#undeath to the airi

[i-hit-airi-with-meteors]

nyyyooooooommmmmm

new pjsk murder tumblr account!! yayyy!!!!!

i hit of hit character airi momoi from project sekai colorful stage featuring hatsune miku with meteors!! :D

main blog: @psychoe123

ib:

@i-run-saki-over-with-trucks

@canaries-kidnap-nene-kusanagi

@i-crush-rui-with-anvils

@i-set-tsukasa-on-fire

@i-set-ruikamishiro-on-fire

@i-bonk-akito-with-metal-pipes

@kanades-chair-stalks-her

@i-explode-rui-and-tsukasa

@i-drop-pianos-on-tsukasa @i-punt-penguins-at-haruka

(if there are any other blogs i forgot and u want me to add, pls tell me!!)

rules:

i only hit airi fanart if the creator asks me to!!

i hit airi cards and official art!!

i won’t hit airi fanarts if tagged by someone else, the creator only

tags:

#death to the airi - airi gets hit by a meteor

#undeath to the airi - airi does not get hit by a meteor

#defying the laws of space and time - airi requests

#woah… - answering asks

meteor png under the cut!!

look at it go…

[i-hit-airi-with-meteors]

is that a meteor i see....

sugu soko made

[ingolds]

@vilestblood. — sender kisses receiver’s knuckles.

     since their initial meeting in the great white north, a crop of dark trees observing them silently and snow crunching underfoot, theo had tried to spend some time getting to know antonin. they’ve learned that vampires are a secretive sort, playing their cards close to their chests, as if information was meant to be shared only among them or taken with them beyond their undeath. theo doesn’t blame them for that, werewolves similarly tight-lipped, moreso with vampires than anyone else. they’re grateful for the information they are given, whether it’s about antonin personally or his species as a whole, and it’s painting a picture for them that they’ve enjoyed tracing back over when they separate again. as it happens, they’ve learned more about antonin than about vampires, but that doesn’t bother them; why look a gift horse in the mouth, as they say? pleasant company is hard to find, supernatural pleasant company harder still.

     they figure they know enough about him not to be surprised by anything he does. how wrong they are.

     when they spot him already seated beside the fountain, they lift their hand in a wave. they’d chosen a park at dusk, the sun already set, violet and pale pink stretching languidly across the sky. it’s a nice scene for a conversation – clear, bubbling water, an array of colors over the treetops, people beginning to filter out of the network of trails as the hour ticked closer to stars twinkling bright above them. they’re a little thrown to see antonin’s beaten them there, theo arriving close to half an hour early, but they take it in stride – as they do most other things.

          most.

     the greeting dies on their lips as antonin sinks down to one knee, cradling theo’s hand gently in his own. they feel a beat of AMUSED, alongside a much stronger, much warmer, pulse of SMUG. antonin’s mouth brushes over their knuckles, not quite cold on the scars mapped over the back of their hand, and theo’s brows crawl up towards their hairline. pale eyes meet theirs, antonin smiling from beneath his lashes, and he releases theo’s hand, straightens up like it had never happened. for a simple greeting, it’s a lot. for an introduction exchanged between friends, it’s a lot, and theo still feels the imprint of his mouth on their skin, like ice so cold it burns. they’re aware that that’s impossible, but they can’t shake the sensation completely. they think their fingertips might be tingling.

     i thought i was the charming one, they say a little dumbly, and antonin’s chuckle is warm, airy, like ringing bells. shall we? he says, stretching an arm out towards where he’d been sitting at the lip of the fountain, and theo, too shocked to parse through any of the million thoughts racing through their head, simply nods.

varying kiss prompts / accepting

[prolix-yuy]

Effective

Pairing: Max Phillips x F!Reader

Summary: The sticking point of your employment comes into focus.

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: Explicit, 18+ MINORS DNI, horror elements and themes, descriptions of blood, mirror shenanigans, fingering (f-receiving), oral sex (f-receiving), PiV sex (don't be a fool wrap your tool), playing fast and loose with vampire lore.

Notes: The Discord besties are to thank/blame for this addition. I was just going to write a spooky story but no, we need some filth in this house! (and we all know how much I love an excuse to share filth).

This story will include callbacks to the previous chapter's horror elements such as violence, descriptions of blood and some graphic scenes. If that's not your cup of tea, scroll on friend! And while Halloween may be over, always stay your spooky beautiful selves my lovelies!

Cross-posted on AO3

It isn’t long before Max’s kisses turn from soft and full to needy and possessive, chasing your kiss whenever you try to break for a breath of air. He can’t stop mouthing at you, tongue darting along your jaw, nose trailing down the column of your neck. His powerful hands press between your shoulders, squeeze at the ample flesh of your bottom, and he pants heavily into your skin.

“Want to take you apart, gorgeous. Can I take you to bed? I want to make you feel good, baby, so so good,” Max groans into your ear, raising goosebumps down your spine. 

“Fuck, Max, yeah, want you,” you manage to gasp out, using the back of the couch to push away from his sinful mouth. He follows your lean, snagging small kisses that he smiles through.

“You’ll be the undeath of me,” he husks, eliciting an airy giggle from your kiss-swollen lips. 

“If we stay here any longer we won’t make it to the bed,” you scold, getting to your feet. Max lounges in the depth of your couch, legs splayed wide and hands sliding down his thick thighs. The prominence of his erection straining against his pants makes your mouth water. 

“I’ll take you anywhere, baby, anywhere you let me,” he coos, but follows when you beckon him to your bedroom. The muss of his hair makes you smile as he shucks his jacket, unbuttoning his dress shirt as he stalks behind you. 

Coming to stand by the foot of your bed, Max gathers you back up in his arms for another searing kiss, lapping thickly into your hot mouth. Soft skin slides against your hands as you explore the planes of his chest, the sculpt of his shoulders. The hum that rumbles through his chest warms you with arousal. His hands slip under the waistband of your sweatpants, grabbing at your ass again and you briefly bemoan that you aren’t wearing something sexier, prettier, more alluring. He must be used to perfect tens, rockin’ bodies, something out of a magazine…

“Fucking beautiful,” Max growls just at the right moment, dashing away your insecurities as he explores you with his hands, the prominent curve of his nose, the firm weight of his cock pressing into your hip. Suddenly he stops, and you feel him smile against you.

“Take a look, sweetheart,” he says, a little tease in his tone, and you turn your head to where his gaze has landed.

Your bedroom mirror.

It’s at the foot of your bed, angled away but you’re standing in direct sight of it as Max teases you with his clever fingers. You know he’s wrapped around you, his hands trailing and body plastered to yours, but in the mirror it’s just you. A confused you, and when Max takes a handful of your ass and squeezes you watch the fabric bunch, your flesh dimple, all on its own. It makes your stomach drop, how strange it looks without the visual feedback of his hand. 

“We look good together,” Max purrs, making you scoff a laugh back.

“You can only see me,” you state, half dumbstruck at the crawl of your shirt as Max slides it up your back. 

“Some might argue that’s for the best,” he teases, turning you so he’s flush to your back. Your lower lip drops as your shirt rucks up your front, your breasts plumping under Max’s greedy hands. 

“I don’t think you’re one of those people, Max,” you shoot back, trying to combat the heady arousal and fascination swirling between you. He chuckles, nipping lightly at your ear.

“You’re right, I miss seeing how fucking sexy I look,” he admits, tugging your shirt over your head and unclasping your bra with practiced ease. You lean back, treating him to a slow drag of his cock against the cleft of your ass. “Little tease, aren’t you? Keep watching, sweetheart,” he hums into your ear. 

It feels like it shouldn’t be real, some special effect in a movie. When you look down you see Max’s thick-fingered hands fondling your breasts, stroking his thumb over your nipples to pulse electric pleasure under your skin. But when you look in the mirror it’s only you, panting wantonly as the heft of your breasts lifts and spills between invisible fingers. 

“Max, holy fuck, this is…” you try to say, hands gripping his hips as he grounds you.

“Taboo? Hot as fuck? Getting you so wet you might cum from this alone?” he taunts, tweaking one nipple gently. Your brow furrows, pressing your thighs together for some relief. “Need me to help you out there?” he adds, nosing your neck as one hand slides down your stomach to cup your aching cunt. 

Trying to turn to capture his mouth again, Max’s hand grips your chin and turns you back to the mirror firmly.

“Not yet, I want you to watch yourself cum. Think of it as the best solo orgasm you’ll ever have…just with a helping hand,” he purrs in your ear. His fingers slip under your sweatpants, into your underwear and straight into your soaked folds, tearing a whine from your throat. Gathering wetness on his fingertips, he slicks your clit and sets a steady, knee-buckling pace. You’re holding on for dear life now, fingers digging into his narrow hips as your own buck against his relentless circles. 

“You’re perfect, so wet for me. I’m gonna make you cum like this, then again with my tongue, and then one more time so you can strangle my cock with this…” With a sigh he sinks two fingers into your cunt, your eyes rolling back as he curls them into you with devastating precision. “...perfect pussy. God, you’re tight. Relax for me darling, I want to make you so ready for me you’ll be begging for it.”

Your eyes are glued to the outline of his hand in your pants, the way you can see his hand flex as he fingers you, but no arm leads down. The fabric stretches and bunches in perplexing ways. He’s holding your jaw but all you can see are faint imprints of his touch. You don’t know whether you’re morbidly fascinated, incredibly turned on, or both.

Then he growls in your ear and your body locks up.

“Pretty girl.”

Mouth drying out, your heart hammers in your chest as flashes of that day bleed through. Max’s monstrous face dripping with blood. The hunger clouding his brown eyes to crimson. How he held Janet much in the same way as he held you now before taking her life.

“Hey,” Max says, lighter, concerned, and you let air back into your lungs. He’s slid his hand from your pants, pressure warm and comforting on your stomach. “Are you okay? Did I…I said something wrong, didn’t I?” he asks, wrapping his arms around you and holding you tight as your breathing regulates. 

“You…you called me that when…” you finally say when your vision isn’t blurring around the edges. The deep breath and plosive exhale against your neck precedes his hands moving in gentle paths.

“Shit, I ruined a positively adorable nickname,” he grumbles into your skin, and despite the adrenaline still thrumming in your veins you catch your own exasperated smile in the mirror. His weight shifts from foot to foot, the soothing warmth of his body and the gentle rocking easing you back into comfort.

“So vampires aren’t cold?” you ask, Max’s smile pressing into your shoulder.

“My feet? Always,” he shoots back, a line of small kisses peppering up to your ear. Taking a deep breath, you circle his wrist with your own fingers.

“Again. Say it again, Max.”

Crackling silence, then - 

“Pretty girl.”

Blood dripping from fangs, sharp and deadly.

A smarmy smile, complete with a dimple you’d stroked accidentally on more than one occasion.

“Pretty girl…”

Crimson eyes, burning with hunger.

Sparkling brown eyes, glittering with mirth after you made an especially terrible joke at his expense.

“Pretty girl.”

A monster.

Max.

You guide his stilled hand back to your waistband, and Max wastes no time sliding his fingers back where you need them most. Soft swipes in your folds drench his fingers before he slides them back into you, thumb circling your clit as his other hand pets your peaked nipples. His mouth is hot and panting into your ear as he clutches you, claims you in every way. When he hits a blinding rhythm that ratchets you up to the edge of your orgasm he slips two fingers into your mouth, exploring every hole greedily, and your tongue curls under his press. 

“Cum for me, sweetheart,” he orders, and with a wail you do, shaking hard enough that he clutches you to his chest, barking out praise of “Yes, yes, pretty girl, such a good girl, keep cumming baby,” as you let him take your weight.

“Holy fuck, Max, that was…” you gasp, the edge of your vision hazy with pleasure. He finally lets you turn in his arms, a smug smile the first thing you see.

“Incredible? Best orgasm of your life?” he offers, lifting his fingers to his mouth to lick your taste from them. You follow the motion slowly, senses thick with residual satiety. “Mmmm mmmm mmmm, and you’re delicious too. Lay on the bed, baby, I’m not done with you.”

Wide palms guide you to the edge of your bed, seating you gently as his hands cup your face. He steals another kiss, flicking his tongue in briefly to let you taste yourself. Then he’s easing you back, bringing you down to your elbows and spreading your thighs. A moment of self-consciousness makes your thighs fight against him, but a warning look relaxes your muscles.

“I hope I didn’t just catch you trying to hide this beautiful pussy from me,” Max scolds, kneeling down between your knees with a tut. You sigh and shrug shallowly, inhibitions thrown to the wind.

“Force of habit,” you say breezily, not meaning anything by it, but the phrase makes Max pause, tapping pensively on your thighs. His jaw shifts, contemplating something before he leans back to reposition the standing mirror to face you. 

“Okay, I think I’ve seen enough of your vampire party tricks,” you say, but Max is turning back to you and wrapping his hands around your knees with a strangely earnest expression.

“First time was for fun, this time I want you to see how beautiful you look,” he says, leaning in to place a kiss on your inner thigh that makes your heart leap into a gallop. “You deserve to see every ounce of how sexy you are, why you’ve driven me crazy the last eight months, all of it.” And then he licks a hot stripe deep into your folds and suckles your clit.

“Oh fuck,” you moan brokenly as Max takes his time devouring you. At first all you can look at is him, how messy his short chocolate locks are from your fingers raking through them, and the blissful turn of his brows when he hums into your cunt. His hands spread on your thighs, kneading at the flesh while he dips his head and slurps loudly. But when his eyes flick up to you  and he sees where your attention lies he pinches your outer thigh lightly, a silent gaze commanding you to look at yourself because his mouth is full.

When you finally drag your eyes up to the mirror you’re sure it’s been bewitched. How could someone so radiant, drunk off pleasure and dripping with allure, be you? Thighs splayed, pussy on full display, you can see how your lips part when Max drags his tongue through them, the obscene gape of your hole when his fingers breach you again to stroke at your g-spot. When Max spreads you further with his shoulders, making your back arch, you swear you look like a goddess of carnality, commanding all to look upon your glistening sex. It pulses heady power through you, fingers fisting Max’s hair as you begin to roll your hips against his mouth. 

“That’s it, baby, fuck yourself on me while you get off on how hot you are,” Max says throatily. Sweat sheens on your skin, making you glow, and through half-hooded eyes you admire the curves and angles of your body, the aesthetics of your form, and you see it.

You’re as gorgeous as Max said.

With a few more firm strokes of his tongue paired with frantic tapping against your g-spot you’re cumming hard, eyes locked on your shaking form until Max’s pleased groans drag your eyes back down to him. His smile is blissful, lapping into your spasming cunt over and over as he waits for you to push him away. When you do with an overstimulated hiss he leans back, shining with your arousal. Wiping his face clean with his palm, he crowds over you with a rough kiss, more teeth and tongue and punctuated with nips and growls.

“I’m about to fucking explode if I can’t be inside you, baby, not after that amazing orgasm. Do you…shit, do you need a minute? Can I rub on you until you’re ready for me?” he practically begs, hastily unbuckling his pants and shoving the last vestiges of his clothing to the ground. Climbing up your heaving body, he wraps your legs around his trim waist with a strained groan. 

“Just a…let me breathe, just a second,” you gasp, lightheaded from the force of your peak. Max murmurs his agreement as he lifts you up the bed, settling you both more comfortably on your duvet. Hovering over you, he presses restrained kisses on your shoulders while his restless hands smooth along the outside of your thighs. He’s hard and weeping precum over you, the sticky mess trailing in the creases of your thighs.

“Come here,” you rasp, easing his hips down to slot between yours, his aching cock sliding through your slicked folds. He sighs, basking in the relief of your wetness as your skin melds together. He’s hot and heavy above you, broad shoulders blocking out everything but you and Max and this gaping feeling in your chest. It’s sudden and terrifying, how open and empty it makes you feel. You’ve never needed someone this badly, wanted them with you and around you and inside you with such force. The weeks you waited for what might come for you felt like fear, but what if it had been yearning for the man you desired so strongly? 

Pulling Max down to wrap your arms around his neck, you try taking a few shaky breaths to steady yourself. Max cups the back of your neck, breathing hard in your ear.

“Please let me stay,” he asks, and the feeling swells as tears prickle in your eyes. “Please always invite me in, and look at me like you know me, and let me protect you…” Max’s voice chokes up into his throat, his hips rolling faster against you as he pulls back enough to line up with your entrance. 

“Please stay, Max. Please,” you reply, and with that he fills you with long, deep strokes that push that powerful feeling down. It’s replaced with the fire of his body finally on yours, all-encompassing. He pushes up on his elbows to watch you, your hands coming to cup his face.

“Always. You’ll have to…look up ways to get rid of me,” he scoffs, the mood lightening as he pounds into you. 

“Cross on the door, garlic in the window?” you manage to pant back, raking your fingernails through the short hairs at the base of his neck. 

“A restraining order,” he huffs back, finally moving to rock his hips into you.

Fucking Max was like grasping a live wire and reveling in the electricity coursing through you. Each stroke is sharp and precise, punctuated with Max’s deep grunts and groans. It’s like nothing you’ve experienced before, used to a fast pounding that leaves you wanting. Every time Max pulls away from you only makes your need grow, clawing at his back to bring him closer, closer to you, even more inside you than he already is. 

“Oh fuck, pretty girl, you’re the most amazing thing I’ve ever felt,” Max says brokenly, tonguing your nipples and gasping against the pillowy flesh of your tits as he grinds deep inside you. Rocking your hips under him, you rub your clit against his pubic bone to pull another orgasm closer to the surface. “Yes, gorgeous, cum on me, I’m so close, fuck, I’m gonna give it to you baby, make you cum like this every fucking night.”

Your mouth is too dry, throat too hoarse to voice anything about Max’s rambling promises. He picks up speed, sitting back on his knees so he can watch your breasts bounce with his thrusts. He’s sinful all fucked out like this, neck straining, pulling you back against his powerful thrusts.

“Gonna cum, pretty girl, gonna cum on these delicious tits,” he growls, swiping his fingers over your clit fast enough that your third orgasm rockets to the forefront. With a handful of grinding rolls of his hips you’re cumming with a stuttering cry, gripping his cock as he curses through it. The moment you relax he takes himself in hand and two strokes have him spilling on your chest. Splatters paint your breasts, droplets funneling into the swells and smearing down your stomach. 

“That was so hot,” Max groans, coming down heavily on one hand by your head. For a moment you can only press your foreheads together, but soon Max captures your kiss again, this time lazier, slower, sticky with sweetness that slips down your throat to warm you inside out.

“Sorry, made a mess,” he whispers, a final soft peck before he stumbles back to dig out a handkerchief from his pants pocket. With a few swipes he’s cleaned himself from you, promising a shower as soon as he’s got more than three brain cells and his muscles will listen to him. Flopping down next to you on the bed, he pulls you into his arms and surrounds you in him once again.

“I’ll last longer next time,” he promises, making you snicker into his chest. Your heart also sings.

“Then I’ll look forward to next time,” you murmur, kissing him just below his collarbone. His chest jumps under your mouth.

“Well, next time might be in like…five minutes,” he boasts, making you crane your neck to look at his smug smile.

“Vampires have no refractory period?” you ask with a smirk. He tilts his head down, bumping your noses together.

“I wish. Maye a half hour, if I’m being realistic.” He snuggles you closer, draping an arm over your back and tracing mysterious patterns on your spine. “But then again tomorrow. And the next day. And the one after that.”

You lay in silence for a moment before speaking.

“I could get used to that.”

Max’s kiss, full of promise, makes you think he feels the same.

END || PREVIOUS

[i-hit-airi-with-meteors]

HII!! WELCOME!!!! >:D

Welcome~!

Hello! This is a small blog dedicated to giving Mizuki Akiyama from Project Sekai flowers~

This blog is inspired by:

@i-run-saki-over-with-trucks (the original <3)

@i-set-tsukasa-on-fire

@i-crush-rui-with-anvils

@i-explode-rui-and-tsukasa

@canaries-kidnap-nene-kusanagi

@metal-pipe-tsukasa-bonker

@i-set-ruikamishiro-on-fire

@i-drop-pianos-on-tsukasa

@i-bonk-akito-with-metal-pipes

@i-hit-airi-with-meteors

@kanades-chair-stalks-her

@hypnosis-sekai

and @mizukis-bell-tolls!

I use he/they <3

[faireclairevoire]

[Daisy wants to scream, and so here they are.

The entourage he marshals from the Salon is absorbed quickly in the dense crowd, but Dimitri can make his own fun. He entertains himself for almost half an hour torturing the Prince with increasingly passionate Shakespearean sonnets — “sir, I wrote that myself, do you think I would just do that, come to a festival and tell lies?” — before detaching himself to immerse himself in one of the many knots of people clenching and unclenching through the street as the festivities continue.  

(He takes a mental note as he passes one of the festival stalls. Airi Kawada is here: interesting. That paparazzi who never responds to their calls is talking to her, wide-eyed: more interesting).

Gossip harmonizes with the music around him, spans an octave of shouts and wails and fights and lovers murmuring and the prayers of the devout. Ghouls may live an undeath, but this place is alive nonetheless. Dimitri grins, and then lets the crowd carry him to its very center.]

[sanasunbringer]

Layers of Sana Sunbringer

LAYER ONE : THE OUTSIDE

Name: “Sanalellah, but that's a mouthful! Just call me Sana.”

Eye Color: “Pale brown...I suppose you could say they're hazel?”

Hair Style/Color: “Somewhere between ginger and brunette. Long, wavy. It's usually down, but I pull it into a ponytail if I need it out of the way.”

Height: “Five feet. Yep, I've heard every short joke in the book!”

Clothing Style: “When I don't need my armor, I mostly pick airy clothes, like dresses. It's just nice to wear something light after being stuck in a stifling hunk of metal, you know? Oh, and anything floral.”

LAYER TWO: THE INSIDE

Your Fears: “The Void, undeath, not being good enough.”

Your Guilty Pleasure: “It's hardly a pleasure if you feel guilty about it, no?” She averts her eyes suspiciously.

Your Biggest Pet Peeve: “People who are blunt or careless just for the hell of it.”

Your Ambition for the Future: “To see admiration in my children's eyes.”

LAYER THREE: THOUGHTS

Your First Thoughts Waking Up: “If the little ones are awake yet.”

What You Think About the Most: “My family.”

What You Think About Before Bed: “Mmn, probably how to keep Mengersh out of trouble...let me tell you, he doesn't make it easy.”

Your Best Quality Is: “Compassion, I suppose.”

LAYER FOUR: WHAT’S BETTER?

Single or Group Dates: “Well, if I were still on the market, I'd choose single-but group dates are a good way to keep things interesting.”

To be Loved or Respected: “Loved, of course. Definitely loved. I wouldn't trade that for the world.”

Beauty or Brains: “I confess that I've got a soft spot for beauty. Even more so than most, Light help me...a sharp mind is always best, though.”

Dogs or Cats: “I have to choose? Dogs, then.”

LAYER FIVE: DO YOU?

Lie: “Maybe, ah...maybe a white lie here or there to spare someone's feelings.”

Believe in Yourself: “Sure?”

Believe in Love: “Absolutely.”

Want Someone: “I’m fortunate enough to have who I want already.”

LAYER SIX: EVER?

Been on Stage: “Not yet. I bet I'd enjoy it.”

Done Drugs: “Definitely not!”

Changed Who You Were to Fit In: “No, although I find it difficult not to sometimes.”

LAYER SEVEN: FAVORITES

Favorite Color: “Those shades of pink and gold you see in the sky just as night turns to day.”

Favorite Animal: “Hmn, difficult question. Maybe horses? Useful for travel, gorgeous, strong. Couldn't ask for much more than that. I adore Temperance, raised her since she was a foal. She's even carried me into battle-that takes a special kind of trust.”

Favorite Food: “Homemade sweets, for sure. If I can manage to eat some before they're all stolen...I swear, Iri and Vel sneak more than my darlings do!”

Favorite Game: “Hearthstone. Or whatever Saphir and Uther's favorite is at the moment!”

LAYER EIGHT: AGE

Day Your Next Birthday Will Be:  “September 25.”

How Old Will You Be: “Just turned forty. Lucky for me, half elves tend to age slower."

Age You Lost Your Virginity: “Older than most people lost theirs. I've always been a bit uptight when it comes to, uhm, that sort of thing.”

Does Age Matter: “In relationships, absolutely. Otherwise, nah.”

LAYER NINE: IN A BOY OR GIRL

Best Personality: “Once, I would've said gentle, doting...perhaps even clingy, like I am. Funny that the one I fell for is quite the opposite. The independent kind, and not mushy very often.”

Best Eye Color: “Blue, even though they're all lovely in their own way.”

Best Hair Color: “Black.”

Best thing to do with a Partner: “Ah, gods, I'm such a sucker for a good snuggle. I could just curl up with him, a few blankets, and some snacks for hours. Of course, Death Knights aren't exactly the cuddliest, but we make it work.”

LAYER TEN: FINISH THE SENTENCE

I love: “Sunshine.”

I feel: “Content.”

I hide: “Very little.”

I miss: “Peace and quiet. I don’t really mind much, though.”

I wish: “To leave the past behind me.”

Tagged by: @irielle-firine

Tagging: @unabashedrebel @renwyck @ash-summer @the-real-arcanist-val @olliehaldstan @caideyn @josiehastings @tilnathiel @nyyght

[wardenstrepidation]

[ defend ] reverse

The air was heavy with it: the metallic sting of blood.

There were times when she could pick apart the various scents. Some had thin blood, making their scent airy and faint. Others were sweet to smell, which always made her tongue curl against the roof of her mouth in disgust. The most valuable, however, had become one that was laden with smoke.

—Not the kind that came with burning flesh or cooling metal. No, it was more akin to a smoldering fire. It was a comforting smell. It was a smell that was often accompanied with the echoing laughter of her memories or the ghostly draws of her muscles that painted rare smiles. It reminded her of the open wilderness that was Arathi, its people that shared her blood, and every blade of grass between. It made her think of Demitria.

For a sorceress that bathed herself in the ideals of wildfire, it was a fitting flavor. Most of all, it was easy to pinpoint among a crowd much like an actual spire of smog, and like a man dying of winter’s bite, Pavel Wright raced to it.

It would not be a gift easily bestowed, though. She had many steps to accomplish and many a foe to destroy — as their usual waltz across the battlefield normally played. Trepidation ran little within her veins. There was only the coursing surge of adrenaline and the lull of beckoning smoke within her mind. It was all that she needed, save for the grip of stained steel that would grant her passage.

Ichor attempted to steal her attention. It crept in to her senses like spilled and soiled milk. It splashed across her mind, bleeding in to the many crevices and cracks. It roused a separate side of the guardian: one that was bred alongside nightmares and devilish ambition. In her younger years, when the curse was but an infant parasite, it no doubt would have steered her from her true ambition. It would have coaxed her astray, guiding her to the heart of the battle where rotting necks practically exposed themselves to her ravenous hunger.

She was now a seasoned warrioress, however, whose heart had migrated away from mindless bloodshed and had instead placed itself within a hearth of arcanic embers.

It was a blur.

—The bloodshed; the thud of her steps and the desperate rattle of chain mail; the hoarseness of her voice as she roared with effort.

It was all a blur until she stood at the center of such tempting smoke. There she stood: sable curls caught within the storm of her own prowess. Molten might spewed from her smoldering fingertips time and time, splashing against invading forces of the Forsaken as if she meant to separate the sea in half. In such a moment, where ash piled high to serve as her grand throne of triumph, Pavel had no reason to disbelieve a far-fetched image.

Then it sounded: her reason for serving and holding title-ship. It came with but the most subtle ring of metal against matching scabbard. An opponent approached. Her gaze swept the grand in frantic arcs, cutting through the darkness and blinding light as if they were the same; nostrils flaring wildly to bypass alleviating smoke and find the cretin that sought to extinguish it.

Her footfalls began once again before her mind had finished aligning the pieces. It came from Demitria’s left — just within a blind spot that escalating fire had created. Yet, Pavel had heard it well enough.

Enemy steps—Advancing—Weapon raising—Swinging—A guttural breath released—

The sorceress’ hip was an equally familiar place. It was battered and bloody - sliced in to by crude weaponry - but fitting all the same in to reaching fingers housed with impenetrable leather and plate. It turned with such a grip, allowing for the rest to follow suit with little effort. The outskirts of Northgarde were hardly as charming as mess halls decorated with low light or cobblestones bustling with competition and alliances alike, but it would serve as a dance floor nonetheless; Pavel’s breastplate soon after gathering the spinning ward like a lover’s embrace was wont to do.

Her opposite hand was all the quicker to extend itself, preying on those heightened senses and jumping one step ahead, catching that soaring blade with a grip that had shed itself from Styrkur’s reassurance. The thud of steel and flesh was far from a comforting one, but it failed to send the guardian away or cut through her zealous defense.

No, instead said soldier of undeath was now locked with the enraged guardian herself. Her grip trembled, equally of blossoming pain and the stubborn curl of her fingers. The bite along her palm was a reassurance — a comforting token of a job well done — as was the surge of smoke that swelled beneath her nose.

She was safe.

[i-hit-airi-with-meteors]

do you hit airi with a chair because you love her or because you hate her?

i love airi so much she’s so silly

unfortunately all characters deemed too silly get hit by the meteor

[dreadjim]

"Shanila the Airy" Shanila was known as the graceful dancer of her era, when she was birth in undeath, she became a powerful levitating force , mastering elements of the air beyond her peers - <<Introduction to Shades of Red>> The shades of Red is a series that depict the multitude of beautiful, powerful personas in the fantasy style of my own art embedding ( which is growing daily even now). The genre is fantasy steeped with mythological vibes and vampires which I always love exploring since my teenage years. The story will develop further if this continue, such as a story arc whereby the Witchhunters, coincide with the vampires and how they lead down the road. Thanks for looking, interest and support. Cheers JL #shadesofred #dreadjim #djaicombo #conceptart #evolutionofart #vampire #vampiress #dreadjimembedding (at Singapore / Singapura / 新加坡 / சிங்கப்பூர்) https://www.instagram.com/p/CksxdncSYpE/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[shackledsun]

TAGGED BY: @astoran-exemplar TAGGING: Anyone who’d like to flesh out their characters a bit more. NAME: Avanguardia FULL TITLE: Knightess Avanguardia, Errant to the Empress of Starlight AGE: Late 20′s at time of undeath, retained enough humanity to age somewhat, and by the later portions of the story her equivalent age would be in the early 50′s. SPECIES: Human/Undead GENDER: Woman ORIENTATION: Lesbian PROFESSION: Wandering Knight

PHYSICAL ASPECTS

BODY TYPE:  Avanguardia is a bit lanky, but comports herself with a deliberate, knightly kind of poise. EYES: Medium-brown, with a tendency to shimmer as light passes through them. HAIR: Long and black, with strands of grey later on. More often than not fixed into a tight bun.

SKIN: Olive, with a good deal of scars by the time she’s older.

HEIGHT: 5′9″ WEIGHT: Roughly 140, depending on level of hollowing.

FAMILY

SPOUSE: None CHILD(REN): None SIBLINGS:  Two younger brothers, estranged, likely hollowed PARENTS:  Bakers in Anorice- her father died when she was very young, and her mother is likely hollowed or dead by now as well ANY PETS ? None

SKILLS

PHYSICAL PROWESS: Avanguardia is a fighter marked by finesse and rapid, powerful strikes. She wields a gladius and a small buckler, both of which she combines in quick succession to relentlessly hack, stab, and smash at her foes. SPEED: Beyond a sturdy steel cuirass, the rest of her armor is hardened leather, allowing for high maneuverability and a fairly complete range of movement. INTELLIGENCE: Sharp-witted and generally clever, with great ability to think on her feet. Has a distaste for academic concerns, as well as for people involved in them. Some memory issues due to undeath, but keeps a medallion bearing an image of the empress to keep her grounded in reality.

LIKES

COLOURS: Sunset gold and burgundy. SMELLS: Sea breezes blowing along an unfamiliar stretch of coast, black powder hanging in the air following pitched battle, campfires. FOOD: Airy sourdough, hardtack, cured meats. DRINKS: Spiced rum or red wine.

OTHER DETAILS

SMOKES ?  When she can find it. The smoking plant of choice in Anorice is an herb that confers a bit of sharpness and clarity, but can also lead to feelings of anxiety if enjoyed too often. DRUGS ? Nothing harder than the occasional rotgut liquor, unless you count the above. DRIVER LICENSE ? N/A EVER BEEN ARRESTED ? Was a bit of a troublemaker as a kid, but nothing serious.

[i-hit-airi-with-meteors]

WE ARE GROWING!!!!!!!!

Okay but what if someone made a gimmick blog where Mizuki gets crushed by a large, ominous looking bell

[cuddlywritesthings]

Midnight Drink

Genre: World of Warcraft

Characters: Taviast Duskwither, Guntharius Plaguespitter

Characters mentioned: Ghelror Ebonfang, Crescida Evenfall (not my character)

Timeline: BFA, shortly after Saurfang’s death.

Trigger warnings: Strong language, alcohol mentioning

-  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -

“I thought I might find you here.”

Taviast Duskwither reluctantly pulled his attention away from his glass of wine. He looked up at the unannounced guest of his, and he couldn’t help but let a weary frown tug at the corners of his mouth.

He had retreated to his personal study for further research on their next potential target. They had plenty to choose from, of course. Azeroth was rife with conflict from both sides, but it seemed the warring factions could not come together and eliminate the more worrisome targets-- those who posed a real threat to everyone, factions be damned.

The foreboding castle that The Circle called headquarters had been long since evacuated by whatever clan, or family or even cult had used it. It had been repurposed by a certain warlock, and had become the group’s main source of sanctuary.

It was late into the night, and after dinner everyone had made their way to their individual rooms. Taviast thought he was the only soul awake, but he always seemed to forget about--

“Dr. Guntharius Plaguespitter.”

“Just doctor is fine. Or Dr. Plaguespitter, if you want to sound snooty and annoying.” The Forsaken stood in the doorway of Taviast’s private studies, his hand raised and fingers trailing along the intricate stonework with a sense of reserved reverence. “You elves, having to be so formal about every fucking thing.”

“Notwithstanding the roots of my heritage,” Taviast calmly replied, with just the slightest hint of amusement lacing his words, “I do try to remain proper and display the decorum expected of me when addressing people. It stems from my time spent as a Magister for the state of Quel’thalas. Decorum comes as naturally as breathing, good sir.”  

Letting out a derisive snort, the Forsaken made his way further into the studies. Despite the elf’s sharp sense of hearing (and, no, it wasn’t a joke about their pointed ears), the necrotic doctor, steeped in the energies of the fel, made naught a sound as he approached.

“Alcohol.”

“Mmm?” Tavast blinked a moment in confusion before it dawned on him what the ‘good doctor’ meant by that. Guntharius was good for that. Liked to start conversations abruptly, with a single word, or topic, thrown out there on a whim. “Ah, yes, well,” he lifted up his glass in the vague gesture of toasting the warlock, “must finish the bottle before it goes bad, hmm?”

“You always were an alcoholic.”

A fair bit confused, the Archmage quirked an eyebrow. “I… beg your pardon?”

“It’s true.”

“I must refute this claim of yours. I am not--”

“In denial,” snapped the Forsaken, cutting the elf off at the pass by refusing to let him finish his own sentence. “Covering up your anxieties, doubts and fears by taking the edge off. The edge of this life and this world, all of your responsibilities and guilt, and all that blood on your pretty little hands.” The Forsaken’s one glowing eye seemed a bit brighter than before. His sharp, yet somehow still handsome features were hardened; as resolute and emotionless as a stone fortress. “Blurring the lines of your stress until you can no longer recognize them.”

Unsettling as the tension in the air was, Taviast remained calm. Even as the warlock placed his hands (soundlessly, always soundlessly! He moved, like a giest!) on the table, the ex-Magister, now Archmage, made no move and no sound as to betray his surge of anxious nervousness.

“And you,” Taviast began pleasantly, tone airy and delicate, “have always been good at analyzing others, especially when it comes to one’s health or their unhealthy habits. And that,” he made a subtle gesture with his raised glass, further putting emphasis on his words, “makes you an excellent doctor.”

“Your flattery is not going to change the subject.”

“Ah, yes. And how could I possibly forget your stubborn bullheadedness?”

“Obsession to details,” the Forsaken cut in, offering the Archmage a humored smile (such ghastly pointed teeth!). “Call it as it is.”

“Fair enough.”

A minute passed, and the awkward silence settled about them like a lumbering, intrusive beast. The Archmage stared at the deadman before him, and the warlock spent his time clearly studying the exhausted elf, sitting down at a table, surrounded by piles of books, and scrolls and half finished documents. Oh, and nearly an empty bottle of wine. Can’t forget that.

“Dr. Gunth--”

“Plaguespitter,” the Forsaken hissed out, slightly annoyed.

“Dr. Plaguespitter,” Taviast cordially replied, rectifying his quite common mistake. “Please, tell me-- what can I do for you?”

The Forsaken was not known for any sort of expressive nature. He built walls up to keep the world from identifying what it was he was feeling. And, yes, by far, he could feel. He could feel quite well. Most Forsaken felt nothing. They were numbed to the world and to the world’s tragedies. Some felt grief, or rage, or some other caustic type of emotional taint. They were like walking geists made manifest; stuck in a walking routine, trapped in a haunt, unable to release themselves from the residual episode.

But Guntharius felt. Guntharius could feel more than just rage and grief, confusion and madness. He felt more than what the others felt. But that alone helped drive him mad. Far madder, perhaps, than many of the other warlocks within the Black Harvest. He felt, he remembered emotions. And, as a result, he became passionate when it came to believing in things. Rage and frustration were, indeed, common emotional responses with him. But those only occurred due to how much he cared, and how much he wanted to help. How, oh, how he wanted to be human again. To find the cure for undeath. To be able to taste things properly again, and to stop being so cold. He wanted to feel. He wanted to express himself fully again.

Despite his well known flaw in the department of expressing himself (often far too caught up in his emotions to properly handle them), he was rarely ever prompt in admitting his feelings verbally. And so, as the Archmage posed his question, he would have never expected such a confident reply from the deadman.

“I’m worried about you.”

“--me?” The Archmage made a motion to push back his chair and rise to his feet, but halted his actions upon seeing the subtle hand gestures, offered up by his coworker and comrade. “Whatever for?”

“Don’t play dumb,” softly hissed the warlock.

“I can assure you, I never play ‘dumb’.”

The Forsaken gave him a rather deadpan look and, in a dry, sardonic tone, drawled out, “and all those times you pretended to be an oblivious old fool in order to trick guards into--”

“That’s not the same thing!”

“Of course it isn’t.”

Taviast Duskwither gave a great, weary sigh as the Forsaken sat down across from him. He had stolen away to his personal study room in order to get some peace and quiet. He felt safe in this room. It reminded him of his home. He had decorated the walls with scrolls and baubles of magicry. Here and there crystals peppered shelves weighed down by tomes and ancient books of magical lore. It was his personal study room and library in one. He spent many a night toiling away before drawn our charts, graphs and maps, hoping to produce a foolproof mission plan.

After all… he lead this group of rebels. He was the first member and soul founder of The Circle. And he had an oath to upkeep. Sleep be damned! The welfare of his soldiers were of top priority.

“You’re trying to deflect me.”

Wagging a finger at the warlock, the Archmage coyly replied, “ah, ah, ah! But I’m not the one who brought up my previous roles for past Circle endeavors.”

Guntharius quietly hissed as he bared his unusually sharp teeth (even by standards for typical Forsaken) at the elf. “Smartass.”

“Aren’t most elves?”

Smarmy and smug, Taviast felt he had won that round of wit against the ‘good doctor’. Guntharius was known for his cunning brilliance and his silver tongue. But getting a one-up on him always felt good, even though it was incredibly rare to do so.

Feeling proud of himself, Taviast raised the wine glass to take a well deserved swig of mulled wine when he felt his actions halted by a cold hand. The warlock was not wearing gloves tonight-- his attire for when he didn’t have any missions, and was merely living about in his castle-- and, as such, he felt his hand, unhindered. It was the cold grip of death itself, ready to take him.

Shivering from the contact, Taviast opened his mouth to protest. Anything he wanted to say died in his throat, withered and dry, upon seeing the Forsaken’s unmistakably concerned expression.

“Stop deflecting with humor,” Guntharius uncharacteristically murmured. His hand-- wrapped around Taviast’s slender wrist-- squeezed ever so slightly. It wasn’t a hostile sense of pressure but, rather, a reassuring one. A comforting one. “Stop. For once in your long-lived life, stop.”

A wedge formed itself in the Archmage’s throat, and he found himself willingly lowering the glass of wine. His chest felt tight.

“I don’t unders--”

“Of course you wouldn’t. And of course you don’t.” Guntharius released the Archmage’s wrist, freeing him from his entrapment. “But you’ve always been in denial about everything. In denial that you need to talk to someone, instead of busying yourself with work and the consumption of alcohol in hopes you’ll forget about your guilt.”

“I, I…” Grasping at metaphorical straws, the Archmage felt frustrated. “Alright. Plaguespitter, I understand you enjoy being cryptic about your messages and with your given advice, but I really don’t have the patience--”

“Saurfang.”

It struck him with the cracking reverberation of a whip. He swore he could hear it. The shattering of glass, the crumbling of an infrastructure. He felt that dagger twist deeper into his gut, and he inaudibly sucked in his breath. The air was suddenly so thin to him, and it burned his lungs to take in oxygen.

Varok Saurfang. The noble, honrable Orc who, quite possibly, could have led the Horde into an era of peace. The brave warrior who stood up to challenge their tyrannous Warchief, in hopes to dismantle her psychotically twisted regime and to further spur on the true spirit of a united Horde.

And he fell.

He had fallen by her darkness, her sinister corruption. Around The Circle, there had been in depth discussions as to what it was their ‘Warchief’ had used in order to slay the proud soldier. Some spoke of a darkness, greater than the void. Some warned it, quite possibly, stemmed from the energies of the fel, of warlock magic. Some declared she had soul her soul to a demon, and had become a corrupted dreadlord. And a few whispered fears that the old ones were involved-- The Old Gods themselves.

Whatever it was, and whatever the case, it had become quite clear what her intentions were. And it had been quite a devastating blow to lose such an honorable Orc as that; one who could have lead them to something better, something grander.

It didn’t sting as much as losing Vol’jin, but, by the Gods, Taviast mourned the Orc.

“A...Ah,” Taviast shakily replied, realizing that a good minute or two had passed, and he had been sitting there, in absolute silence, staring at the pale warlock. “I, I… I mean, his passing is a great loss for…. For, for everyone…”

“Stop lying.”

“I speak the truth,” Taviast nearly shouted as he abruptly rose from his chair, slamming his hands down on the table out of frustration. “His passing-- his death-- was a blow to the Horde’s morale! He could have lead us to peace! Helped us better enhance the… the, the Horde with…”

Suddenly weary, Taviast sank back down to his seat. Another sigh escaped him but, unlike before, this one was heavy with exhaustion.

Guntharius calmly watched him, like some plagued, undead feline staring at something it found utterly and sensibly fascinating.

“...Are you done?”

“Quite,” Taviast softly murmured. He reached for his glass and, upon consideration, snatched up the entire bottle. Taking a hearty swig from that, he waved Guntharius on, allowing the warlock to speak, if he so desired to.

In which he desired to. Oh, yes, he very much desired to.

“Don’t think I’m a fool. Don’t take my allegiance and loyalty with the Alliance as proof that I don’t care about the Horde and everything that goes on within it. I am not human anymore,” he hissed with some bitterness, “but I am Forsaken. As such, I have to care about this Horde, the races within it, and I have grown to… to like some of the people here. Including,” he snatched the bottle from Taviast before the elf could drown himself in booze, “Saurfang.”

Making a half-hearted gesture as to grab the bottle back, Taviast quickly gave up. “Surprisingly touchy-feely for a Forsaken.” He winced, visibly, upon realizing what he had just said. “My apologies,” he quickly sputtered. “I didn’t mean for that to come out so--”

Waving the elf’s apology aside, the Forsaken nonchalantly shrugged. “You’re speaking the truth about my kind, and about me. Why apologize for what’s on your mind? Like I always say,” he leaned forward a bit, staring the elf down with a hardened gaze, “speak your goddamn mind.”

A nervous chuckle dancing on his breath, Taviast leaned back in his chair, relaxing a little. “Sound advice.”

“You said I’m good at being a doctor. At me analyzing my ‘patients’, figuring out what’s good and healthy for them, and what is not.” Tapping the wooden table with a single finger, he sneered. “Keeping in your negative thoughts can lead to bad health.”

Furrowing his brow, Taviast gave him a puzzled stare.

“...negative thoughts. Keeping them in. Can lower one’s immune system by causing onset depressive moods, and-- feldammit, Duskwither.” Gesturing wildly, the doctor grew increasingly frustrated. “Do I have to spell it out for you? Fucking talk to me.”

“Talk--”

In a sharp, almost vindictive gesture, the warlock gestured at himself with both of his hands. “Ther-a-pist,”

“We already know one. He’s helped members of The Circle already. One Mr. Dreamwe--”

Letting out an exasperated groan, Guntharius had to stop himself from lunging across the table, grabbing the elf’s head, and slamming it down on the table in a rather undignified, and painful, facepalm. It’d be a facetable, of course-- quite potentially the first of its kind. But he thankfully restrained his own surge of negative emotions, swallowing them along with his need to slap this fool across the face.

“For right now,” Guntharius said through gritted teeth, “I… am… your… THER-A-PIST. Fucking talk to me. And talk about what is on your mind. Treat me as if I am that tentacled magician from the void, and talk to me.”

Taviast understood. He understood now what Guntharius was doing for him, and he couldn’t help but feel another overwhelming wave of emotion wash over him.

“You,” the warlock continued, “have not been the same since confirmation of Saurfang’s death. And you were oddly quiet during Crescida’s speech.”

Ah, yes. Crescida Evenfall. Almost fitting to a point, the Night Elf monk raised her glass of wine and spoke before the convergence of The Circle. She gave an exceptionally grand speech, as inspiring as many generals and sergeants would before any army, and any battle. But instead of a speech filled with the zest and verve to conflict harm against one’s enemy, this one had been filled… with hope, and unity. As morale boosting as anything, she spoke the truth of the matter-- and this world-- all the while humbly honoring the life of Saurfang, now legend and true hero to the Horde.

During dinner and the speech, Taviast had remained strangely quiet and aloof. He had hardly spoken on behalf of the members or in memory of Saurfang. He had opted for a nod here or there, or the occasional hand gesture, in order to urge others to talk in his stead. He listened politely to Crescida’s words, but his attention had begun to drift towards the end. So much so that Ghelror Ebonfang-- sitting to the Archmage’s right-- had to gingerly nudge the elf in the arm, signaling that he, too, should join in with the boisterous round of applause.

“I was… being polite,” Taviast replied, his tone half hearted and weak.

“Of course you were. I’m not denying that. But you weren’t yourself. Your mind was elsewhere.”

“I--”

“I know you by now, Duskwither. I have stood on your left for far too long and have overseen many of your operations.” The warlock folded his hands in front of him, posture straight and austere. “I am your second-in-command, representing the Horde. I am to offset Archdruid Ebonfang. I have seen, and done, and performed so many tasks on your behalf. I have murdered, and tortured, and whittled information out of our enemies in order to do what must be right for this order you’ve created. I have even opened my home-- my safe haven, a place I can hide away from the Horde-- to you. To you, and your order.”

“And I thank you for that,” Taviast piped up, rather quickly, hoping to end the conversation. “I am ever so grateful for your hospitality.”

“I have looked after you all as you slept. I have walked the ramparts at night, keeping my gaze to the distant horizon. I am your shadow. I am your darkness. I am everything you wish you could expose to the world.” He narrowed his gaze, jaw tightening. “I kill when you cannot. I torture when your pathetic stomach cannot handle it. I soak my hands in the blood of our enemies when you can’t even so much as look at a twisted corpse.”

“I get it, I get it,” Taviast testily replied. “I’m fucked up in the head, hmm? Is that what you’re getting at here? That I secretly wish to take over the world and harm people, murder, en masse, in order to shape Azeroth as I see fit?”

A sly smirk spread across the Forsaken’s face. “Not quite what I was getting at,” the warlock teasingly replied, “but it’s amusing to imagine you going to the darkside. And, besides… lately you’ve been killing almost as much as me.”

The Archmage fell silent, and he cast the warlock a resentful look. His own golden eyes grew colder, and their glow seemed to darken.

“Excuse me? Are you suggesting--”

“The point is,” Guntharius interjected, “I know you better than anyone else. I know how much darkness you hold inside. And how much you hate yourself for things. How much you blame yourself for things that go wrong. Especially,” he pointed at the elf, “Saurfang’s death.”

Raising his hands up in a gesture of peace, the Archmage shook his head. “Now, now. Where on earth did you get such a peculiar and outlandish notion?”

“It’s not peculiar. And it’s not outlandish. It’s the feldammed truth.”

“I could not prevent Saurfang’s death. I had nothing to do with it.”

“And yet you still blame yourself.”

Taviast was ready for a rebuttal when the warlock stood up. He watched Plaguespitter walk about his studies, examining the shelves heavily burdened with their magical trinkets, and baubles and tomes. He watched as the warlock deftly plucked a thickly bound leather book from one particularly weathered shelf before proceeding to leaf through it’s aged pages.

“Before you try to come up with a reason as to why my logic is wrong, Duskwither… ask yourself, how many times have you mourned the passing of someone?”

“I--”

Snapping the book shut, the warlock sharply turned to face him. “Innocents. Horde, and Alliance alike. Allies. Friends. Leaders.”

“Well--”

“Vol’jin.”

Once more, a well placed imaginary blow struck him, and he felt himself reel from the force. He was grateful he was sitting, for had he been standing, he wasn’t sure he would be able to stay upright at all. The force of the grief, of those memories, were like a sickening tonic that poisoned him each and every time he brought it to the surface.

“Saurfang’s death,” Guntharius continued, “reminds you of the time we, as a Horde, lost Vol’jin.”

The truth. There it was. There was no denying it. The moment he heard of Saurfang’s death, Taviast remembered the Darkspear Troll who once had given him the hope that things could change. That peace could be achieved. That there needn't be any senseless wars and bloodshed. That all of this could have been avoided.

Garrosh Hellscream robbed the world of a chance at seeing peace. And it had set them back quite a bit, ruining alliances both within the Horde and without.

“Crescida’s speech made you think of Vol’jin.”

“Yes, and… and no,” Taviast confessed. “A little bit of it, I admit. But Saurfang can’t be compared to Vol’jin. Both were exceptional people, but incredibly different.”

“In some ways, yes. In some ways, no. Their ideologies may have varied to some degree but, for the most part, Duskwither, you have to admit… they were the same.”

Slumping a little in his seat, the Archmage sadly looked at a shelf. Anything but at the warlock. He let his gaze grow distant, and his focus became unclear. The world seemed a bit more fuzzier, and it wasn’t the wine talking.

“You’re an elf. You have a long lifespan.”

“And with our font of power restored, and the Sunwell purified… quite possibly immortal.”

“Things to consider, yes, yes.”

Taviast knew exactly where Guntharius was going with this. And he couldn’t help but think of everyone within The Circle. He knew what the doctor wanted him to speak about.

As the leader of The Circle, it was his duty to have the final say on who got sent out on various missions. He had to make the final note of approval on which targets to take out. He had so many lives on the line-- lives who were people. People who were friends. And these people who were loyal enough to follow him. He knew that the loss of lives happened with life, especially when war was involved. But he had bent himself over backwards in order to keep his order safe. So much so that he had magically exhausted himself more than once during a mission, keeping those accompanying him safe. He remembered one time waking up after being drug off to safety, only to have Guntharius himself leaning over him, shrieking about how foolish he had been, and how he had to save his ass by using a demonic portal, and some other egregious nonsense that had clearly pissed off the deadman.

“Everyone in The Circle… is family to you.” The necrotic doctor returned to his chair, settling down in it, the book he had been studying since abandoned.

“They are,” he admitted. “Everyone. All of them. They are my family. And I can’t stand the thought of losing any of them.”

“I understand this,” the warlock replied, acknowledging his feelings, “more than you might believe. But, Taviast, the situation still stands. Like Saurfang, and Vol’jin… the time will come. And you, as our leader, will have to come to terms with that.”

“...and I refuse to.”

A little amused, the warlock sat back in his own chair, arms crossed against his thin chest. He let out a small huff of acknowledgement before posing a question. “What if Crescida fell?”

Taviast sharply looked up.

“Or Archdruid Ebonfang. Or Kippen. Or Raustul. Dreamweaver, Petalhoof, or my brother, Brevaar. What about Zinaji, or Tase? Wanja, the rest of the Sul’tusk? Or any of the other Trolls you’ve managed to befriend over time?”

“Died?”

“It will happen one day.”

“May. May happen.”

“Will.”  

“You pessimistic pest,” Taviast grumbled out.

“Part of the package of being Forsaken, peacock.”

Taviast knew that this was a bitter sort of medicine the ‘good doctor’ was prescribing him. But he had to admit… the warlock wasn’t that far off. His friend-- for lack of better terms-- was giving him a dose of medicine he sorely needed. Someone may-- no, will-- eventually fall. Someone will die during a mission of his. So far they have had close calls and closer scrapes. There had been some minor, major and severe injuries to be had. So far… they had been lucky.

That wouldn’t last forever. He knew that.

Archdruid Ebonfang was disabled now. He had lost his arm in a fight to an elite Dreadlord. And though it happened in an event that had not derived from one of The Circle’s missions or chosen targets, it had happened. And now the old Druid existed with a part of him gone, forevermore. Thankfully he could grow his arm back using nature magic-- a sort of nature-bound prosthetic-- and he could repair it, steadily, over time, if it ever got damaged… but it took a lot out of him. To maintain it, and to repair it as needed. And he could no longer feel with that arm. He had lost all sensation (save for the phantom pains that often wracked his body at night, when everyone else was asleep). He had also retained some general weakness. But that was to be expected. After all, bark could be strong, but it could also be brittle, and fragile, and very much a liability.

Ghelror had a lover. He had found a lover, and he had found a purpose in his life. He had found happiness. He had a life outside of The Circle. If only so many could be as blessed as such. Taviast knew only snatches of Ghelror’s history, but he knew that the elf was long lived and was very particular about who he surrounded himself with. He knew of his half-brother, Raustul Shadeshifter. And he knew that the guardian of the claw only occasionally visited The Circle’s headquarters, seeing as he was, mostly, a teacher to the younger, fledgling Druids of the order, and he helped look after orphans in his spare time (children who lost their parents, typically Druids or Shamans, to the war).

But all of this… in an instant, Ghelror had almost lost it all.

Taviast remembered meeting up with Ghelror, not too long after the incident. He remembered the stump where his arm was supposed to be. He remembered the wan, drawn expression on the already worn-down elf’s face. His slightly hunched over posture, body trembling with agony. How Ghelror refused to speak. How gaunt the Druid seemed then. But he remembered his eyes. Hard, gaze ancient and searching. His amber eyes hid the pain exceptionally well. Yes, his eyes hid the pain… but not the shame of it all.

Ghelror Ebonfang was just one example of a close call. A close call that got far too close for comfort. And Taviast had to admit to himself that sometimes, when he caught sight of the Archdruid in the halls of this downtrodden castle, he wondered who would be next. Who would next suffer a catastrophic blow? Who next would come back from a fight-- this never ending, damnable war-- scarred?

And who would come back, at all?

“And one day I just might lose grip with my soul,” Guntharius continued, noticing Taviast’s face had gone pallid, and his gaze had become distant. “Forsaken don’t last forever, Archmage. You, out of all of us, should know that.”

“I… I do.”

“Our minds go before our bodies. Our souls detach from our forms. We can go feral, mad, and utterly lose who we are. I will lose what makes me ‘me’. I will lose my mind, and I will no longer be myself. I will just be a rabid, feral thing. And the only action one can take against what I’ll become... is disposal.”

Taviast felt that great twisting sensation again, and he noted that the Forsaken had gently, almost lovingly, placed his cool hand over his. He took comfort in the sympathetic action, and he gave a weak smile at the warlock.

“I understand,” the elf murmured weakly.

“I’m not sure you do,” the warlock replied, perhaps a bit too testily, “but you seem to understand it a little bit better. Just consider: things will happen. And even if these people-- your family-- don't fall in battle, with your lifespan…”

The pain. It hurt.

“You need to stop feeling guilty for everyone’s pain and the deaths around you. I know you feel guilty when one of us comes back hurt, but it’s our own experiences and actions that lead to our injuries. Or,” he corrected himself, “the lack of experiences or actions taken. That too.”

“I… I know.”

“Vol’jin, and Saurfang. Let them go.”

“It’s just…”

“Future deaths. Future pain. Let it go.”

Taviast numbly nodded.

“What happens happens. You’re leading The Circle--”

“For now,” Taviast meekly responded.

“For… now,” Guntharius wavered, pausing only to shoot him a confused look. That quickly passed, however. “The point is,” he continued, “we are going to follow you. Anything you command us to do, we will do it. Anything you have plotted and planned out to be done, it will be done. And I will continue murdering and torturing in your name.”

“That… that doesn’t sound particularly pleasing to me,” Taviast groaned. “Completely killed the charming atmosphere you had going on there.”

“Completely my point.”

Rising to his feet, the warlock let his hand drift away from the Archmage’s. He reached out, as if to touch the elf’s cheek. The motion was tender, gentle. Almost loving. And it sent the Archmage’s heart into a nervous tick. And yet, seconds before his chilled fingers brushed against the old elf’s skin, he deftly made a snatching motion and took the bottle of booze instead.

“Hey!”

“No more drinking,” Guntharius drawled out. “It’s long past midnight, and you need proper sleep for once.”

“Is it truly that late?” Taviast looked around, as if unsure of his surroundings.

“No changing the subject. No drinking.” The warlock crooked a pale finger at Taviast, beckoning to follow. His tone was low and dark as he resolutely commanded, “bed. Now.”

A violently colored flush spread across Taviast’s cheeks. “I, I-- I, no-- you, wait-- what?”

Groaning, the Forsaken rolled his eyes. “Not my bed, you idiot. What, you think I’m going to take you to bed and see if my inactive libido still works? That my rotted genitalia might actually be functional? You think I’m attracted to you?” He sneered, cutting Taviast off before he could speak. “Elves! You’d think they’d be smarter with all those centuries under their belts, but, no! Naive bastards, the lot of them!”

“I can hear you, you know,” Taviast grumbled out as he cleared his throat.

“Bed.” He jerked his head towards the exit. “Now. Come on. I’ll help you get to your room. Make sure you don’t scamper off back here and try to work yourself to death, like the complete and utter fool you are. Or worse: drink yourself into oblivion.”

“Charming, as always, doctor.”

“Fucking elves.”  

[i-hit-airi-with-meteors]

i love this flavor of accounts, get meteor'd. can you add @ i-punt-penguins-at-haruka 🐧

ofc!! it's done! :D

[i-hit-airi-with-meteors]

why

why not

[lovebugs-and-snakecharmers]

LBSC SFC 10/28-11/4/2020

Thank you to everyone who participated in our Sprint Fic Challenge! We hope you enjoyed it and got something useful out of the experience. The next Sprint Fic Challenge will take place on November 11. Be sure to follow us for the announcement! You can still join the discord between now and then if you have questions or just want to say hi, or feel free to leave questions in our ask box.

Prompt:  Visual Prompt: Rain from @airi-p4​ (used with permission)

From @airi-p4: Rain

From @livrever: There for You

Prompt:  “I love you.” “Tell me that when you’re sober.”

From @quickspinner: Plausible Deniability 

Prompt:  “I know we said ‘Til death do we part but we never covered undeath.“

From @noirewrites: ‘Til Death Do Us Part

From @sapphicmarinette / nonbinarynino:  i don't want you like a best friend

Wildcard: Any prompt available from @mlweeklyprompts​

No one chose this option this week!

If you find something you like please like/reblog the original post, or leave kudos/comments, to let the author know you enjoyed their work!

These works and previous challenge responses are collected here on AO3, and can be found under here on the blog under the lbsc sprint works compilation tag.