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ahhhwomen · 20 days ago

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How did R’s react when he ate sweets for the first time and how did Natasha and Wanda react?

a/n: I am very close to calling this its own chapter given the fact that it is 4.5k and I lost my mind trying to write it. Is it good? I don't know. Did I proff read it? Fuck no, I'm over this shit. Anyway, enjoy the girlie's first kiss ig.

Contains slight spoilers for unreleased chapters of Vampire Empire

Warning: Implied force-feeding, talk of vomit, food anxiety, gay simps

The goop inside your bowl is scarcely edible.

At least that’s what you think, not that it matters, you don’t have opinions.

Half of it clings to the sides of your bowl, strangely solid yet somehow entirely liquid, the other half of the sustenance is spilled and hanging off the bent metal´s side. The closer it gets to midnight, the worse it looks.

A whimper echoes against hollow walls and joins the wails of fellow prisoners as the shattering pain inside your jaw bares its ugly teeth at the thought of creaking itself open for the sludge that could be mistaken for concrete.

In the first few hours, it had a color close to desirable. Now, the color reminds you more of the ground stained with your bodily fluids, because much like your blood, dried grab slathers itself against the cold outside of your bowl.

Picture perfect representation of your life story: desired, if only for a moment.

The scarce portion left on the inside is like a heap of coagulated blood, it jiggles and splatters against the metal beside your cracked hands. You could almost swear it has a pulse of its own. Gasping for the same chilled air that burns your lungs, the traumatizing, grey, something, moves up and down- breathing.

Footsteps of a handler emit in the empty air, heavy like the raging rain, the clash of his boots forces you to move faster. Much like a hurt deer, you drag your body across the ground until you are close enough to grasp the cool metal and force its insides down your closing throat.

Your broken jaw shrieks and cracks as you use both your hands to split it open with a sickening crunch.

If only they cut away your sense of smell too, that way you might not gag as much while the thick liquid, with the stench of a dead body, gurgles itself down your throat. It's like swallowing a handful of sand mixed with the guts of a diseased fish.

At this point, starving yourself would be the better option, but there was no point. Unless you wanted a tube stuck down your throat tonight, you would have to stomach it yet another day.

Manicured nails wrap around the delicate throat of a wine glass. Red liquid, which will never quench her thirst, swirls gently as she rotates her wrist in a circular motion. The glass is chilled and smooth against her fingertips, a soothing distraction from her twisting thoughts.

It's almost humorous, most would be concerned if their pet didn’t eat, yet here she was, concerned that you did.

A frustrated sigh builds within her, crawling up her stomach until she has to fight the air she breathes, in an attempt to not startle you as you rest beside her outstretched feet. It's not that she wasn’t happy you ate her food, or that your lack of pickiness angered her, it was just weird.

No matter what she put in front of you, you would eat it but rarely look like you enjoyed it. Even the most lavish of meals would be regarded with horribly hidden cringing. With a sigh, Wanda leans forward slightly, being extra careful not to disturb you as she changes her position, she rests her elbow on the plush cushion to her left and mulls it over.

There had been multiple instances where you would end up serving the food right back up again after finally getting it down, a clear sign that you either didn’t like it or ate too much of it.

A frown settles over stern features at the memories.

Even after you would throw up, you would attempt to consume it again with a grim expression adoring your pale features. Luckily Wanda was always there to remove it before you could try a second time, but then you would look like a scolded child and hide yourself away for the rest of the day.

It's as if the very idea of leaving the damn food alone gave you a whole crisis.

So, that’s how she finds herself now, in dire need of a solution as your weight has been dropping rapidly due to the reverse your stomach so often does. She needs to find a way to make you understand that it's okay to dislike something and that it's also okay to express pleasure for certain foods.

With a huff, Wanda continues to swirl her wine gently, it swishes against the sides and glides into thick droplets before merging itself back into its voluminous state. The irony isn’t lost on the older redhead, she supposes it’s slightly amusing that the only drink she deems worthy of her time resembles her most addictive poison.

Drifting her gaze over to your sleeping form she can’t help but admire your neck for a moment, the smooth skin jumping up and down with the quirk of your sensitive pulse. Your vein is so close to her, ready at her disposal. Of course, she would never bite you, not until you were ready, yet she couldn’t help but fantasize every now and then…

Your heady taste coating her tongue and throat, Wanda inhales deeply as she watches you sleep, your scent burns like sweet bourbon. Much like your smell, she imagines your taste would be similar; rich, and sweet… Sweet.

Wanda almost has to refrain from an incredulous laugh as the thought strikes her like lightning, the most obvious choice of them all; sweets.

However, even with such a lethal weapon up her sleeve, there were still certain challenges that would follow.

Due to her preference for keeping your diet strict and healthy, she imagined you were quite unfamiliar with the concept of anything remotely sweet. She would have to do this carefully, not wanting food to become a point of stress for you, more than it already was, she needed to introduce the new taste with something you are familiar with.

Twirling the glass around Wanda stared down at the deep red in thought, her knitted sweater irked her slightly as it slid across her skin, following her motions. With a huff, she took a sip of her fruity wine, as it lathered itself against her tastebuds, a bolt struck her for the second time that night.

Fruits.

Wanda had seen Natasha attempt to introduce you to the foreign concept before. And though it ended with a rather grumpy you after Natasha tricked you into trying a lemon, you had seemed… happier with the simplicity of it rather than your dinners.

To be fair Natasha had only managed to convince you to try the simplest and most universal fruits, such as bananas and apples, and of course, that lemon- but that one also set Natasha’s progress back by a week as you refused to try anything else she offered you.

Wanda’s eyebrows knit as she thinks it over… so you do know how to deny food?

Then how come every time Wanda served you breakfast or dinner you would eat until you threw up?

Amid her deep loophole of theories, a cramp hit Wanda’s leg, unconsciously she moved it slightly to the left, toward you. It wasn’t until she watched your sleeping form arch away from her by instinct that she realized you truly don’t trust Wanda. At least not the way you do Natasha.

She really shouldn’t be surprised.. she had seen it endless times by now, but the idea that you would push your body to such lengths because of her was more devastating than she could ever imagine.

It pained her to think that you deemed force-feeding yourself the lesser evil of the situation.

Yet, that would have to be a problem to punish her mind with at a later date, the important thing now was to help bring stability to your life and diet. Even if you don’t trust her, you do seem to have some resemblance of trust toward Natasha, or well, at least after she swore never to trick you again, you do.

And though she can use that to her advantage, it doesn’t give an immediate resolution; Natasha was scarcely home before your bedtime and wouldn’t be able to serve you your breakfast or dinner, and it was important to Wanda that the routine they had built for you stayed solid as sudden change had caused quite a few mishaps in the past.

So, as the businesswoman Wanda is, she starts mentally preparing a game plan for tonight and sends a quick text to Natasha, asking her to pick up a little something before returning home.

If this worked in her favor, it could strengthen your trust in her, which would in return at least start the path to recover some of your weight.

A few hours later, you and Wanda had long since abandoned your napping spots on the couch in favor of slipping into your own corners of the house. The older woman in her office and you, most likely, under a piece of tucked away furniture where you knew you wouldn’t be disturbed.

The door opens with a silent twist of the expensive, vintage, handle. Natasha cringes as her boots drag across the carpet, she had warned Wanda against installing it right next to the main door, but her wife wasn’t easily persuaded. Sure enough, as soil splatters itself in distinctive Natasha-pressed footprints, Natasha knows she will be in trouble in about ten seconds.

1…

Nat discards her dirty work shoes on the little shelf to her left, leaving another muddy print on the metal.

2…

Fixing the grocery bag around her shoulder Natasha wonders what wicked plan Wanda has planned for the three of you tonight.

3…

The older redhead didn’t have to tell her wife that she was hashing out a plan, Natasha could figure it out just due to one of the items she was instructed to buy.

4…

It’s not as if her wife doesn’t like this item, it’s just that she never really requests it, and least of all so late and out of the blue.

5… 6… 7…

As the seconds tick by without a single sound from her wife, Natasha gets a little confused. Usually, Wanda would always be there to welcome her home and reprimand her for bringing in her dirty shoes.

8… 9…

Today, however, it seems her wife must be preoccupied with her little plan.

10.

“What have I told you about bringing your dirty shoes inside?”

Natasha almost jumps out of her skin when she feels the words breathe down her neck. Turning around in a millisecond, she sees Wanda smirk at her while she leans against the door.

“Jesus Wanda, you really have to stop doing that! One day I am going to have a heart attack!” Rich laughter travels through Natasha’s ears as Wanda sinks deeper against the door in her fit of indulgent giggles while she shakes her head at her wife’s spooked expression.

Pushing herself away from the expensive oak, she slides her hands around her wife’s waist and nuzzles into Natasha’s neck, mouthing the words against her, “Darling, you don’t have a heart.” Natasha huffs but leans her head more to the left, giving Wanda space to kiss and bite as she sees fit.

“Not true…” The younger redhead mumbles it mostly to herself and Wanda simply hums against her as she drags the point of her canines slowly down from beneath Nat´s ear and down to her thoracic outlet.

Red, angry, lines form as she can’t help but add a little pressure behind the drag, feeling Nat’s pulse jump and hammer right beneath her tongue. Barley refraining from sinking her teeth in, Wanda releases Natasha with a sigh and one last kiss to the junction between her neck and shoulder.

Natasha attempts to lean back in hopes of gaining contact again, but there is no point. Before she can even blink, Wanda is halfway across the hallway, holding the bag Nat just had within her grasp.

“Not fair.” The younger woman whispers to herself and pretends not to see the smirk her wife sends her way.

Dark red heels click against the marble flooring as the rustle of plastic echoes within their space, “Find kitten and bring her to the living room, please.” The plea is more for show than anything, Wanda is more than aware that her wife can’t say no to her.

The grumbled, “Yes, ma’am”, is ignored as Wanda has already made her way out of sight before Natasha can get the words out.

With a huff and a quick check of her watch, Natasha makes her way upstairs to find the little culprit.

If anyone were to ask you, you would say Natasha Romanoff was a witch.

It’s the only palpable explanation as to how she always knows where you are, at least that’s what you think as you can hear her knock on the dresser you were napping under.

The bone knocks against the wood in a ticking manner, one knock, two knocks, and at last a rasp against the oak as she lets her hand drag across the dresser. It’s a heavy yet light sound that calls out to you as you are tempted to peek your head out and question her on her witch-like abilities.

You refrain from doing so and for a moment your body is unsure whether to be impressed or panicked at how easily she can predict you.

The cold floor beneath the dresser is tempting to melt into and never return from as you can hear her light steps drag across the floor beside you, any second now you know you will see her eyes look right through the darkness and find their resting place on you.

Facing the world wasn’t something you wanted to do at this moment.

And yet, it never comes…

When you turn your head and expect to see cat-like eyes staring back at you from outside the dark corners surrounding you, you are surprised to instead see her sock-clad feet with strange plastic eyes plastered onto them.

The little black pupils rattle against her movements as she curls her feet in a manner that makes the strange sock creature look as if it’s been caught and feels guilty. It looks a little silly and you honestly don’t know how to react to the absurdity of it, so without realizing it a sweet giggle slips out before you can stop it.

Oh no…

When the realization of what you have just done settles within your storming thoughts you have half the mind to slap your hand across your mouth and pray that the older woman didn’t hear it, but as you hear a pleased huff of breath above you, you know you have been caught.

Natasha kneels down until she can peek under the dresser to where your scared eyes study her. She knew to keep her reactions to a minimum, but as soon as she heard your gleeful expression, Natasha had to use every ounce of willpower not to coo.

“Hey baby,” Nat smiles at you as you bite your lip, unsure of her reaction to your slip of judgment, you hold back the pleased grumble building within your chest at her smooth tone.

It ends up being one hell of a task to get you out of there, Natasha has to swear up and down that, your little slip-up didn’t anger her, and then she has to spend the next ten minutes waiting for you to peak your head out.

But, after a bit of coaxing, Natasha can hear your palms lightly slap against the flooring as you follow her a few steps behind. The dig of the wood beneath her feet lets her know that they should invest in some more carpets, or perhaps mats, as this could surely not be good for your weak joints.

The redhead walks in a leisurely stroll, letting you stay close yet still have the desired distance as you pitter-patter behind her.

When the plush carpet molds itself to her stance, Natasha’s movements come to a halt. She stops short of the couch, watching her wife sit in a rather relaxed pose. With her hands stretched out at the top of the cushions, she sits with her chin held high and her rump sunken low.

Natasha almost snickers at her wife’s overly dominant presence, but something about the look in Wanda’s eyes tells her to sit this one out and wait for further instructions.

Wanda observes the both of you as you present yourselves before her watchful eyes. You stay low, crawling forward just enough to satisfy the scary lady. The older redhead’s skin itches with the need to smirk as you crawl toward the both of them, something primal within her, pleased.

Humming, to soothe both her wife and you, Wanda directs her attention to Natasha as her wife waits for an explanation.

She wants to drag it out and make Nat guess as much as you will have to.

This will be a game of trust after all. The need to tease her wife is strong, so, Wanda does as she pleases.

Lifting her pointer, she waves it around in the air for a moment, building a little suspense as the whirlwind swirls around her aura, and then she points over to the living room table.

Atop the table is a plate of sliced apples covered in chocolate, placed deliberately outside of your view.

As Natasha directs her sight to whatever it is Wanda is showing off, you can’t help but try and sneak in a peak yourself. However, much to your disappointment, the item, or whatever it is, is sat just high enough on the table to where you can’t see from your kneeled-down position.

Someone may call you paranoid, but to you, it all seems awfully intentional on the clan leader’s end.

The waving pointer is redirected to you as Natasha smirks for whatever reason while she turns back toward her wife. With a pleasant, and a little scary, smile, Wanda eases your tension as she tilts her head to the side in adoration before ordering her wife to, “Give her a taste, darling.”

Your eyes travel up to the redhead beside you as she moves away for a moment only to return with a platter with some sort of brown rocks on top of it. They make a strange crackling noise as Natasha places it down on the small table in front of the both of you.

Then, a hand comes into view as Natasha heeds her wife’s commands.

Pale, cold, fingertips are wrapped around the strange item that you figure must be some sort of food given the clan leader’s figure of speech, but you aren’t entirely convinced as you view it with uncertainty.

However, the fight is futile as you look up to the tall redhead in questioning hesitance, she smiles gently and as much as it annoys you, you are what the two older women have previously referred to as a “goner”.

Taking a hesitant bite, the crunch of the apple is slightly muted by the strange crackling layer of chocolate. It takes a few bites before the flavor hits you. Chewing slowly, it lies bare for your raw tastebuds to reap, gliding and emerging with your senses.

As your jaw creaks in displeasure, you focus on the heaviness of the treat.

It’s rich at first, almost overwhelming you with its sweetness. It reminds you of wintertime when the bakery just a few streets down from the shelter would emit the most beautiful of smells. It brings you back to the cold nights when you would lay, naked and bruised, beneath your red lamp and envision yourself inside the bakery. Stuffing your face with whatever you might desire.

Weak bones fight themselves as you gorge on the sugary addiction, it sticks to your gums and sneaks its way into the most stubborn corners of your teeth, making a distinctive smacking noise as you bite down repeatedly.

Then the flavor settles, it’s a more muted and pleasantly balanced mix of delightful, creamy, sugar and slightly sour apple. Your jaw works deftly, moving up and down in an unsure manner.

It tastes… good.

It tastes wonderful.

Amazing even.

Perhaps the best thing you have ever eaten. Which all makes you feel like a fool…

It tastes like everything you were ever denied.

Therefore, you sit and wait.

While Natasha and Wanda sit before you with bated breaths, slightly confused by your lack of reaction, you just look at them with beady eyes filled with… betrayal?

It cuts deep, as if your emotions slice through any physical or emotional armor that may surround the two not-so-human creatures. Pain oozes inside their slowly beating hearts as the ice perishes and hot molten burns through their veins until horror takes place.

Wanda is on the ground in front of you before you can even blink.

“Oh, baby…” She leans forward, shifting her weight onto her palms as she rests them beside her bent knees, lowering her torso toward the wooden floor as she crawls toward you. Her shirt rolls up at the action, untucking itself and riding up her back until a sliver of pale flesh showcases itself, but she doesn’t care, instead, she keeps going, slowly.

You tense at the movement, unsure of yourself, you cower away from her, for every inch she advances, you slither back. Deep down you know Wanda would never hurt you, but you also know that if she ever were to desire your misery; she would be far worse than Master.

Calm eyes track your motions as you crawl away from her in a rather desperate fashion, the fact that it does not seem to deter her from getting any closer makes the panic, creeping up your throat, raw and painful as the taste of acid coats itself over sensitive tastebuds.

Sensing your oncoming panic, Wanda stops, for the time being, sitting back on her heels, she makes a show of resting her hands on top of her thighs. Her fingers glide over the material of her fancy-dress pants silently, the ruffles and stretching of the material calm you for a reason you cannot explain.

Little confused, wooden tiles burrow into you as you settle your rump down against them, letting the anxiety simmer and calm before seeking eye contact in an uncertain question. Your head tilting slightly to the left, you wait for her to illuminate her sudden display of surrender and levelheaded dominance.

Perhaps she just wanted first-row seats to your pathetic reaction.

Whatever they put in the dessert is sure to kick in soon.

“Ah…” Wanda hums as she views your saddened eyes up close.

“Natasha. Hand me that would you?” Natasha, who had been sitting rather shell-shocked for the past few moments as her wife hunted you down, shakes it off and tilts her head in confusion for a moment before realization settles in.

With a huff, something mixed with relief and disbelief, Natasha hands over the half-eaten chocolate-covered apple slice that had just been fed to you.

The half-melted chocolate covers the expanses of Wanda’s fingertips as she holds it out for you to see. Then, before you can get nervous about having to eat another piece, it disappears as Wanda puts it in her own mouth instead.

For a moment after you just stare.

Watching as her jaw works before your very eyes, you still can’t help but wait for a sudden change, a frown to deepen, or a foul sound as the flavor takes over the older woman’s senses.

Yet, it never comes.

Small crinkles form around Wanda’s eyes as she chews, they move up and down, changing together with her muscle’s expansion and retraction. They stay consistent with every motion, never faltering in its path.

Like tiny wrinkles on a sheet of paper, it smoothens once she finishes her piece. Letting out a pleased sigh as she does so, clearly delighted by the sweet treat.

And like the snapping apple piece.

You break.

It’s like raindrops against a windshield, almost a question of what tears will win as riveting streams trickle down your chin at an alarming rate. It’s nothing like the few traitorous tears that the redheads have been privy to, no it’s like a raging storm as you hiccup in sorrow at the prospect of respect.

At the sight, Natasha draws in a weary hiss, yet Wanda doesn’t seem to change much at all.

There is no pity in her eyes while she closes in, only determination as she slides another apple piece halfway inside her own mouth and lessens the distance. Too distracted by your own sudden outburst, you don’t even realize what is happening until chocolate grazes your lips as the redhead waits for permission while resting her lips only a few centimeters from your own.

The sudden action shocks you to such degree that you have nodded consent before you understand what that may mean.

Smooth, soft, lips press against your chapped ones, a sweet delight getting slid into your mouth and mixing with the rose that invades your nostrils. A slight string of spit is split between the two of you as Wanda uses her hot tongue to push the piece all the way into your mouth. You both stay like that for a moment, Wanda gazing into your eyes while you stare bashfully into hers.

Yet, just as quick as it happened, it’s gone again… And much to your own surprise, that may be the saddest part of the entire day.

But you can’t be sad for too long as gentle fingers wipe your tears away and a deeper voice asks if you want another piece.

So, this is why the two redheads like kissing so much. You think to yourself as Natasha kisses you with just as much worship as her wife had while the chocolaty goodness seems irrelevant.

They continue it like that back and forth. Wanda gives you one piece, then Natasha, then they share a piece, and so on. It still takes you a while for the tenseness inside your muscles to loosen, but toward the end, you are eager for each piece and wait with impatient eyes as the redheads share some.

It may not have been an immediate fix, but Wanda is more than happy with the result of her little test. For now, Wanda will lessen your portions until you seem happier, and she will have to look out for signs of your dislikes, but if all goes according to plan, with a little help from a secret sugary treat, and maybe a kiss here and there, your trust in her should build to be strong.

Even stronger than Natasha’s if Wanda gets her way.

Which she always does.

#wanda maximoff x reader #dark!wanda maximoff #natasha romanoff x reader #wandanat x reader #dark!natasha romanoff #vampire!natasha romanoff #vampire!wanda maximoff #dark!wandanat #vampire empire

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savage-kult-of-gorthaur · 9 months ago

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MUSIC TO END IT ALL TO -- TO END THE PLANET AND EVERYONE ON IT, THAT IS.

PIC(S) INFO: Spotlight on front & back sleeve art to the NOOTHGRUSH/BLACK ARMY JACKET split 7 inch vinyl release on Monkeybite Records, c. 1997.

BLACK ARMY JACKET (hardcore punk/powerviolence):

1.) "Make It Stop! Make It Stop!" 2.) "Corpselawimage" 3.) "Pretenders to the Throne"

NOOTHGRUSH (Sludge/DOOM metal):

4.) "29th Scroll (6th Verse)"

Sources: www.discogs.com/Black-Army-Jacket-Noothgrush-Split/release/434855 & Dead Format (blogspot).

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unrealcity-if · 1 year ago

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a cyberpunk interactive fiction

demo: prologue and ch1, 55k. play here.

Streets, empty - gnarled roots burying deep below the city. The gleam of teeth, an endless buzzing like flies. Dry, dead rock. There was water here once. Now toxic sludge seeps into the dirt, leeching life from the land. They staked metal, twisted it into the dead earth to block out the sky. They know that is too late, but they try to defy fate all the same.

Esurio is a city divided. You know this all too well. As a smuggler of black-market tech into the city from the outlands, you would like nothing better than to be free of Esurio once and for all. Yet the city seems to pull people in, and after a job gone wrong you find yourself entangled in a net of lies, inexplicably strange murders, and the one question that no-one knows the answer to -

What lies below Esurio?

[features]

pay off your debt through smuggling goods into the city

run from law enforcement

investigate strange murders, while trying not to end up the next victim

regret every life decision you have made

uncover what lies below the city?

meet (and optionally romance) 5 companions - 2 gender selectable

finally free yourself from Esurio?

[companions]

[ros]

Argo [nb] they/them, asexual :

If there's anyone in Esurio that you trust, it would be them. They've been by your side since you were young : first as friends and then (literal) partners in crime. When they were younger, they dreamt of changing the world. At some point they buried that dream. For now they keep to smuggling, hacking, and breaking every speed limit possible.

Appearance - shoulder-length coily dark brown hair, medium brown skin, dark brown eyes. prides themself on wearing the most colourful jacket they can find, and wouldn't know colour or outfit coordination if it hit them in the face.

Sora [f/m] she/her or he/him :

A private investigator with a moralistic streak. They attempt to fill in the gaps left by law-enforcement, dealing in all kinds of information, and know practically anything on anyone, while remaining a perpetually shadowy figure themselves. Motivated by curiousity and an alarming lack of self-preservation instincts, they're determined to uncover the truth about Esurio at all costs.

Appearance - straight, dark brown hair that flops over their brown eyes. olive skin. always wears a leather jacket and heavy boots: dresses practically. carries gadgets + a notepad in their bag: they are prepared for anything, especially a high speed pursuit across rooftops.

Brontë [f/m/nb] she/her, he/him, or he/they :

A failed musician with a trail of poor decisions behind them. They were going to make it big in the underground music scene, until, one day, they weren't. Cast-out and adrift, they're cynical and conflicted, a perfect example of a delicately poised balancing act. It's only a matter of time before they fall.

Appearance - wavy blond hair, dyed purple at the ends, reaching about chin length. pale, freckled skin and green eyes. wears light jackets, oversized tshirts, boots that are falling apart, and as many bracelets as possible.

Asha [f] she/they :

She ran with Argo, Jaya and you for several years, after her illustrious political family abruptly fell from grace and she had to look out for herself any way she could. A skilled mechanic, and never one to back down from a fight, she bounces from person to person, always living life at high speed. After Jaya's disappearance, she split from the group, and you haven't spoken to her since.

Appearance - straight, shoulder-length black hair. dark brown skin and dark brown eyes. wears work overalls most of the time, and is frequently covered in smudges of oil fromch her work as a mechanic. else, she dresses casually and comfortably - loose shirts, ripped jeans and a necklace.

Cas [m] he/him :

An artefact dealer in the outlands. You know his name, and not much else. He seems to float from place to place, avoiding strong attachments. Never talks about his past, his strange dreams, and pretty much anything personal. Knows what to do in a crisis, though, and is frequently the voice of reason.

Appearance - straight, short light brown hair, fair skin, eyepatch over his right eye - his left is brown. wears glasses. Always in a fashionable long dark coat and heavy boots: somehow manages to look constantly poised and well put together despite Esurio's characteristic humidity.

[other]

Acheron [nb] they/them :

They control much of what flows from the outlands into the city. After they rescued Argo and you from capture by law enforcement, you have been working for them in order to pay off your debt to them. They're level headed and ruthless, and you can't work out what makes them tick.

Jaya [f] she/her :

She was part of the underground smuggling group involving you, Argo and Asha, until she disappeared abruptly and everything went to shit. To this day, you've been unable to find out what happened to her. But thats in the past, right? [option to have been in a past relationship with her]

Valentine [nb] she/her and he/him :

Practically anyone in Esurio knows Valentine, or has at least heard of her. She's the person to go to for weird tech, fast cars and a way to vanish quietly. Despite her notoriety, and her fame as a guitarist, she always seems to be able to work just under the radar of the authorities.

[content warnings]

17+ (may be subject to change). violence, slight gore, horror aspects. implied sexual content.

#interactive fiction #cyberpunk #interactive novel #interactive game #twine game #twine wip #twine if #i am so nervous !!

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bizarrobrain · 2 years ago

Audio

"With Hell for a Mouth" by Salome - From "Our Enemy Civilization" split with Thou (2014)

#Salome #Our Enemy Civilization split #Music #Sludge Metal #Doom Metal #Bandcamp

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solaneceae · 10 months ago

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how to (not) deal with asymmetry

a tazercraft oneshot. Years ago, an experiment gone wrong melded two souls together. One has learned to grow alone, the other still has some catching up to do. read on ao3

“Mikey,” he gasps, choking on the scent of smoke and static. “Mikey, cadê vo—” the rest of his words die, in a hacking cough that makes him taste metal at the back of his throat.

It hurts. God, everything hurts, and his brain feels like it’s splitting into dozens and dozens of little bloody shreds. He’s pretty sure he’s bleeding too — glass shards strewn about all over the cold tile floor of the lab, red stains — but the physical pain is nothing compared to the feeling of his deepest Self splintering like sandstone during an earthquake. He grits his teeth, hard enough to crack them — the alarms blare, loud and red and shrill, stabbing through his ears and directly into his unravelling brain.

Dói. Dói. Ajuda. Cadê o Mike? “Não,” he chokes out, despair swelling up disgustingly within him as he spots his best friend, his partner in crime, laying motionless against the gutted remains of their latest machine. “Não não não,” his arms pull him forward through glass and smeared blood (his? Mike’s?), to him, to reach him. Every fiber of his being is burning, thoughts getting fuzzy and muddled, unravelling at the seams. All that’s left is help, Mike, Mike, no, no. “Moço,” Pac sobs as cold fingers press against the younger man’s neck, sinks into despair when he feels nothing. “Não— por favor, ele não. Ele não…”

This was supposed to help. Mike— he said the machine could help with his leg, to control the prosthetic better. It was supposed to be his greatest achievement yet. But it was killing them instead, a parasitic chain reaction eating at their souls as the Labs burned down around them.

Mike just wanted to help. Help him. And now his friend is— “Mikey,” Pac gasps, because Mike’s jugular has granted a pulse — weak, slow and uneven, but a pulse. Still alive. Pushing through the pain, the oldest member of Tazercraft paws at his friend’s chest desperately, grabs his red-stained lab coat to pull his unconscious body away from the smoking machine, away from the flames. “Tâ tudo bem moço,” he wheezes out, fuck, it hurts. “Tâ tudo bem.”

He hears a high-pitched beep — then a soft shhhhh, and then water starts raining down on them. The fire system. “Caralho,” Oh, so now it kicks in. Now they’ll just die of having their souls shredded instead of burning alive, how delightful. Pac could laugh, if only there was anything funny about it all. A particularly vicious wave of white-hot pain washes over him, and Pac whimpers, pulling Mike tight against him. He’s burning, but Mike is cold, so cold. His face is lax, getting paler by the second, blood steadily trickly out of his nose — and from the sticky feeling and metal tang inside his mouth, Pac doubts he’s looking much better. “Disculpe, Mikey,” he utters as the world fades into grey sludge, static filling his ears and seeping into his vision. He’s fading, and fast. “Disculpe.”

What’s he apologising for the most? Not being able to save them, uselessly lying on the floor? Not being smart enough to figure his leg out?

Being stupid enough to lose it in the first place, for trusting a known murderer over his oldest friend? “Acorde,” he pleads, pressing Mike’s forehead against his. Cold. “Acorde, por favor— olhe pra mim, moço…” He can’t die like this. Can’t leave like this, without Mike knowing how sorry he is, how much he loves him, his best friend, his partner, his—

his other half

Mike’s eyes

his other half

Mike’s eyes are green

open

his other half

green

his world is green

grass and trees and toxic waste

pulling him in

his world is blue

Mike?

blue lips

Pac’s face, pale and slack, tears running down

blue lips, blue hoodie

Pac?

blue pie-shaped eyes among the golden sclera

pulling him in

Pequi?

Mikey?

As the outside world melts away, two mangled souls reach out and find each other. Spin, spin, spin like two neutron stars trapped in an infernal cosmic dance.

Mike?

Pac?

você?

eu?

Nós

They brush against one another. Barely a touch, barely anything, but the sheer force of the pull-longing-need makes them cry out in something like pain.

Pac!

Mike!

He-they? Don’t understand. But maybe they do. Pac feels Mike, Mike feels Pac, close, yet not close enough. They are dying, they will die right there, if they don’t—

Do what? What? What is this?

moço

ajuda

sei, sei

tem medo, tem medo—

não, não

fique, fique

não me abandona agora

They collide. And it’s agony, and it’s ecstasy, and they might be screaming, or maybe they’re both already dead and this is just their last shred of consciousness stretching out into delirium. It’s a cacophony of voices, their voice (voices?) so loud, so loud, and it’s memories of their childhood and their many crimes and heists, of rage and laughter and nights spent huddled together in a thin mattress meant for one. Then under cold rain. Then surrounded by cold metal bars, sharp teeth and claws prowling just outside, distrust, regret, pain and blood and loss, Jv, Guaxi… Of vast expanses of grass under sunlight, freedom, catharsis and revenge and love, and love, and love, searing and all-encompassing and painful.

Pac and Mike scream as their shredded souls cauterize — pieces of themselves sealing the cracks and hollows in each other. It hurts, maybe worse than soul damage does even, but they want it to hurt. Because it means they’re still alive. It hurts, and it’s loud, too much too much too much—

Their entire Selves burn, together. Until it gets so overwhelming that their brains decides that alright, that’s enough, and unplug everything.

Things get muddy from that point on — their memories from that time would stay but a confusing blur in the future. But they do know that they wake sometime later, soaked and cold and not quite right. Mike? Pac? Yes. They blink, and everything still hurts, cuts all over him— them? “Pac,” he calls out, voice shot and throat like sandpaper, but… isn’t that him? Why is he… they…

Bleary eyes open. He sees blue. Blinks, and everything changes. He feels heavy, too heavy. Moço? I’m… here. No. Pac, that you? No, I’m… we…

A hand pushes against the tile, a body grunts and winces. Everything is wet, stupid sprinklers. He-They see Pac, curled up on the floor, cuts all over his arms. Pac sees, himself. That. That’s not right? They blink, and it’s like being in two places at once, two pairs of mismatched eyes meeting, a feedback loop. One of Pac’s eyes is green, one of Mike’s is blue. “Mikey,” Mike’s mouth lets out a whimper, and the voice, the accent… “Pequi?” Pac’s mouth responds in kind, scratchy, barely a mouse’s squeak.

A blink. The feeling of drifting, of losing time. And then Pac feels a little more like himself, Mike’s hands are cupping his face, and he leans into the touch. His eyes are green, green, green. What did we do? he hears his partner’s voice, even though his mouth isn’t moving at all. Meu deus, what did I…

Hurts, Pac’s voice rings through whatever space is forming between both their minds, chaotic and loud and God heir heads hurt so bad. Scared. My leg…

Mike’s eyes fall onto the prosthetic, bent out of shape and barley holding on to Pac’s stump. Colorful swears burst across Pac’s counciousness, and he presses his palms against his ears in an attempt to muffle it all out. It doesn’t. Stop! Stop! Can’t, too loud, can’t—

He feels something reach out and pull him in — something familiar, something good. He reaches back, feels himself drifting again. Gasps as he (Pac, he’s Pac now, but also never stopped being him?) finds himself staring down at his own body once more, and he almost falls over because leg, leg, he has a leg there, but it’s not his? “Imma be sick,” he hiccups, dizzy and nauseous all of a sudden. Pac (no, Pac is— him. That’s Mike, those eyes are green, it looks so weird) grunts something undecipherable from the floor he now lays on, piloting Pac’s body like an ill-fitting suit. “I hit my head on the machine,” Mike-in-Pac, and his words are slurred, like he’s struggling to use that foreign mouth, that unfamiliar tongue. “Concussion.” Mike picks himself off the floor, slowly, hissing as every move pulls at the cuts on his arms. “Shit—” he almost slips on stray glass, struggles to find balance. “Our leg’s busted. Fuck.”

Pac-in-Mike stares, unable to muster coherent thoughts. His skull is throbbing, and he has two fleshy legs. Mike’s body doesn’t respond like his does, wider, shorter, glasses lost somewhere around the wreckage of their failed experiment. And goddamn, he knew Mike’s eyesight was awful, but fuck. He blinks, drifts, and trades fuzzy mind and vision for a tangible pain in his arms and a phantom one in his missing leg. He hears Mike (Mike-in-Mike, he’s back again) vomit near him, and decides that they need to get out.

He’s not sure how they make it all the way to the medbay — time feels wonky, sluggish one second and then too fast the next, and they almost fall several times because they keep finding themselves piloting the other’s body, or both at the same time somehow. One blink, and it’s Mike hopping his way down the corridor, a hand on the wall and his own body slumped against his-Pac’s side. Another blink, and the frontier between them gets fuzzy, individual thoughts merging together into grey mush as they, struggle to coordinate two sets of arms and legs as a single unit.

They lose time, too — now they’re clumsily wiping off blood, pouring disinfectant on cuts that might or might not be his-theirs, long fingers sewing up a cut at the back of a head. Pink hair, that’s— that’s Mike’s. Don’t move. I’m not. Stop. I’m sorry.

White gauze is haphazardly wrapped around injuries because you’re so bad at first aid. Shut up. Do it better. I am. We are. Then the madbay is plunged into darkness and they’re both curled around one another, a knee digging into a gut, a face pressed against a clavicle. Not sure which is whose. Stay. Yes. I’m here. We’re here.

Touch is so weird — only half-tethered to their own bodies, consciousness in near perfect osmosis, every touch felt twice over. One pulls the other closer, neither can tell which one, and their shared mindscape lights up with warmth and hello, hi, it’s me, it’s you, me, you, us. And it’s still raw, still painful, still loud. But darkness beckons them anyway, exhaustion and hurt deeping deep in their bones. They don’t know whose eyes close first, and it doesn’t matter. Their thoughts scatter like dust in the wind, heavy, sticky sleep pulling them down, down, down.

Pac and Mike do not die that day. TazerCraft sleeps, now more than the sum of its parts, two half-souls melting together in a mess of shared memories and half-formed dreams. After a while, the sun rises and shines through the blinds of the medbay.

They do not wake. It crosses the sky and sets, and still, they do not wake. It will take yet another day before one of them even stirs, lips chapped and dry from dehydration, eyelids cracking open with great struggle to reveal shades of blue and green. And they are raw, tender in a way they do not understand and filled with echoes of thoughts that won’t shut up, stop, not yet settled, not yet stable.

Pac and Mike, Mike and Pac. Together.

***

Pac never did well with change. (Well, neither of them really, but Pac was worse about it.) Having to move out of a Lab to escape the authorities was never a good time ; Mike liked his tea to be made a certain way, liked his things organised a certain way ; Pac feared the unknown that came with change, almost as much as he revelled in the chaos it brought. They were a walking contradiction, masters of their craft, creation optimisation addicts that somehow connected to the entity of Chaos and disorder instead of the logical choice that was Knowledge.

They had experienced plenty of change. But they, themselves, hadn’t changed that much since their first meeting. Grown, come into themselves yes — but they had woven their souls and fates together, and stayed as they were because they were content that way.

The island has changed that, too. Things are… different. Pac is different. Because Pac has changed, despite himself, while Mike was gone. He doesn’t know how to feel about it just yet. He wonders if Mike minds that he did. It’s a little harder to know what his other is thinking these days, walls that they had no need for before shielding little pieces of themselves. Secrets to keep, even from each other. Pac has accepted that, he’s the one with the most out of the two of them — a promise to keep, for someone else, a promise of danger and grave consequences if aired out. But he can still feel some bitterness on Mike’s end.

Pac has grown. He struggled, broke, gave in to sickly-sweet mind-honey and chemical bliss. He fell in love, slowly. He confronted his own personal demon in the person of Cell, relapsed and crazed, and he killed him. Only to be hunted and killed all over again on that wretched island. And all of this, he did alone.

Oh, he had his friends, and he had Fit of course. But Mike hadn’t been there, his presence at the back of his mind imperceptible as he slumbered away in the Ordo’s medbay for all those months. And despite himself, Pac had gotten… used, to that. To Mike not being there.

Pac has changed. Mike has not, frozen in time by kelp-induced sleep. But that’s okay.

Pequi, Pequi. Moço. You’re so in love it makes you look stupid.

Pac huffs through his nose at Mike’s interruption, spinning the block he was about to place in his palm. Your face is stupid, he sends back, and feels Mike laugh at the back of his brain — a hum-buzz, familiar and more welcome than he’d like to admit. He smiles as their wavelengths sync up oh-so perfectly, letting himself drift through their shared mindscape until he fades into their greater Self, one, together. TazerCraft, one soul, one mind, all-encompassing love.

Then they separate again, physical sensations trickling back in slowly. Pac blinks, disoriented for a second, before the weight on his nose and lower center of gravity makes him whine in protest. “Mikey! Warn me before you do that!”

Now my face is your face, his other half sing-songs through their bond, stretching Pac’s body like a cat in a sunbeam. Oooh, strong. Been working out, moço? Need to impress someone? Maybe the one you’re building this thing for?

“Choke on a sandpaper dick, Mike.”

On it.

Pac mumbles something, feeling his (Mike’s) face heat up. He wishes he could hide his face in his own hoodie, because Mike’s shirt just won’t cut it. Come on, it’s been too long, his other half croons from all the way over at the Labs, cracking his (Pac’s) neck with a smirk that would look odd to an outsider, on that face. Pac huffs, pushes green-fading-into-pink hair out of his eyes to look around the place he has found himself in. “...Why were you in some random cave?”

Needed the quiet. And more gold.

“Mmh.” Mike’s body feels a little strange to move around with, after so much time — like a suit he hasn’t worn in a while. Tight in a few places, not sitting quite right in others. So much happened while Mike was in his coma, and Pac knows he’s done some growing as a person — maybe that’s why.

“Don’t worry too much,” Mike hums as he keeps placing blocks around the island Pac picked for his little love nest (blergh. Sure he’s happy for him, but he could do without Pac’s constant mental swooning over motherfucking FitMC from 2B2T.), picking up on his worries. “You are still Tazer. I am still Craft.”

Feels all rusty.

“It will get better. Let’s stay like this for a bit, yes? I can finish the base layers for you.”

Thanks.

“Would be faster with a machine though.”

“You’d take twice the time just to build the machine,” Pac rolls Mike’s eyes, digging his way out of the cave and pocketing coal and gold on the way. Mike’s pickaxe is shit. “Sometimes it’s just faster a la mano, you know?”

Pfff. Spoilsport.

“Nerd.”

Bitch.

Pac laughs, light and airy as he breaks to the surface, sunlight hitting in face and momentarily blinding him. Mike hums and pulls him in for a meld, and Pac lets him because he’s missed this.

There’s still a slight stutter to it — like lag but not quite, their shared mindscape rough from disuse after months of radio silence. But they both get into the flow despite it, curling around one another and letting the boundaries between what is Pac and what is Mike blur into almost nothing. Hi, hi, longing and joy and gentle hovering over the new scars in Pac’s psyche as well as on his body. moço, moço. you’re here, i’m here, hello. One of them might be crying, out there or maybe both are ; but it’s most likely Pac. The feeling of arms hugging them tightly, and is it self-soothing if you’re sharing your body with another person while you do it? Hello, you, me, I love me, love you, love us. Hello. Can we join? Yes.

The warp of teleport, barely phasing their osmosis. Two halves, one stumbling to the other half-laughing-half mumbling in mangled Portuguese, embracing, a head nestling in the crook of a neck. One of them gets a kiss on the forehead, or maybe they both do somehow.

Touch gets weird when they’re like this — only half-tethered to their own physical vessels, consciousnesses in near perfect osmosis. Every touch is felt twice over, a feedback loop. They spin, laugh at something one of them thought, and their shared mindscape lights up with warmth and hello, hi, it’s me, it’s you, me, you, us. “You’re ridiculous,” Mike’s body says, blue and green swirling in half-lidded, vacant eyes. “I missed you. Missed us. Yes.”

“A half missed this more. The other was in a coma, it didn’t miss like this one did,” Pac’s body purrs, sitting and basking in sunlight, head tilted to the side. Blue and green staring at the sky without really seeing it. “No. You’re supposed to say ‘me too’, asshole. I did. You did.” Thoughts spin around endlessly, echoing between query and response in a pattern that only they can decipher. Pequi, Pequi. Mikey. No, I promise. Always? Yes. He won’t, it’s okay. No, I didn’t forget. Can we? Okay.

Then Pac traps Mike in an aggressive noogie, snapping them back into themselves as the shorter man hisses out insults and bats at the other’s face. The build does not progress a lot that day.

#qsmp #fanfic #tazercraft #pactw #mikethelink #pac e mike #wow wow #i am so normal about them #NNNNGH mindmeld mindmeld #platonic soulmates aaaah #so precious to me

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heliosthegriffin · 5 months ago

Text

Shadow Knight 24

Ao3 Link

----

“What on Remnant is that?!” White screamed flying to the left, a giant bony palm swatting through the air next to her, the draft in its wake fighting to drag her down.

“We got to go!” A hand grabbing her shoulder, White saw Black’s desperate eyes. “He did something! This place is sinking, I don’t know where!”

“Yaah!” A silver slash cut across the Giant Skeleton’s face, leaving a path of burning black sludge and argent smoke. It rolled its head backwards facing the sky, letting out an ear-piercing scream that sent cracks up the stone walls, exploded lights, vomiting forth a condensed blast of hyper-sonic air into the sky, bringing both hands down on Red, sending a shower of rose petals across the air, as she leaped away.

It’s burning red eyes stared at the rose-petals and swung it’s arms across the hallway, destroying more of centuries old building, violently ejecting ruble in blast at them, leaving a bald semicircle in front of the half-emerged monster, still half-way sunk into the ground.

Crimson danced through the air in front of them, her barrier of metal eroded the rubbled before it could touch any of them. She pointed a spear at the giant, ruggards chunks of metal exploded toward the creatures, knocking it around, leaving small craters in its black bones. She narrowed her eyes at the sight. She waved her hand towards White and Black, her barrier harmlessly absorbing them in, as they flew out of range. “We need to deal more damage, White do you think you can freeze those cracks in the bones?”

White looked at the pock-marks slowly filling up with dark essence, the slashes made by Red were smoking and sizzling, unhealing. Lifting a hand she fired an icy blast into the cracks of the bones, the silvery essence wrapping around the icy power, as a small iceberg ripped the small slashes open further.

“We don’t have time for this! The place is done for, it’s sinking and it’ll take this thing with it, we need to go, before we can’t go back!”

“If we defeat it now, while it’s not fully mobile, that one less tool in His box.” Crimson fired more improvised missiles at the monster, further damaging it.

“Feel free to leave, Black.” White cast more ice at the wounds. “We’re more than capable of handling this without you.”

“You-”

“Incoming!” A voice like thunder came down the hallway, Yellow soared past them fast, nearly throwing them against the wall, a golden aura of fire surrounding her as shot into the chest of the skeleton with an obscene crash. It was knocked back hard, the monster almost seeming to gasp as it screamed thunderously.

Yellow bounced off, just as it started to claw at its chest, a smoldering crack running across its sternum.

A swarm of purple lighting bolts struck its chest, the cracks growing larger and larger by the second. “Fine! I’ll help kill it! But, if we get stuck in His realm, I withhold the right to slap you all senseless before we die!”

-----

She watched as Jaune went rocketed forward, slamming a shield into one of those things, her skin crawling as red eyes locked onto them. It was as the same bulk as he was, but taller with longer limbs ending in razor claws, yet it still went stumbling backwards.

“Advance!” He told them the words targeted some sort of primal switch in the back of their heads, flipping it from off to on. Velvet forgot any fears she had, the trembling in her hands, or the overwhelming amount of noise her ears picked up, for a moment, everything made sense. She moved with a half-dozen other men and women around him, flowing around Jaune like water; she wondered if he even knew the power his firm words held in a time of crisis, as they surrounded the monster, stabbing at it.

Not every stab hit, but they didn’t need to, as speartips struck it’s body, the wounds built up, until it would fall. Velvet felt with each thrust the blade went a little bit deeper, the wound a bit wider, until one last piercing blow, and it split in half.

“Fallback!” It was like they had become extensions of him, Velvet realized. He hardly needed to say a word, before they understood his intent. As a body flew threw where they had been, one of those creatures had a hole in its chest, laying dead on the ground. Velvet followed the direction it had come from, and almost didn’t believe her eyes, Ren’s fists were glowing pink, locked in combat with those monsters.

Not alone, though, as Nora was at his side swinging her warhammer with reckless abandon. Her blows contained surprising strength, her hearing picking up the sound of bones breaking.

“Advance, surround it!” Her body moved on its own, spear at the ready. Ahead Jaune fought through a small pack of those things, shield bashing one of them away from him, toward them and they advanced on a sole lanky monster.

-----

River Song felt his couch pillow vibrate, eyes still closed he felt around for his scroll. Turning it on, he read the message, it came from an unknown number.

‘R. get on the chat-room, the Museum. - K’.

River woke up immediately, K. was one of his hunting partners. They didn’t talk outside of hunts.

Opening his burner scroll, he went into the chatroom. Eyes nearly unbelieving what he was seeing. A building sinking into the ground, with rumors of a terrorist attack, or gas leaks, surrounding it.

His gut told him otherwise, so he turned on the news. That LaCroix SOB was there again, declaring the area around the museum in a state of emergency, a small, but powerful localized earthquake had hit the building, and a nearby gas-pocket was leaking into the building, trying to explain any sighting of monsters.

When asked about the sinking, for a micro-expression he seemed almost furious for a moment, before putting on a sad face. “It seems that the earthquake accelerated the growth of a sinkhole under the museum, something that we have left the public uninformed about due to its minute nature, however, we, The city of Vale, have failed you all. We may lose a vaunted piece of history today, but we can’t get back people, as they are the future, and what we should be focused on.”

“What about the people stuck in the museum?”

LaCroix's eyes seemed to glow for a moment. “I’m afraid that anyone who hasn’t managed to escape, must be dead. Being exposed to gas for that long, they have surely perished, or suffered such severe brain-damage that they will expire soon anyway. As sad as it is, we can’t not risk more lives. Doubly so, when the Museum is likely to collapse at any moment.”

“Mr. LaCroix! What kind of gas is it, anyway? We haven’t-”

“No more, questions! I am needed elsewhere to help with the emergency, good night, and to those in mourning, you have my condolences.”

River felt pain in his temple, gritting his teeth. A building in a sinkhole does not uniformly sink in! The building was uniformly falling into the ground, this wasn’t a sinkhole!

A quick look at the chatroom revealed people calling BS, others that were at the Museum today, said they didn’t feel any shaking at all, just some anxiety and lightheadedness. A couple even admitting to seeing some strange figures.

Then, someone posted a link, Javier or something, linked to a live feed.

River’s eyes opened. It was coming from inside the Museum, apparently they had some type of back of generators in there.

-----

Red jumped to the side, a bony fist crushing stone into dust next to her, her aura protecting her from stone shrapnel. There was a warmth like sunlight behind her eyes, as she focused the energy into her gaze staring at the hand, then a feeling of a warm and clear day hit her, as the purity of the sun focused into her eyes was shot forward.

The silver-blast sent shockwaves through the air, as tons of evil inky smoky exploding out toward the evening sky, layer after layer of millenia old bone was dissolved under her silver-eyes, greatly damaging the limb, but it’s age and soakage in Grimm power was still resisting her.

It still had nearly broken it. “Hit it, ladies!” She cried valiantly, not at all squeaking! Speeding away, as ice, metal, lightning, and Yang crashing in like a meteor destroyed it, not just the hand, but the entire right arm!

“We’re nearly there! Just a bit more damage!” Crimson cried out, but Red frowned, she felt the floor drop again, as the sky seemed to grow just a bit further away from them. Her ears twitched, as she thought she heard something, like shouts?

-----

Jaune walked ahead of the rest, head twitching at every sound, trying to figure out what was going on today. Along with, why was this all happening? He had wondered that every second since this whole mess started. He felt a shake hit the building again, he had stopped keeping count of them. Was it related to those magical girls? Or was it something else entirely?

He hated how clueless he was.

At least he knew it was related to the Grimm in some way, though how, was the question. Were they actually Grimm? Or were they part of some family tree, or … He didn’t know, there were so many blank spots to fill.

They didn't disappear like Grimm normally did, yet they still had the same masks and biology, and they had bones that broke. Worse, when he had the misfortune to peer into one the monster's bodies, he had seen organs.

That brought two strong options to mind, and he didn’t like either of them. Both of them involve people. Looking back at his group of survivors,they were all taking today differently, some were twitchy, others were breathing hard, and all were dirty. After today, he hoped they’d forget everything, as best they could.

A shadow moved next to him, a pair of red eyes giving away his visitor, it was sad how predictably they were. Then again, they probably didn’t have good muscle memory to work with, and if they did, it wasn’t suitable for swinging around claws.

Claws scraped against his shield, not even scratching the old metal of the shield, whether that was a testament to it’s craftsmanship or something else, Jaune couldn’t tell you. He stepped into its range, sword coming down on its arm, severing it.

It was over in seconds, it’s head went down the hall.

Jaune didn’t have the guts to go confirm his suspicions. The building shook again, the head fading away into the darkness.

He felt another pair of eyes on him from the shadows, they weren’t red, and they didn’t feel hostile. He looked at them, down the hallway, they stared off for a moment. Until they winked at him disappearing in the small motion.

“I’m losing my damn mind.” Jaune shrugged, going to meet back with the group.

Gathering them up, they resumed their march towards the door, eliminating any monsters that got in their way. With their fast pace they reached the doors quickly, just in time to see darkness climbing up the front of the door to the halfway point.

Jaune didn’t hesitate to open the doors, revealing the ground was at the middle of the door, instead of at the, well, the ground. “Come on! Get through there before you can’t get out at all!” He shouted, voice firm and echoing.

He pointed at the edge they could grab. “Get up there and leave! You all are not wanted here!” It didn’t take much convincing to have his soldiers leave. As one after the other they pulled themselves out of this hellhole.

Nora was given a boost by Ren, who wormed his way out between the ever smaller hole out. Soon, it was just him and Velvet, in what little light that remained, she gave him a small smile. “See you on the other side?”

“Yeah.” Jaune nodded. His ears twitched, it sounded like stomping.

He knelt down, giving Velvet a boost up. The sound was getting louder. It was heavy footsteps. Velvet nearly fell as Jaune essentially threw her through the gap. He looked behind himself and wished he hadn’t.

The lights were going out behind them. Not in the sense that they were being turned off, but something was moving under the lights, and they went out. That darkness was moving towards them. Something giant moved in it, as the sound of clacking was getting closer, a gigantic all-consuming noise, and what looked like fading coals burning were getting brighter.

Gripping the edge he pulled himself up, the gap growing smaller, struggling to squeeze through the gap.

“Help him!” Someone cried.

Hands pulled at him trying to help him through. Ren at one side and Nora at the other, he was being squeezed through an inch at the time, almost there, given just enough time.

Enough time, they did not have. Something enormous grabbed Jaune by his legs, and its power exceeded any help that they could provide. Jaune laid his against the ground, relaxing his partially out body.

“Let go! I’ll be -” Was the last thing they heard him say, as he was pulled backwards into the building. He didn’t reemerge, as they stood there waiting for him to reappear, even as the sound of enormous struggle began, only to become more muffled. Any chance of him escaping to them was gone, as they watched with heavy-hearts as the gap shrunk and shrunk until no space remained, and soon, the building was gone.

----

The Magical Girls floated victorious over the greasy black smear that used to be their opponent, small pieces of bone floating around in it. They looked at it with narrowed-eyes, dirty figures, and a general air of exhaustion.

“That's it?” Yellow asked.

“Close enough,” Black answered.

Red floated up to the ceiling, seeing it was night and nobody remained within a thousand feet of the old museum. Except for vehicles with flashing lights next to some hazard tape that went around the front of the building. “Do you think that everyone got out ok?”

Crimson looked around. “We were so busy fighting that thing, -”

White floated out the building, pointing down at the nearly sunken building. “We don’t have time to check. Not unless we want to be pulled in with it.” She paused with a sigh. “Besides, with all the Grimm running around, it’s far too late for them. Face it, anybody left in there is dead.”

There was a moment of silence, as they floated up and away. “I don’t like this.” Yellow pulsated with flame. “We could have done more, could have done better.” Watching the building as it disappeared entirely into the darkness below. Once gone, the darkness returned down into the pit, leaving only an enormous crater where a piece of history had been erased.

For once, there was no fighting among the girls.

#shadow knight

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