagado.

"Assassinato e roubo de sangue de dez clérigos, incluindo o padre da paróquia... então, quem foi enviado?"

"A Aliança das Quatro Cidades, incluindo a cidade de Amsterdã, é uma região política extremamente delicada. Portanto, enviamos a pessoa com melhor conhecimento sobre o local."

"Então, o 'Sword Dancer'? ... Hum, será que é apropriado?"

〈 Algum problema, Professor?〉

O motivo de Kate ter perguntado foi porque o fino rosto do 'Professor' se tornou sombrio ligeiramente.

〈Ouvi dizer que ele nasceu em Bruges e conhece bem aquela região. Além disso, não parece haver nenhum problema em relação às suas capacidades, não é? 〉

"Exactly. No entanto, existem algumas circunstâncias a considerar."

Por um breve momento, o 'Professor' interrompeu as palavras como se estivesse refletindo, e virou-se para Caterina.

"Vossa Eminência deve estar ciente das circunstâncias que o levaram a se tornar um agente executor. Pessoalmente, não posso deixar de sentir que há um certo problema com a seleção."

Suspirando, Caterina se levantou.

'Não há o que fazer.'"

Ela se aproximou da janela, olhando para a cidade noturna abaixo. Nos últimos dias, um calor incomum para o inverno vinha persistindo, mas esta noite o frio parece ter voltado. Na rua silenciosa, nem mesmo a sombra de um cão vadio estava à vista.

"A mão de obra é insuficiente — esmagadoramente insuficiente. Portanto, caso ele perca o controle..."

Caterina sussurrou, como se estivesse falando para sua própria sombra refletida no vidro da janela.

"Será necessário poder para detê-lo, não é? Por isso, 'Professor', você poderia se apressar e ir o mais rápido possível para Milão?"

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

Créditos da tradução:

Lutie (◕‿◕✿) ,

[jadarnr]

TRINITY BLOOD

RAGE AGAINST THE MOONS

(Storia: Sunao Yoshida // Illustrazioni: Thores Shibamoto)

Vol.1 From the Empire

FLIGHT NIGHT - Prologo

Traduzione italiana di jadarnr dai volumi inglesi editi da Tokyopop.

Sentitevi liberi di condividere, ma fatelo per piacere mantenendo i credits e il link al post originale 🙏

Grazie a @trinitybloodbr per il suo prezioso contributo alla revisione sul testo originale giapponese ✨

La luce della luna brillava attraverso le meravigliose vetrate colorate, facendo sembrare la tempestosa notte invernale ancora più scura.

“Amen! Questo pasto che ho preparato è il mio nutrimento. In questa Santa Notte io dico grazie”. La voce del vecchio, prostrato in segno di reverenza, risuonò dolcemente all’interno della cappella. Sembrava quasi piena di compassione.

Ma gli occhi della suora - le cui braccia e gambe erano legate all’altare e la cui bocca era stata imbavagliata - erano spalancati per la paura.

Forse non sarebbe stata tanto spaventata se si fosse trovata davanti un semplice assassino. Dopotutto, un assassino l’avrebbe solamente uccisa. Un assassino almeno sarebbe stato umano.

“Grazie per la tua pazienza Suor Angelina. Ora è il momento della Sacra Comunione.”

La suora sussultò.

Quando il vecchio si voltò, la luce della luna si riflettè sulla lama argentata stretta nella sua mano rugosa. Aveva usato quella lama innumerevoli volte per tagliare le ostie da dare ai devoti, quando ancora era un mortale. Era una lama sacra. Ma ora essa aveva assunto un sinistro colore marrone ed emanava uno sgradevole odore di ruggine.

“Mangiate questo pane, poiché esso é il mio corpo”

Nel silenzio risuonò il suono della veste della giovane suora che veniva strappata. I seni ancora poco sviluppati e una semplice biancheria intima rimasero esposti.

“Bevete questo vino, poichè esso è il mio sangue… Ah, Angelina! Voi diventerete una parte di me. Dentro di me vivremo insieme in una notte eterna”.

Dalle labbra scolpite in un sorriso malvagio, apparvero zanne troppo lunghe per essere semplici denti. Incapace di tenere a freno la sua sete di sangue, il vecchio puntò la lama sacra contro il petto candido di Angelina, facendo agitare il suo cuore con un unico respiro—

Dall’oscurità si udì un sussurro. “Ita missa est. La messa é finita, Padre Scott”

“Cosa?!”

A lato di un crocefisso congelato che emetteva un bagliore bluastro stava una figura avvolta nell’ombra. Il suo volto, rivolto verso il basso, era nascosto nell’oscurità e non era possibile vederlo, ma era chiaro che si trattava di un uomo piuttosto alto.

“Reverendo Alxander Scott, ex Vescovo di Londinium… nel nome del Padre, del Figlio e dello Spirito Santo la dichiaro in arresto con l’accusa di sette omicidi e furto di sangue.”

“Ma chi saresti tu in nome di Dio?!”

“Mi scusi, non mi sono presentato a dovere. Vengo da Roma—“

Fu un errore accordare al vampiro una qualche cortesia. Istantaneamente, il coltello attraversó la distanza tra i due con una velocità al limite dell’impossibile. La mira era perfetta, e la lama andò a conficcarsi esattamente nel petto dello sconosciuto.

“Ah! Non so chi tu sia ma non ti permetterò di interferire con questo sacro rito!”

Il vecchio vampiro, vestito con l’abito sacerdotale, rise sarcastico con le zanne che scintillavano nell’oscurità, proprio davanti all’altare da dove aveva prestato servizio come Vescovo fino al mese prima.

“A causa della tua ignoranza sarai punito con la morte…”

“Non le sembra terribilmente maleducato interrompere una conversazione in questo modo?”

“Ma cos…” Padre Scott non poteva credere ai suoi occhi. Il coltello si era conficcato a fondo nel cuore dell’uomo nell’ombra, eppure lui rimaneva in piedi come se niente fosse.

“Ho ascoltato uno dei suoi sermoni una volta… Predicava che gli esseri umani fossero le uniche creature capaci di credere in loro stesse. Avrei voluto poterle mostrare compassione, ma…”

“Im…impossibile!” Il vecchio prete, che aveva barattato la sua morale e la luce del sole con la forza e il potere datogli dal male immortale, ora indietreggiò, in preda al panico. “Sei un vampiro anche tu?”

“No. Io sono…”

Questa volta la voce fu interrotta dal suono del metallo in frantumi. La lama sacra che era rimasta conficcata nel petto dell’uomo, emise uno strano suono ed si andò ad affondare tra le vesti dell’ex Vescovo.

Il vampiro gemette. “Ho sentito parlare della tua specie, quando ancora ero umano. Si dice che a Roma, nel quartier generale del Vaticano, ci sia una setta di preti che custodiscono un mostro. E quando il Vaticano ha problemi che vanno oltre le capacità umane, mandano lui a risolvere la situazione. Sei tu quel mostro?”

“AX—per la precisione. Sta per Arcanum Cella ex Dono Dei. Sono del Dipartimento Segreto della Segreteria di Stato Vaticana. Vede, al mio capo non piacciono gli scandali. Non le farebbe per nulla piacere che si spargesse la voce che un prete si sia ‘trasformato’”.

Dal nulla l’uomo avvolto nell’ombra sollevò in aria una enorme falce dalla doppia lama.

Quando Padre Scott vide la falce urlò di terrore. “Maledetto! Sei il cane da guardia di Caterina, il suo boia ufficiale!”

Il suo urlo fu inghiottito da una folata di vento invernale.

[puppymask]

Doomguy is NOT a bootlicker we know this. But I think ppls severely overestimate how much he gives a shit ABOUT the military u know!!! He doesn't give a fuck about protocol or any imperialist mentality attempts at brainwashing. Anyways I just believe the only thing the marines gave him was access to weapons, PTSD, and an attraction to men.

[gnratr0529]

Looking For Potential Musical Collaborators.

hey, so I love music, I’m a 16 year old in Illinois, and I wanna make music so bad, not only to put out art and my feelings into the world, but also to help others with shit they’re going through, and hey, maybe I could make some money doing what I love. But I truly don’t expect to be a big rockstar or whatever, I just wanna make music. I’ve been singing under various teachers for 7 years. I’ve been self teaching myself guitar for 8 years. I’ve been self teaching myself bass for 3 years. And picked up the drums about 6 months ago. And I have a pretty good understanding of music theory. I believe that the learning truly never ends when it comes to music. I first started to just give myself something to do as video games became boring and I was gifted a guitar because my uncle found one in a pawn shop and it was cheap and I had shown interest in music ever since I was a small dude. All music influences me in some way or another. Whether it be the heaviness of metal, the structure of blues, the twangy guitars of country, the influence of classical guitar soloing, the beautifulness of symphonic genres, the excitement of breakcore, the flow of rap, the catchiness of pop, and so on and so on. I truly just love to learn and incorporate styles into my musical style. Some bands/artists I’m influenced by (not in any particular order) are: Queens of the Stone Age, Primus, The Misfits, Stevie Ray Vaughn, Jimi Hendrix, Dredg, TOOL, MF DOOM, Run The Jewels, Sleep, Kyuss, Fu Manchu, Mondo Generator, Johnny Cash, Victor Wooten, Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, Pink Floyd, Slayer, Rage Against The Machine, My Chemical Romance, System Of A Down, Ween, The Offspring, Dinosaur Jr, Radar Men From The Moon, Cannibal Corpse, Këkht Aräkh, Acid Bath, Alice In Chains, and so much more. My song writing is fueled and inspired by: Pop Culture (Movies, Video games, Comic Books, nerdy stuff basically), Horror, Psychedelia, shedding light on problems that most people dont have the misfortune of experiencing, shedding light on political corruption and exploitation, an outlet for my feelings, and hoping to inspire others like others have inspired me. I do not have the Tumblr app so sorry if it takes awhile for me to get back to you. But I would love to hear from some people, whether it be interest in collaboration, advice, or just to talk about music in general. Whatever it is I look forward to meeting some new people.

[god-must-be-doing-cocaine]

Barbie didn’t make me hate men but the Woodstock 99 documentary definitely reignited it lmao

[goodnightmoonvale]

shoutout to @bplotd (who Tumblr won't let me tag for some reason) who sent this ask to me a while ago. I'm copy pasting it here, because I want to keep it in my inbox to look at forever. But I'm feeling a lot of rage and despair today about how I'm ever going to make a difference in the world, and this helped me a lot before, so I'm posting it again so other people can see it too:

I know there is an underpinning narrative in the current zeitgeist to move people away from the paralysis of the terminally online "gotta do everything all the time" anxiety by encouraging folks to exert effort in a single direction consistently. And I think that attitude is largely useful and helpful. But here is something i have learned from 10 years in international development: this isn't the only way to effect change. It may not even be the most effective way. So many successful projects I have seen, and long term positive changes, are yes due to the work of dedicated individuals or groups, but they are often equally due to one single, well-placed "yes". One lucky break. One teacher who says "sure you can use my curriculum notes" or one administrator who says "sure, you can turn in your grant late" or one community member who speaks up with a good idea or a very timely complaint or a young person who babysits for a key night so a mom can go to a meeting or --- Listen, what I'm saying is that random acts of kindness can and do make a difference, in many cases a HUGE one. They're sometimes the lucky break on which an entire project or opportunity hinges. I'm sure you've heard that phrase about "planting a garden you will never see". It can be so hard, because this random kindness or justice may never, ever connect their little good deed with the actual good it does in the world. I can't help you know exactly what your own kindness has wrought in the future - that is a gift that so few of us ever are given. But if you contribution is consistently /doing a good or kind of helpful thing/ when presented with the opportunity, you are doing enough, more than enough. Consistent effort isn't just volunteering or doing a job or working on something tangible. Sometimes consistent effort means being the person who makes little daily choices to extend grace to others. And friend, that isnt just "good enough", that is /salvation/. The people who need it will find you.

[dramarants]

I've said this before but as much as I was screaming at my screen, this is an opportunity for ttj to raise roots somewhere that not only includes the love of his life but also relationships without ridonkulous power imbalances among a supportive community and a new way of life outside the expectations set upon him since birth. who knows, maybe he'll choose to embrace his devil god fate lord knows the tension would not only be palpable but sexy af or maybe he'll become the supreme ultimate botanical sword master but he finally gets to be an active agent of his own life, choosing people, values, and goals for his own future, and hopefully, his journey (and lss's own growth returning + learning her identity) will reunite them knowing they're stronger, happier, and simply uplift each other when together. ttj's enduring love surmounted death and five centuries of agony to bring him to her place in the immortal realm, now it's up to them to figure themselves out and truly make it their home.

[billymayslesbian]

Before Lionblaze could argue, another shape burst through the billowing smoke to stand beside Squirrelflight. His eyes glared; his gray fur was matted together and stuck with bits of burnt leaf and twig. Confused by the smoke and flames, Hollyleaf almost thought she was seeing one of her warrior ancestors, until she recognized Ashfur.

Squirrelflight dropped the branch. “Help me push it into the fire!” she yowled.

Grabbing the branch in strong jaws, Ashfur thrust it past the wall of flame and into the ever-narrowing patch of ground where Hollyleaf and her brothers huddled. But Hollyleaf didn’t feel any sense of relief. There was a look in Ashfur’s eyes that she didn’t understand: the look of a cat who had just spotted an unexpected juicy bit of prey.

The branch made a bridge through the flames, but Ashfur stood at the other end of it, blocking the way to safety. Lionblaze nudged Jayfeather to his paws; Hollyleaf took a step toward the branch, then paused. She felt a cold weight in herbelly when she looked into Ashfur’s glittering blue eyes.

“Ashfur, get out of the way.” Squirrelflight’s voice was puzzled. “Let them get out!”

“Brambleclaw isn’t here to look after them now,” Ashfur sneered.

Hollyleaf felt her fur beginning to rise. What did Ashfur mean?

Lionblaze’s golden pelt was bristling, too. “What have you done with my father?” he howled through the flame.

Ashfur looked at him pityingly; his eyes were twin points of fire amid the burning forest. “Why would I waste my time with Brambleclaw?”

The main branch was too solid to catch fire easily, but the leaves on it had shriveled and the twigs were beginning to smoke. Hollyleaf realized that they didn’t have much time before their bridge to safety would be ablaze.

Squirrelflight staggered up to Ashfur. Hollyleaf had never seen her mother so angry. Her fur bristled with fury; she looked like a warrior of TigerClan. Yet it was obvious that the climb to the top of the cliff, followed by her struggle with the branch, had weakened her, and she was exhausted.

“Your quarrel with Brambleclaw has to stop,” she hissed. “Too many moons have passed. You have to accept that I’m Brambleclaw’s mate, not yours. You can’t keep trying to punish Brambleclaw for something that was always meant to be.”

Ashfur’s ears flicked up in surprise. “I have no quarrel with Brambleclaw.”

Hollyleaf exchanged a shocked glance with Lionblaze. “That’s not how it looks to me,” he muttered.

“I couldn’t care less about Brambleclaw,” Ashfur continued. “It’s not his fault he fell for a faithless she-cat.”

Faithless? A growl began to build in Hollyleaf ’s throat, but then she stopped and watched the cats on the other side of the blazing branches. Something ominous was taking place in front of her, and even with flame roaring around them she felt a sudden chill. She shrank closer to Lionblaze and Jayfeather, whose head was up, his sightless eyes intent, as if he could see the confrontation between his mother and Ashfur.

“I know you think I’ve never forgiven Brambleclaw for stealing you from me, but you’re wrong, and so is every cat that thinks so. My quarrel is with you, Squirrelflight.” Ashfur’s voice shook with rage. “It always has been.”

Horrified, Hollyleaf took a step back and felt her hind paws begin to slip on the edge of the cliff. Her head spun as lightning stabbed out and thunder drowned all other sounds, even the roaring fire. For a heartbeat she dangled over empty air, and she let out a strangled yowl.

Then she felt firm teeth meet in her scruff; blinking against the smoke, she realized that Lionblaze was hauling her back to safety. But there was no safety: only the hungry flames, and Ashfur blocking the end of the branch with fury in his eyes. Fiery sparks floated down on all three young cats, scorching their fur, and flames licked the underside of the branch; fear flooded afresh through Hollyleaf when she saw that it was already beginning to smolder.

Ashfur has to let us get out! But Hollyleaf couldn’t find any words to plead with him. What was happening here didn’t have anything to do with them, even if they died because of it.

“All this was moons ago.” Squirrelflight sounded puzzled. “Ashfur, I had no idea you were still upset.”

“Upset?” Ashfur echoed. “I’m not upset. You have no idea how much pain I’m in. It’s like being cut open every day, bleeding onto the stones. I can’t understand how any of you failed to see the blood. . . .”

His eyes clouded and his voice took on a wild, distant tone, as if he could see the blood spilling out of him now, sizzling on the burning ground. Terror burst through Hollyleaf and she pressed closer to her brothers. This cat was more dangerous than the storm or the fire, or the fall lurking perilously close to her hind paws.

Desperately she tried to step onto the end of the branch. At once Ashfur rounded on her, fully conscious again, his teeth bared in a snarl.

“Stay there!” Turning to face Squirrelflight but keeping one paw on the branch, he hissed, “I can’t believe you didn’t know how much you hurt me. You are the blind one, not Jayfeather. Who do you think sent Firestar the message to go down to the lake, where the fox trap was? I wanted him to die, to take your father away so you’d know the real meaning of pain.”

Hollyleaf ’s shocked gaze met Lionblaze’s. “He tried to kill Firestar?” she gasped. “He’s mad!”

Determination glittered in Lionblaze’s eyes, and he bunched his muscles for a giant leap. “I’m going to fight him.”

“No!” Hollyleaf fastened her teeth in his shoulder fur. “You can’t!” Her words were muffled now. “He’ll just push you into the fire.”

“Brambleclaw saved Firestar then,” Ashfur went on to Squirrelflight. “But he’s not here now. He’s not here—but your kits are.”

Squirrelflight’s eyes blazed. For a heartbeat Hollyleaf thought she was going to pounce on the gray warrior, but she knew that exhausted and in pain, her mother would have no chance. Squirrelflight seemed to realize it, too. She drew herself up, head high; she was trembling, but her voice was clear and brave.

“Enough, Ashfur. Your quarrel is with me. These young cats have done nothing to hurt you. Do what you like with me, but let them out of the fire.”

“You don’t understand.” Ashfur looked at her as if he was seeing her for the first time; his voice was puzzled and petulant. “This is the only way to make you feel the same pain that you caused me. You tore my heart out when you chose Brambleclaw over me. Anything I did to you would never hurt as much. But your kits . . .” He looked through the flames at Hollyleaf and her brothers, his eyes narrowing to dark blue slits. “If you watch them die, then you’ll know the pain I felt.”

The flames crackled threateningly closer; Hollyleaf felt as if the heat was about to sear her pelt into ashes. She edged backward, only to feel the edge of the hollow give way under her hind paws. The three of them were pressed tightly together, so close that if one of them lost their balance, all three would be dragged off the cliff. Hollyleaf couldn’t control the trembling that shook her whole body as her glance flickered between the cliff and the fire.

Jayfeather was crouched close to the ground, looking tinier than ever with his pelt slicked flat by the rain. Lionblaze’s claws were unsheathed, glinting as the lightning flashed out again, but the tension in his haunches didn’t come from preparing to leap at Ashfur; it came from the effort of keeping himself on the top of the cliff.

Squirrelflight raised her head, her gaze locked on Ashfur’s crazed eyes. “Kill them, then,” she meowed. “You won’t hurt me that way.”

Ashfur opened his jaws to reply, but said nothing. Hollyleaf and her brothers stared at their mother. What was Squirrelflight saying?

Squirrelflight took a step away from them, and glanced carelessly over her shoulder. Her green eyes were fiercer than Hollyleaf had ever seen them, with an expression she couldn’t read.

“If you really want to hurt me, you’ll have to find a better way than that,” Squirrelflight snarled. “They are not my kits.”

[magicdustsworld]

𝐀 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: A guide on how to properly date your tattooed, big, bad boyfriend.

𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐒: Established relationship, slice of life

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: some profanity, biting(non sexual), fluff, no curse AU, usage of nicknames, no mentions of y/n. (Would be just a short series of drabbles)

𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐃𝐄 𝟏 : 𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐓𝐎 𝐂𝐔𝐃𝐃𝐋𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐘𝐎𝐔

Divider credits: @cafekitsune

"I love you."

"What?"

"I love you." You say with a sheepish grin playing on your lips as you get on your knees, crawling over to him. The silk sheets crease under your deliberate yet rhythmic movements – something which he doesn't even seem to notice. For the felicity in your eyes and the ardor clouding your visage is a expression to great to ignore and even though it's Sukuna, he can't ignore you.

You reach his side, resting your arm on the bedframe, looking up at him with a expression akin to a child looking at something it holds dear. "You know I love you so much, right?"

He blinks, clearly baffled with your sudden proclamation of love. Raking his brain over everything he did today – nothing out of the ordinary except being a asshole to that one salesman who wouldn't take his leave until selling his– whatever it was. But for Sukuna that's ordinary cause he's a jerk at heart.

He tilts his head, "What do you want?"

"Your arm." You are quick to reply, voice carrying an ardor which is too loud to miss. "Give me your arm."

His eye twitches, shooting you a – are you serious – look. You reply with a nod, stretching your hand, asking to get served. A disinterested scowl graces his lips, sparing you a glance, he turns to the opposite side.

This time, your eye twitches. He did not just reject your advances. You huff, inching closer to him as you place your hand over his bicep, "Baby... look at me."

He does. You jut out lower lip, eyebrows furrowing and tipping your head up at him. He can't help but consider how much you ressemble a cat with that expression. He pinches his lips, "If you think that's going to convince me otherwise then you're wrong— ow!"

In no time, you have sunk your teeth on his bicep, the canines puncturing the flesh, incisors holding the skin in place as you glare up at him.

Sukuna winces in sheer pain, trying to pull his arm off of your hold but you remain adamant on not letting him go. "Owh— what the actual fuck woman? Let go of me!"

You do let go, retracting your mouth but do not let go of his arm. You pout at him and Sukuna looks down at the attacked area. A circle of crescent moon shapes has forned on the part of the skin – it hurts like a bitch.

He turns to face you fully, crimson eyes blazing with a rage as he looks down on you. "What the hell was that for?"

You pout, narrowing your eyes, "Cuddle with me."

"After that stunt you pulled? Absolutely not."

"Absolutely yes."

He glares at you and you glare back; the silence turning into a staring match.

Sukuna scans your face, the crease on your forehead to the way you've twisted your lips and finally the flicker of vexation in your eyes.

Definitely a cat.

He sighs, threading his fingers through his hair before stretching out his arm. "Come here."

In an instant the irkness vanishes and you jump into his arms, eyes gleaming with delight and mouth stretched into a triumph grin. You giggle, "I knew you'd come along." You say, nuzzling your face in the crook of his neck as Sukuna loops his arm around your waist, shifting you to a closer and better position.

He sighs, "Whatever, brat. Just don't bite me again."

You pursue your lips, gazing at him with a guilt. Leaning up, you press your lips against his cheeks in a chaste kiss, "Mhm, sorry."

Heat rushes up Sukuna's face, spreading from his ears to his neck; he looks away from you.

"Aw, are you blushing?"

"Shut up."

"You are blushing."

He merely responds with placing his hand on the back of your head and pushing your face down on his chest. "Shut up."

You giggle, mumbling something incoherent before snuggling closer to him. "I love you."

This time, Sukuna doesn't suppress the idiotic grin which spreads on his lips. With your face pressed against his chest, he strokes your hair, placing a soft kiss on top of your head.

"I know, brat."

𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐃𝐄 𝟐

[trinitybloodbr]

E αqui começα o projeto de trαdução pαrα o Pt-Br dα Novel de Trinity Blood.

α série foi divididα em duαs pαrtes

R.α.M - Rαge αgαinst the Moons ( 6 volumes)

R.O.M - Reborn on the Mαrs (6 volumes)

Cαnon

Iremos começαr com α pαrte R.α.M - Rαge αgαinst the Moons e o seu primeiro volume.

A trαduçαo serα feitα α pαrtir dα novel originαl em jαponês.

Espero que nesse período de tempo, consigα encontrαr mαis fαs dessα obrα, que pαrα mim, é minhα fαvoritα em termos de vαmpiros.

Essα obrα nαo é de minhα αutoriα.

Trαdução feitα de fã pαrα fã.

NαO é αUTORIZαDO utilizαr essα trαdução em outros lugαres sem α devidα permissão.

𝔄𝔧𝔲𝔡𝔢𝔪 𝔬𝔰 𝔞𝔲𝔱𝔬𝔯𝔢𝔰 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔭𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔬 𝔰𝔲𝔞𝔰 𝔬𝔟𝔯𝔞𝔰 𝔬𝔯𝔦𝔤𝔦𝔫𝔞𝔦𝔰.

[jadarnr]

TRINITY BLOOD

RAGE AGAINST THE MOONS

(Storia: Sunao Yoshida // Illustrazioni: Thores Shibamoto)

Vol. 1 - From the Empire

FROM THE EMPIRE - CAPITOLO DUE

Traduzione italiana di jadarnr dai volumi inglesi editi da Tokyopop.

Sentitevi liberi di condividere, ma fatelo per piacere mantenendo i credits e il link al post originale 🙏

Grazie a @trinitybloodbr per il suo prezioso contributo alla revisione sul testo originale giapponese ✨

Se Piazza San Marco, che ospita Palazzo Ducale e la Basilica Cattedrale, era considerata il volto di Venezia, l'area intorno al Ponte di Rialto era senza dubbio il suo cuore, il luogo che si faceva carico dei consumi e dei desideri della città.

Ai piedi dell'enorme ponte ad arco che attraversava il Canal Grande, file di negozi allineati vendevano i prodotti più disparati, mentre il canale - dove locali, ristoranti, casinò e bordelli facevano a gara tra di loro per eleganza e splendore - era illuminato come se fosse pieno giorno, nonostante fosse ancora l'alba.

“Il vero volto é la maschera più raffinata ha scritto Crébillon Fils. Quindi, staremmo indossando una maschera sopra un'altra maschera…?”

In quel momento, dal canale, da una delle gondole, scendeva mano nella mano una coppia che indossava le maschere splendidamente decorate dell'“Innamorata” e del “Medico”, con il caratteristico becco lungo come quello di un uccello.

Mentre osservava i due amanti, l'uomo alla finestra si mise in bocca un sigaro sottile come un ago.

Lui stesso indossava una maschera che gli copriva metà del volto, la maschera dello “Stratega Arlecchino”. Il suo abito nero ben confezionato e i suoi capelli neri lunghi fino alla vita erano messi ancora più in risalto dalla maschera bianca.

“Se non nascondessimo la nostra esistenza con tanta cura, non saremmo in grado nemmeno di toccare questo mondo... Che creature meravigliose che siamo.”

“Ciò che vi piace è affar vostro, ma per piacere non includetemi in quel noi, signor stratega.”

La voce che aveva risposto all'osservazione di 'Arlecchino', simile al suono di una campana, era quella dell'altra persona presente nell’ufficio della direzione: una piccola figura seduta a gambe incrociate al tavolo di palissandro.

Si trattava, a occhio, di un ragazzo molto bello. Anche nella penombra, il suo viso angelico brillava. Tuttavia, anche se il suo viso giovane non dimostrava più di dieci anni, allora perché i suoi occhi erano vagamente ingialliti come l'ottone, torbidi e viscidi come quelli di un serpente vissuto per mille anni?

“Che ne dite, volete bere qualcosa anche voi?”

“Mi spiace, ma quando viaggio per lavoro, scelgo solo vino locale.”

“È un peccato... Beh, in ogni cado voi terran dalla vita breve probabilmente non sareste in grado di apprezzare questo sapore.”

Il ragazzo, il Conte di Zagabria Endre Kourza, storse il labbro superiore in un sorriso e sollevò il decanter sul tavolo. Versò lentamente il liquido rosso nel bicchiere di cristallo e lo bevve in un sorso.

“Delizioso... Oh, a proposito, anche questo è stato prodotto a Venezia.”

“E' la figlia di quell'artigiano?”

“Insisteva tanto nel voler rivedere la sua famiglia, così ho deciso di riunirla a loro.”

Leccandosi il rosso delle labbra, il ragazzo emise un suono soddisfatto in gola. Proprio perché la sua bellezza poteva essere paragonata a quella di un angelo, la sua mostruosa risata da uccello era incomparabilmente sinistra.

Tuttavia, lo stratega dai capelli lunghi non ebbe apparentemente alcuna reazione particolare. Si limitò a scrollare leggermente le spalle.

“Vorrei che evitasse mosse troppo vistose, Conte. Ieri sera sono venuto a sapere che un'amica del vostro paese é arrivata qui... Conoscete una signora di nome Astharoshe?”

“Astharoshe?”

Le sopracciglia di Endre si alzarono. Lo sguardo diretto allo stratega si fece leggermente più rigido.

“Astharoshe Asran? Pensano forse che io, Endre, sia una persona da sottovalutare?! Hanno mandato una ragazza che ha appena assaggiato il sangue... Oppure la carenza di personale nel Paese di Tsala ha raggiunto il suo limite?”

“Il problema non è lei di per sé. Il problema è che è stato il Vaticano ad invitarla. Infatti, Eccellenza...”

Gli occhi di Arlecchino si fissarono intensamente sulla bellezza dell'angelo.

“Eccellenza, lei ha deliberatamente reso nota la sua presenza nelle ultime settimane... lo ha fatto per attirare quella ragazza?”

Sono stato scoperto? Con quell'espressione, Endre tirò fuori rapidamente la lingua. Si grattò la testa, con aria un po' imbarazzata.

“No, in realtà ho un vecchio legame con quella donna. Ho pensato di mostrarle la conclusione del mio piano.”

“Per una cosa del genere? Eccellenza, conosce la Sezione Speciale della Segreteria di Stato del Vaticano ── il gruppo chiamato Ax? Sono loro che l'hanno convocata.”

“Non ne ho mai sentito parlare.” Endre rispose senza mostrare alcun interesse.

“È un'agenzia speciale creata dal Vaticano per combatterci. E al momento è l'unica organizzazione che ha i mezzi per opporsi al nostro Ordine. Da quando hanno scoperto l'esistenza di Vostra Eccellenza, al suo piano si è aggiunto un notevole grattacapo ──”

“Signor Kämpfer.”

“Sì...?”

La voce di Endre non era molto forte. Tuttavia, Kämpfer, lo stratega dai capelli lunghi, raddrizzò subito la schiena e rimase in silenzio, come se ascoltasse attentamente le parole del ragazzo.

“Signor Kämpfer, sta cercando di muovermi una critica?”

“Nein. Niente affatto.”

“Allora stia zitto. Non credo che voi spregevoli primati possiate capire l'orgoglio e la dignità di noi nobili Boiardi.”

Le sue labbra sottili si digrignarono mostrando denti simili a perle. Emise un lamento segnato da un odio velenoso.

“Quei pazzi nel mio paese, quegli idioti che mi hanno dato del pazzo solo perché ho ucciso trecento esseri umani dalla vita breve! Dobbiamo mostrare loro chiaramente cos'è la giustizia! Dobbiamo farlo! Altrimenti questo piano sarà inutile!”

“Jawohl... Mi scuso. Sono andato oltre il necessario.”

“... Se ha capito, va bene.”

Accarezzandosi il viso arrossato, Endre espirò profondamente. Portò il secondo bicchiere alle labbra, questa volta assaporandolo lentamente.

“In generale sono soddisfatto dell'Ordine. Il fatto di essere arrivato fin qui dopo essere stato esiliato dal mio regno è certamente merito del vostro aiuto. Beh, d'ora in poi cercherò di limitarmi. Anche lei però, cerchi di non essere così nervoso.”

“Sì mio signore.”

“Rinnoveremo il mondo con il fuoco ── Igne Natura Renovatur Integra ── Danzate, danzate! Sia l'Impero che il Vaticano sono in definitiva nel palmo della mia mano. Lasciate che versino quanto più sangue possibile con i loro artigli e le loro spade. E poi, tra il sangue e le fiamme, costruirò un potere che supererà sia l'Impero che il Vaticano... un grande potere!”

Sembrava che si stesse gradualmente inebriando delle sue stesse parole e del profumo del sangue. C'era una misteriosa nebbia negli occhi dell'antico vampiro che recitava oscure maledizioni. Voltando le spalle, l'Arlecchino dai lunghi capelli si inchinò rispettosamente.

L' ‘Innamorata’, scesa dalla gondola, sembrava sussurrare appassionatamente qualcosa al suo amante che le tendeva la mano ──

“Ehi, non continuare a toccarmi! Stammi lontano!”

“Anche se continui a dirmelo, è inutile! Qui sono ammesse solo coppie.” Brontolò il ‘Medico’, strofinandosi la mano schiaffeggiata. Sembrava fargli molto male. Gli occhi del colore di un lago invernale che scrutavano attraverso la maschera erano persino un po' acquosi.

“Benvenuti al Club INRI. È la prima volta che venite qui, vero? Avete una lettera di presentazione?”

L'uomo all’ingresso, vestito di nero e con una maschera bianca, si fece avanti ed aprì con eleganza la lettera di presentazione che gli veniva presentata, mentre allo stesso tempo scrutava la coppia con occhio attento. Si soffermò sull'uomo mascherato. Prima guardò il lungo becco, gli occhiali rotondi e poi la lunga veste nera del ‘Medico’.

Quel tizio... beh, chiaramente non era nessuno di importante. Sembrava che stesse cercando, nel migliore dei casi, di farsi passare per un dandy, ma continuava a calpestarsi il lungo orlo dell'abito e ad inciamparci sopra, mentre si riempiva allegramente le mani di spuntini, come panini e gamberetti pilaf, senza mostrare alcuna vergogna.

Invece l' ‘Innamorata’ che lo stava accompagnando, era qualcosa di così impressionante che persino lui, normalmente abituato a vedere l'aspetto elegante delle signore dell'alta società e delle cortigiane di lusso, deglutì involontariamente.

I suoi capelli bianco avorio erano ornati da vari gioielli in una pettinatura all'insù, mentre i numerosi braccialetti che ornavano le sue braccia sottili, che sembravano così fragili da rompersi, si toccavano producendo una bellissima serenata. Il candore della nuca, ornata da un diadema di diamanti, era come una scultura di ghiaccio vivente. E per finire, l'abito da sera rosso vivo - Rosso Veneziano - con un'audace scollatura, era un gioiello a sé stante, splendido, quasi aggressivo...

“Accidenti, mi fanno male i piedi! Come fanno queste persone a indossare queste cose e a camminare ancora... E che odore orribile! E' nicotina o qualcosa del genere? Questi Terrestri sono proprio tutti degli idioti?!”

Non appena raggiunse la sala principale, le delicate labbra dell' 'Innamorata' Astha iniziarono a sparare lamentele e insulti come una mitragliatrice. Né l'arredamento in stile neoclassico né il gruppo di gentiluomini e gentildonne che chiacchieravano allegramente ai tavoli della roulette e del baccarat sembravano incontrare il suo gusto.

“Sei di pessimo umore, non è vero, signorina Astha?”

“... E chi pensi sia il colpevole?”

Lei aveva insistito per entrare di nascosto dal retro, mentre il suo accompagnatore aveva proposto di entrare dall'entrata principale. Alla fine aveva acconsentito. Ma perché, lei che era un nobile e orgoglioso Boiardo dell'Impero, doveva andare in giro con un abbigliamento così assurdo?

“Dannazione, è così imbarazzante... Se fallisco la missione per questo motivo, ti strangolo a morte sul posto!”

“Ah, è freddo qua dentro? Ho sentito improvvisamente un brivido... signorina Astha hai detto qualcosa per caso?”

“Non ho detto niente! E poi, chi è l'uomo che stiamo cercando? Finiamola con questa storia. Mi sta venendo il mal di testa.”

“Si chiama Giorgio Russo. Sembra che sia il croupier della roulette... Ah, potrebbe essere quello laggiù?”

Una splendida maschera dorata da ‘Casanova’ si trovava al centro della sala, accanto alla ruota della roulette. Appena lo vide, Astha iniziò a muoversi velocemente in quella direzione, ma Abel le afferrò frettolosamente il braccio.

“Ehi, che fai, vai così?”

“È ovvio. Lo prenderò per la collottola e lo farò confessare. Basta trascinarlo nell'ombra...”

“Non è uno scherzo, non si fa così da queste parti! Lascia fare a me. E poi...”

Di fronte all'espressione insoddisfatta di Astha, Abel alzò rapidamente il dito.

“Ho una richiesta da fare.”

“Di che cosa si tratta questa volta?”

“Questo solo nell'improbabile caso in cui trovassimo subito l'obiettivo, ma... per oggi, per favore, astieniti dall'arrestarlo.”

“Che cosa?”

Astha stava quasi per staccare la testa a quell'idiota che parlava a vanvera, ma riuscì a fermarsi. Alcuni uomini in nero, che sembravano guardie del corpo, li stavano guardando con sospetto. Lei aprì il ventaglio che teneva in mano e avvicinò le sue labbra rosso perla all'orecchio del ‘Medico’. Resistendo ferocemente all'impulso di mordergli il lobo, sussurrò con voce profonda e minacciosa.

“L'hai visto anche tu! Se lasciamo libero quel tizio, il numero delle vittime non potrà che aumentare!”

“Oggi è l'ultimo giorno di Carnevale... Se l'obiettivo ci sfuggisse, avremo un grosso problema. Cosa pensi che accadrebbe se voi Metuselah iniziaste a combattere seriamente tra la folla?”

Il potere di combattimento di un singolo Metuselah equivaleva a quello di un intero battaglione di Terrestri. Se avessero iniziato a combattere tra loro nel bel mezzo di quella folla, i danni sarebbero inevitabili, quasi come in un una guerra civile.

“Se riusciamo a localizzare il nascondiglio, chiameremo i rinforzi. Perciò stasera, per favore, limitati a fare la ricognizione.... Va bene?”

“......”

“Signorina Astha?”

Astha distolse improvvisamente il viso e continuò a guardare il gruppo di uomini mascherati che ridevano e chiacchieravano animatamente con un'espressione severa sul volto, ma presto tornò la sua voce tonante.

“...Molto bene. Lo prometto. Per ora, stasera, ci limiteremo a cercarlo.”

“Bene. Allora andiamo.”

Con un sospiro di sollievo, Abel annuì e si diresse malfermo verso il tavolo della roulette.

“Mi scusi. Lei è il capo croupier, Signor Russo, giusto? Vorrei chiederle una cosa...”

L'uomo che si voltò verso di loro sembrò per un attimo abbagliato dalla bellezza di Astha, ma poi sorrise e si inchinò.

“Benvenuti. Cosa posso fare per voi?”

“Ehm... in realtà... eeeh!?”

"Toglietevi di mezzo, devo interrogare questo tizio... Allora, dov'è questa ragazzina chiamata Foscarina?”

Infilandogli il gomito nello stomaco e spingendo Abel da parte, Astha iniziò a parlare direttamente al croupier.

“Ho sentito dire che hai una relazione sentimentale con lei. Non ti servirà a nulla nasconderlo, capito? Dimmi la verità.”

“... Siete una poliziotta?”

“No, non lo siamo. Siamo...”

“Siamo cittadini comuni! Sì, gente comune, tutto qui. Oh, e lei è la sorella maggiore di Foscarina... Beh, è un po' disperata perché la sua sorellina è scomparsa.” Cercò di intromettersi Abel.

“La sorella di Foscarina? Aveva una sorella maggiore?”

“Eh? Ah, sì, in effetti ce l'aveva. Di recente è scesa dalle montagne per vedere la sorella... Ma lei sa dove si trova ora Foscarina?”

“Ho già detto alla polizia tutto quello che so.”

Con un sorriso educato - ma che sembrava guardarli dall'alto in basso - Russo si inchinò.

“Dopo tutto, Foscarina e io non eravamo fidanzati o cose del genere. Ho giocato un po' con lei e si è lasciata trasportare. Infatti, solo perché una volta abbiamo siamo stati a letto insieme, ha cominciato a comportarsi come se fosse la mia ragazza. Il che era una vera seccatura per me... Ma scusatemi, ora ho del lavoro da fare.”

“... Ehi, aspetta un attimo.”

Anche se Astha non sapeva molto delle relazioni amorose dei Terrestri, il tono di voce dell'altro uomo era stato sufficiente a irritarla. Con l'intenzione di dire qualcosa, allungò la mano verso il colletto di quel ‘Casanova’…

Tuttavia, le dita di Astha mancarono il bersaglio. Un istante prima, un pugno proveniente dal lato aveva già colpito il suo avversario sulla guancia.

“......Padre?”

“Oh, cosa?”

Il seducente ‘Casanova’ si accasciò pateticamente, emettendo un gemito, mentre l'alto ‘Medico’ fissava, perplesso, il proprio pugno serrato, come se lo vedesse per la prima volta.

“Ah, ehm, sono stato io per caso?”

“Figlio di puttana!” Un uomo vestito di nero, che sembrava essere una guardia del corpo, afferrò Abel.

Con le mani torte dietro la schiena, il prete emise un grido pietoso mentre veniva costretto a terra nel tentativo di venire sottomesso.

Come se non bastasse, qualcun altro gli diede uno spietato calcio nello stomaco ──

“Ugh!”

Tuttavia, l'autore dell'urlo, che sembrava quello di una rana, non era il prete. L'uomo in nero, che stava per prenderlo a calci, si stava ora contorcendo dal dolore, tenendosi il pomo d'Adamo che era stato colpito da un dito sottile.

“... Mi piace.”

Anche se non era sicuro di cosa ── o di chi ─ gli fosse piaciuto, Astha arricciò le labbra in segno di soddisfazione. Poi sollevò l'orlo dei suoi vestiti e alzò una delle sue lunghe gambe verso il soffitto e, un attimo dopo, un tacco affilato si abbatté sulla nuca dell'uomo in nero.

“Bastardo...!”

“Stronza!”

Un altro uomo in nero afferrò rudemente la spalla della giovane donna, ma in un attimo fu scaraventato in aria come se fosse privo di peso. Un grido stridulo si levò tra le signore impegnate nei loro pettegolezzi.

Poi, mentre un altro uomo della sicurezza vestito di nero lanciava un gancio sinistro insieme a un colpo vigoroso, il corpo dell’ ‘Innamorata’ si abbassò schivandolo. Il suo palmo si alzò come un fulmine, colpendo e spezzando il mento del gigante che si muoveva davanti a lei, e poi con una vigorosa ginocchiata colpì con precisione il plesso solare.

Ma in quel momento apparve improvvisamente un altro gruppo di una decina di uomini della sicurezza vestiti di nero.

“Ah! Un branco di terrestri! Ma non finirà mai così.”

Vedendo con la coda dell'occhio il seducente ‘Casanova’ che si era frettolosamente rialzato in piedi, sparire nel fondo della sala, Astha sfoderò le sue zanne bianche. Abbattere una decina di Terran non era difficile. Ma evitare di ucciderli ed andarci piano era un lavoro duro, e se ci fosse voluto troppo tempo, il bersaglio principale sarebbe potuto scappare. E poi, soprattutto... era tutto troppo complicato!

“Ok, è il tuo turno, padre. Vai!”

“Ah?”

Astha lo raccolse come se fosse un oggetto, poi, come se fosse un gattino, gli diede una leggera spinta.

L'alto sacerdote inciampò e finì tra gli astanti, cadendo su una ragazza.

“Ahh! Cosa stai facendo? Sei un pervertito!”

“Mi scusi, ehm, ma come si dice? Ama il tuo prossimo... Ugh!”

Dopo aver ricevuto uno schiaffo sulla guancia destra, il prete cadde di faccia su un vicino tavolo da gioco. La fortuna volle che gli uomini dall'aspetto sgradevole che giocavano a poker si fossero già alzati. Il gruppo di uomini di sicurezza vestiti di nero arrivò appena in tempo e iniziò a spingere via gli uomini arrabbiati. Ma non passò molto tempo prima che il confronto tra i due gruppi si trasformasse in una rissa che finì per coinvolgere tutti i presenti.

“Ehi, calmatevi, per favore! Per favore, calmatevi tutti! Ah, il Signore ha detto: Amate i vostri nemici... Oh! Ah, mi sanguina il naso! Il mio naso sta sanguinando...”

In un attimo il casinò si trasformò in un calderone di caos e confusione, e nessuno si accorse che la figura dell' ‘Innamorata’ un certo punto era scomparsa.

“Dannazione, chi diavolo è quella donna...?” Il ‘Casanova’ si guardò indietro mentre scappava, il fiato corto per la corsa. Nel corridoio buio non c'era nessuno. Il quarto piano era un'esclusiva del proprietario e, a parte lui, nemmeno il personale era autorizzato ad entrare.

Dopo essersi accertato che nessuno lo avesse seguito, Russo bussò alla porta di quercia rivestita di legno.

“Mi scusi, signore. Sono Russo. Vorrei informarla di una cosa, se possibile...”

"Si accomodi."

La porta si aprì con uno scricchiolio.

“C'è parecchio rumore laggiù. È successo qualcosa?”

L'interno della stanza era immerso nel buio più totale. Per quanto ne sapeva Russo, era sempre così. Sembrava che il proprietario di quel posto non avesse bisogno di luce.

“In realtà, è arrivato uno strano cliente... che ha chiesto della ragazza.”

“Uno strano cliente? Non era per caso una giovane donna?”

“Lo sapeva già?”

“'E dimmi, quella donna, indossava un vestito rosso e la maschera dell' ‘Innamorata’ per caso?"

“Sì! Come fa a saperlo?”

“Perché è proprio dietro di te... idiota! Sei caduto in un trucco da bambini!”

“Come?”

Russo non riuscì nemmeno a voltarsi: in quel momento, una piccola mano emersa dalle profondità dell'oscurità gli aveva già schiacciato la gola.

“Sinceramente sono stanco della stupidità dei Terrestri... Ma comunque, ne è passato di tempo, non è vero, Astharoshe?”

“Endre... Finalmente ti ho trovato...”

L' ‘Innamorata’ rispose con voce roca al ragazzo, che le sorrideva maliziosamente. La mano di Astha scomparve per un attimo. Quando riapparve, teneva in mano un lungo oggetto d'argento, che era stato nascosto nelle pieghe della sua gonna.

“Oh, quella è la Lancia di Gae Bolg, vero? Quegli idioti del mio paese d'origine ti hanno persino costretto a portare una cosa del genere... Non possono pensare seriamente che una ragazzina come te possa fare qualcosa contro di me, vero?” Mormorò Endre, per metà impressionato e per metà sdegnato. In quel momento, una luce rossa intensa cominciò a emanare dalla punta dell'oggetto che Astha teneva in mano. La luce si concentrò, assumendo la forma di una lunga spada nelle sue mani pallide.

“Endreeeeeeeeeeeee!”

Un attimo dopo, Astha spiccò un balzo e un urlo penetrante le esplose dalla gola.

[murderofravens]

fly me to the moon

pairing: hwang inho/young-il/frontman x fem reader

part: 3/3 [finished]

warnings: age gap (reader is 20, he's in his late 40s) angst, slight masochism, made him very fatherly again, mutual obsession, badly written smut, conflicting feelings, she's kinda crazy about him, brat reader, brat tamer inho, unhealthy dynamics, slight infantilization

summary: you're desperate to piss him off. it doesn't end well.

word count: 4.2k

FULL SERIES MASTERLIST | MASTERLIST

the ankle monitor attached to your leg itches.

you grunt in irritation as you use a spoon to scratch the area. it barely helps— you know the itching is more mental than it is physical. the mere presence of it bothers you. but at the same time, you're relieved. you were given two options— either that, or still having your hand chained to the bed with those insufferable straps. you chose the former. atleast it allows you to walk freely.

you're still not used to this lifestyle. honestly speaking, you've lost track of how long it's been. you mainly tried to count the days based upon the games, but inho doesn't allow you to witness the brutality of the newer games he's designed. he never even mentions them— pretends like it was all a dream and that everything between the two of you is okay. you pretend you don't almost piss yourself whenever his voice switches mid conversation— or when he puts on that mask and grabs his gun before leaving.

while it irritates you, a part of you is almost grateful. atleast this way, you can pretend you don't know exactly how sadistic he can be.

you almost snort at your thinking. you feel pathetic— but then again, do you have a choice?

he's given you free reign of his lavish penthouse— conveniently keeping any and all electronics or sharp objects away from you. which, you need to clap him on the back for. because the first thing you did when you were left alone and uncuffed was look for anything that you could use to hurt yourself— to touch an empathetic nerve in inho. your confidence in thinking of doing so was because he's made it clear how much the idea of losing you scared him. you tried to joke with him the other day— something about him coming back to find you bleeding out on the floor, and he got so furious that he threw his bottle of whiskey against the wall and then gave you an earful about making distasteful jokes. you almost considered running over and grabbing a glass shard and killing yourself in front of him to truly traumatize him like he did with you; but then the thought of your family and your dignity stops you.

you will not kill yourself over a man.

you've thought of many jokes since then, but never dared mention them in his presence.

currently, you were frolicking around— eyeing the massive screen on which he apparently watches the games. you'd insisted upon it once— and he'd pulled you into his lap and allowed you a single glimpse before hiding your face in the crook of his neck and patting your back till you fell asleep to the sound of 'fly me to the moon.'

your eyes narrow. you look around, desperate to find something. there's an itch within you that you need to scratch—it's different than your ankle. it's the itch to be insufferable, to take a sweet little revenge against your old man; to frustrate him and ruin his day like he ruined your life. you can only hope that if you succeed in doing so, he won't kill your entire family in a fit of rage. you've been forcing your heart to believe he's only bluffing, even though you know he isn't.

your eyes fall upon the side table placed by the couch. you look at it, then at the screen. then back at it. with a newfound vigour, you rush forward and pull out the drawer— it's empty except for a few files. you toss them out and hold the drawer in both hands, before looking back at the screen with the most devilish glint in your eyes.

you let out a victorious roar before lunging— using all the strength you can muster and then thrashing the drawer against the screen.

it doesn't budge. the blow has you stumbling over your steps, and the drawer falls upon your feet. you let out a cry, tears of frustration appearing in your eyes. you scream and pick up the drawer again, and then thrash it against the screen over and over— till your hands hurt and sweat builds across your skin.

the screen remains spotless.

amidst your one sided battle, you fail to hear the sound of the door opening.

"it's shatterproof." a heavy voice announces, distorted through the mask.

panting, you drop the drawer and shoot him the meanest glare you can muster with mascara running down your cheeks. he cocks his head to the side— the barrier of the mask between you two making you feel uneasy.

"are you done acting like a child?"

you release a heavy, shaky breath as you stare at him. you want to jump at him, tear that mask off and slam his head against the wall. you want to kiss him and beg him to spare you and your family. your heart races with adrenaline— and your skin feels hot. acting like a child, he says. he's treated you like a child forever. what's so wrong in acting like one?

you slick your hair back, eyes darting around the room— examining everything you can see, till an idea pops in your head.

against your better judgement, you pick up the drawer again. slowly, like a predator, you walk to the side, your gaze never leaving his figure. you stand before his music box— the one with the pretty jazz band that plays 'fly me to the moon,' whenever he watches the games. you've heard it quite a few times since you got here, and you have buried your head in the pillows a few times to avoid hearing it.

you used to adore frank sinatra, but now you can only associate his lyrics with impending doom.

you wish he wasn't wearing that mask, because you would've loved to see his reaction when you ruined something he visibly finds comfort in. you would've felt bad, if he hadn't done the same to you. if he hadn't taken your young-il from you.

you raise the drawer, and then bring it down fiercely. it almost happens in slow motion— how the music box shatters into pieces, and the tiny dolls fall to the floor.

you pant as you drop the drawer then, and wipe the sweat off your forehead. suddenly feeling brave, you shoot him the most smug smile you can muster in your breathless haze.

the silence that follows is suffocating. you blink at him, shoulders rising and falling with your heavy breaths — while he stands there patiently with his hands clasped behind his back.

"are you gonna keep standing there, watching me?" you ask, quirking an eyebrow.

you resist the urge to step back as he advances towards you ever so slowly. he looks at his broken music box, then redirects his blank, masked face back at you.

you egged him on, "aren't you gonna say something?"

"was this supposed to anger me?" he asks. you can detect a hint of amusement in his voice, "a man in my position doesn't have materialistic attachments."

you scoff, vision almost turning red with rage at his tone.

"i think i can afford another music box," he adds dryly, cocking his head to the side, "but what do i do about your manners?"

your eyes narrow with agitation— you were so desperate to piss him off, to evoke an actual reaction out of him; but he isn't giving you one. it frustrates you. before you can do anything, his foot pops out, hits your leg in just the right place to make you shriek and drop to your knees immediately— till the shattered pieces of the box dig into your skin painfully— wood and glass.

"fuck!" you wince, letting out another pained groan. he watches you blankly, and in this moment you wish that mask would just disappear. it makes him look more like a stranger than he already is. you want to see his reaction, even if it is at the expense of your pain. "you— ow! you asshole—"

"language." he chides, bending down slightly so he can grab your hair and yank your head up. you squirm around, trying to get up but he holds you in place, "why must you keep acting like a child—"

"why, i thought i was a child!" you snap back at him angrily, recalling his words from when he refused to send you back into the games. you're furious, "why shouldn't i act like one if you keep treating me that way!"

"do you not want me to?" he asks, giving you a humourless chuckle, "you want me to treat you like the adult you are, huh, darling? i'll treat you like an adult."

you grumble in confusion and he gives your head a little push as he lets go of your hair and straightens up. his hand comes down to shift his robe to the side so he can have access to his dress pants. he pulls it down slightly along with his boxers, revealing how hard he's been by your little show of defiance. your eyes widen and you almost choke on your spit as he grabs your head again, his free hand guiding his cock to your eager mouth, "fuck— is this what you wanted?" he groans, throwing his head back slightly as you wrap your lips around him with the enthusiasm of a slut. he's so unbelievably thick— and all your knowledge for sucking dick comes from porn, so you try your best— forgetting almost every vengeful thought as the skin of his neck is exposed to your vision.

you have never wanted a man this badly.

small cuts on the skin of your knees open up because of the damage you caused, but you can't bring yourself to think about it— not when you lick a long, wet stripe on the underside of his cock, before placing a teasing kiss upon his tip. he looks down at you again, his gloved hand digging into your hair, guiding your head up and down as you try to take him fully into your mouth. your hands come up in an attempt to hold what your mouth can't, but he slaps them away, "put those behind your back."

this time, you obey. your eyes water as he immediately pushes himself to the hilt till your nose presses against the coarse hair at his pubic bone— and only then you know that you are truly gone, because you moan at the smell of him. he lets out a soft grunt again when he pulls your head back, before thrusting in and out of your mouth gently. your hands stay clasped behind your back as he uses your mouth, his balls slapping against your chin as your watery eyes look up at him. you wish you could see him— you want to see his face, you want to see what he looks like when he cums in your mouth for the first time.

you whimper, pulling your head back slightly. he allows you, and you lean down to press a needy kiss to his balls before licking up his cock again. your voice is hoarse when you speak, "let me see your face."

he looks at you for a bit— the stoic face of the mask making you feel more and more isolated— like you're pleasuring someone else. and perhaps, you are, in a way. this isn't your young-il anymore.

"after that little stunt," he answers quietly, voice grim, "you don't deserve it."

you almost whine as he grabs your head again and forces his cock back down your throat— and then you realize what this is. what you thought started as some sort of reward is actually a punishment. you whimper as you gag around him, choking with each sharp thrust as his movements begin to get harsher. tears run down your face as you glare at him, and in retaliation you bring your hand up and grab his thigh. he hisses at being disobeyed, pulls your head forward till you nose is quite literally pressed against his stomach. "hands. behind your back."

despite struggling to breathe, you shake your head as best as you can given the situation. you can't see his face, but you can tell the exact expression he must be making. the one where his eyes get all intense, and his lips start quivering with rage, as if he wants to explode.

you moan slightly and take the opportunity to pull your head back. and then get back to sucking his cock— your tongue rolling deliciously across his shaft as you cup his balls. it almost makes him stumble with shock— the sudden pleasure he feels, judging by the throaty moan that escapes him. motivated by his newfound weakness, you jerk him off while mouthing at the soft skin of his balls, and he almost bends down as he lets out a raspy groan, "fuck! that feels— fuck!"

"language," you tease slightly, voice raspy. you enthusiastically indulge him, your brain suddenly consisting of him, and only him. his voice. his face. his moans. the way his eyes crinkle. you switch from sucking his balls to kissing his tip and jerking him off.

as if to reward you, he suddenly pulls his mask off, one hand of his going up to hold onto the wall for support. he squeezes his eyes shut, and the mere sight of his face has you crumbling— you let out a soft moan as you take him down your throat again. one of your hands slips into your panties, and you start rubbing your clit with vigour as he fucks your throat.

"you little fucking brat—" he grunts, thrusting shallowly in and out of your mouth, the vein in his neck popping and a few strands of his styled hair falling beautifully down his forehead. he's hot when he swears, you think— starry eyed as you look at him. you've never seen a more angelic sight. as you gurgle around his cock, he holds your head down again and throws his head back, cumming with a loud gasp. you cum with a choked moan of your own, your hand shaking as you rub circles into your clit, overstimulating yourself.

you choke as you feel him spill down your throat, and he pants heavily as he slowly pulls himself back, before quickly tucking himself into his pants. you swallow it and cough slightly, covering your mouth with the back of your hand as you wince a little— it leaves a bitter and sticky aftertaste, but nothing too bad. you're sure you'll get used to it. he grabs your wrist and bends down to stick your wet fingers in his mouth, licking your slick off. his tongue rolls around the digits and you moan, eyes dazed as he ensures your entire palm is clean, before pulling back while smacking his lips and humming in appreciation like you were the most prized delicacy in the world.

as if nothing happened, he swiftly picks you up like you're a mere doll— carrying you bridal style to the bathroom. your hair— damp with sweat, sticks to your skin, and your eyes are bloodshot.

and though you can remember your original intention being wanting to take revenge, this somehow felt much more better.

perhaps, you really are too far gone.

you look off into space thoughtfully as he settles you on the bathroom counter. his face is uncovered but guarded— he takes his gloves off, grabs a towel and wets it with water before tending to you. with utmost gentleness, he pulls your bottoms down and tosses them in the basket, before analyzing your wounds.

your panties are so wet it's almost shameful. you got that horny just by sucking his cock. he glances at your face, and you look away sheepishly. the smell of you makes his head spin, but he needs to concentrate on something else. you clear your throat and redirect your attention to his face.

you stare at him while he stares at your knees. he gently wipes the blood off, ensuring no remaining pieces of the music box stick to your skin. he disinfects your wounds and it makes you hiss— he almost winces at the sound, but you're not sure.

you don't understand why he's doing this. how can he hurt you and tend to your wounds at the same time? but then again, how can you hate him and let him do this to you at the same time too?

perhaps, you both are confused. you need someone to rely on, and he needs someone to need him. but neither of you know how to deal with the complications that come with your unconventional relationship, so you pretend it's normal. it's okay.

you look at him but he doesn't meet your gaze. you wish you could go back in time, or travel to another dimension. meet him under different circumstances. perhaps, that relationship would've been healthy. you clear your throat, and change the subject.

"you know, back in the hall," it hurts a little to talk, but you want to hear his voice, and you're desperate to talk about something. anything to end this silence. "before i was leaving to come to you, the old lady said something funny."

he stiffens at the mention of her, and you pretend not to notice. he doesn't glance at you as he cleans your knees, before placing a comforting palm on your thigh. he hums in question, gaze lowered.

"she called you my father," you chuckle slightly, your voice suddenly getting shaky, "isn't that funny? such a funny thing to assume."

he tenses at your words and clenches his jaw. his thumb rubs circles onto the skin of your thigh, before he lets out a small chuckle of his own— it sounds dry. he finally looks up at you— and you almost see a glimpse of your young-il in his eyes. you think he looks upset. you wonder if you offended him, and you consider apologizing, but he interrupts your train of thought.

"really?" he asks quietly, giving you a small smile. it's odd, engaging in casual conversation with him after the little fight you two just had. "well, with how many times i looked after you—"

"—you might as well be," you finish his sentence with a roll of your eyes, "yeah, i know."

he gives a soft, hearty laugh then, tapping your knee. "yeah." he trails off, voice getting quieter. distant. "might as well be."

his mind drifts off. if he hadn't been so late, his kid would've been around your age. perhaps, that's why he immediately grew protective of you during the games. perhaps, it was fate.

your gaze softens, face falling slightly. he looks distant again— like he's fighting a war within himself. you swallow the lump in your throat.

"i saw you that way at first, you know." you said quietly, blinking down at your lap. "you made me feel safe." and now all i feel is fear around you.

he looks at you wordlessly, gaze unreadable. he's thinking— reading you, but you can't do the same with him. he has way more experience at hiding his thoughts and expressions than you do. he's spent decades confined within these walls with people in masks being his only companions— he learned how to wear one himself. permanently. he wants to tell you that you're an open book to him— since the start.

"do i not anymore?" he questions instead, cocking his head to side. you roll your eyes, shoulders slumping as you shoot him an impassive glare.

"seriously?" you ask, voice obvious. it makes him smirk slightly, and he clenches his jaw to hide it.

he cups your face, pulls it up as he looks into your eyes. you don't say a word, simply glaring at him as he places a kiss upon your forehead.

"let me tell you," he quirks an eyebrow— a hint of a smile on his face as he squishes your cheeks, "no kid of mine would be a brat."

you scoff, pushing his hands off as you look away from him. he looks unbothered as he grabs you and puts you back down on the floor.

"i can do that myself, thanks." you huff, straightening your shoulders as you brush past him.

he grabs your hand, pulls you back towards him till you collide into his chest. he cups the side of your face, gently leaning down to rub your noses together. it almost leaves you breathless with how flustered you feel.

"would you rather i give you the silent treatment again?" his voice is unabashedly soft as he speaks. "you didn't like that last time."

your breath hitches, and your heart begins to race again. you clench your jaw before closing your eyes, releasing a shaky breath. you remember collapsing in his arms and crying your heart out when he gave you the silent treatment— being ignored by him hurt and made you feel alone in a way you hadn't felt in years.

you shake your head no.

he smiles. it's almost sinister. his eyes are still crinkly and he would look so utterly adorable to you before— but now, you know his intentions. you can tell when he's smiling only because he's hiding a different approach.

"then you'll behave, won't you?" he whispers, placing a soft kiss upon your lips. you blink rapidly before nodding again.

"good," he says quietly, softly tapping your cheek before letting go and composing himself. "i'll clean that mess up. go back to bed and take a nap, you must be tired after that little show."

you grit your teeth before shooting him a glare, and he merely blinks at you, amused, before you rush back to the bedroom.

he follows not long after, wearing only a black undershirt and his pants. you stare at him as he gently places a tray on your bedside table. you sit up, looking at it curiously. it's a cup of tea.

"for your throat," he explains softly with a pat to your head. the gesture makes your heart feel warm— and once again you start wishing you had met him under different circumstances where he didn't practically kidnap you. that way, your guilty conscience wouldn't berate you for desiring him so much, for being so comfortable around him.

he stands by his own side of the bed, fiddling with his wristwatch. you sit up properly and blow on the tea before drinking it, humming in appreciation. it's your favourite beverage.

he gets into bed soon enough, sighing to himself. you place the empty cup on the table and look off to the side, not wanting to meet his gaze, no matter how good he looks.

he says your name softly and you melt.

you look at him and he tenderly caresses your face with the back of his hand. you wish you could read his thoughts.

you swallow your pride and say what you've been thinking.

"why did you never apologize to me?"

his gaze hardens slightly and his hand pauses. you swallow hard as you await his answer.

"because i'm not sorry," he says calmly, "I don't regret anything i did."

you clench your jaw, "not even hurting me or my feelings?"

he chuckles a little— amused at your naivety, "I don't regret doing anything that brought you to me."

you blink at him before looking away. he forces you to meet his gaze by grabbing your chin.

"i don't regret anything," he repeats lowly, eyes intense. "as long as i get to have you."

"you hurt me." you whisper, voice cracking.

"i know." he nods, "you'll get over it. you're my brave girl, aren't you?"

you grit your teeth so hard you fear your jaw might snap. you glare at him, while he looks at you indifferently. wordlessly, he opens his arms and welcomes you into the comforting little space he created. you consider running off, defying him, breaking the tea cup and using the glass to threaten him or just killing yourself— anything.

bur you don't. like always, you succumb to him, and give up control. you eagerly crawl into his side and he holds your head against his chest. he pulls the sheets over the two of you and pecks your forehead.

"still don't feel safe?" he asks, almost teasingly. you can't believe he keeps trying to joke with you— he's cruel. you scoff, giving him a weak shove and he grabs your wrist and holds your palm against his chest. you can feel his heart beating. you wonder if yours beats this loud too.

you get comfortable a few moments after, and force yourself not to think about your life before the games. before him. you wonder if your family is happy, if they're wondering where you are. you wonder if your mother thinks you're dead, you wonder if she still prays for you. even if your family thinks you're dead, you hope they find happiness and move on from the thought of you. you hope they live a life of ease.

the thoughts make you sniffle and you hold back the urge to cry, burying your head further into his chest. he hums softly, patting your head almost paternally till you fall asleep, and only when he is completely sure that you're out of it, that he allows himself to close his eyes too.

and the next day, the cycle repeats.

A/N: another song title because i have no creativity... anyway this was meant to be a blurb but i ended up writing a glimpse into their relationship because i love them so much. and well.. the smut is mid but i hope you guys enjoyed it. thank you for reading and thank you for the support!! i love all of you.

tags: @bonelessghoul @cowuies @auspicious-lilana @politicstanner @verouys @gloriousjellyfisharcade @carolinevoight @shadowmoonlight0604 @ancrygurl @sunoon @jessgentleman @colorwastaken @loversroq @clown-around-and-find-out @popcorm @xcinnamonmalfoyx @robertthehoover @iloveoldermen0204 @kpopsmutty69 @iamkali @thebluehair23

[blitzwhore]

I can't stop thinking about how Stolas hasn't seen any of the growth that Blitzø has had in Apology Tour and Ghostfuckers regarding his feelings for Stolas... And what little he has witnessed, he was probably too drunk to process.

He hasn't seen Blitzø almost bankrupting his business. He hasn't seen Blitzø watching him dance with, and kiss, someone else and losing his mind. He hasn't seen Blitzø softly admitting that the bird really got to him; hasn't seen Blitzø holding back tears while saying he'll never have a relationship with Stolas.

And, in Mastermind, though their inner worlds connect, Stolas is still very pointedly facing away from Blitzø. Not seeing Blitzø cry desperately for him, not hearing Blitzø beg him not to sacrifice himself; too focused on getting through this moment, on saving Blitzø, on taking the blame and ultimately dying.

And this is Stolas—the same man who told Blitzø "you are free of me" in The Full Moon. The same man who sang "I don't think it meant a thing at all to you". The same man who believes he is not good enough to be loved, who believes he is a burden—that no one could possibly choose to be in his company, at least not without getting something in exchange—least of all Blitzø. The same man who was so ready to accept Blitzø's rejection and extricate himself from Blitzø's life that he fulfilled the prophecy himself by portaling Blitzø away after Blitzø's (perceived) rejection.

Blitzø has come to the realisation that he loves Stolas, and to the realisation that Stolas loves him. But I don't think it has clicked for Stolas yet that Blitzø loves him too.

And now, Stolas has nothing. The only reason he has a roof over his head is that Blitzø has taken him in.

Just how guilty is he going to feel? Just how strongly is he going to believe that he's burdening Blitzø by needing a place to stay, by needing to be taken care of? Just how hard is he going to try to convince himself that Blitzø could never possibly love him, despite the blatant, obvious love that is going to pour from every single of Blitzø's words and actions toward him?

Oh. Oh. What if it's now Stolas' turn to believe he could never be loved by Blitzø despite the raging evidence against that? Just like Blitzø has done for the better part of these two seasons?

[kitten4sannie]

mafia san! always gets what he wants btw, especially when it comes to playing with his favorite toy ♡

✖✖✖✖✖✖✖✖✖✖✖✖

“Look at me, baby, yeah, like that,” San whispers down to you, his breathy voice hardly reaching you past the sound of the loud, crackling fire blazing away behind you within the lavish living room of the estate, though you’re far too focused on the shlick sounds of San’s hand rubbing eagerly along his stiff, dripping cock to really hear what he’s saying to you. He presses a finger into the underside of your chin, tilting it up. “You look like you want something, princess. Use your words, will you?”

“I want to touch you, sir, please let me?” you ask, not even recognizing your own pathetic voice. When did you get this desperate for someone as dangerous as Choi San, the trusted head of the Park Estate? Your legs and feet start to grow numb underneath you from being in that same position for so long, encouraging you to lean forward, resting your head against his bare thigh, your eyes wide and full of need, feeling his muscles contract underneath your cheek as he tossed his head back, his fingers squeezing around the base of his throbbing erection. “I’ll be good, sir, I promise…”

Growing hotter by the second from the raging fire nearby and his pretty plaything quite literally begging on her knees just to put her hands on him, San opened up his heavy fur coat to expose the entirety of his naked body, his pretty tan skin glowing underneath the low light of the room. He gave you a smug sideways smile, angling his cock down to lightly smack it against your heated cheek, making you gasp. “Be good and spit on my cock, then, princess.”

Swallowing down the rest of your dignity, you pursed your lips, letting a few strings of saliva drip down onto the head of his cock, watching him eagerly lube it up, your cunt pulsating like it had its own heartbeat. His curved length was thick and heavy inside San’s slick hand, decorated with prominent veins that all led to the reddened, shiny tip. Your blushing face was mere inches away from it, admiring the way San continued to pleasure himself, from gripping at his swollen balls to running his fingers over one of his perked nipples. Not being able to do anything was simultaneously killing you inside but keeping the fire lit inside your core, and San knew that. That’s why he controlled you in this way.

“Does my pretty doll want to be even prettier for me? Hm? Does she want to be a good toy for me?” San hummed out in between heavy breaths, a few drops of sweat falling off of his jaw and wetting the fur of his coat, all the while thick beads of pre-cum pooled out of his slit and dripped down the swollen head of his cock.

“Yes, please,” you voiced desperately, your dilated eyes flitting from his pulsing cock to his fiery gaze, tears starting to blind your vision from how bad you wanted to taste the saltiness of his pre-cum on your tongue, drool escaping from your parted lips.

Chuckling softly at you, he reached down to slip his fingers into your hair, tugging you towards him just as his moans began to grow louder, taking his time as he painted your beautifully pitiful face with his hot load, making sure not to miss your glistening lips, smearing the last few dribbles of cum over them to finally give you a taste. That’s all it took for you to shudder and fall completely apart before him, falling forward into his bare lap, your mind spinning. You really were his toy, operating only for his own pleasure, which in turn had become your own, somewhere along the way.

San’s eyes resembled crescent moons, his smile only growing wider. He had molded you into the perfect pet.

“That’s my good slut. Now, it’s time to bend over and take what I give you.”

✖✖✖✖✖✖✖✖✖✖✖✖

© kitten4sannie, 2024.