The rest of his team was nearby, as was Ren's grandfather, all of them frowning at the ground. Don't underestimate the students of Xuan Wu , White Tiger.
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I can protect myself for a while. The Red Rider. And it is, as always, a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Cinder Fall. There was a moment of stunned silence on Raven's part and careful contemplation on Keter's.
Cinder was leaving the school, but not immediately. Instead, it would be in a matter of days. Two days, to be precise. Either way, the explosion itself wasn't the worst part, or even the only thing I'd learned.
As I looked through the smoke, I realized absently that this was the first time. That I'd seen a Grimm evolve, that is. Gilgamesh continued to watch me as he quietly spoke.
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They serve not as a mask, but as the truth. They override those deeper things, those insidious, worming things inside of him. Those other emotions that he could never admit to. That he would never admit to. A finger presses down upon his jugular, hard.
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He can feel his pulse slamming through his skin. Despite himself he moans, a low and breathy exhalation escapes him through a cage of gritted teeth, and too late he comes to stop it. A blush tinges over his cheeks, something burns in the base of his stomach, some dark craving so long repressed now strains at the shackles he has so strictly imposed upon it and to his horror he can feel those shackles begin to splinter. Such things are not proper, they are not seemly. For a dreadful urgency rises up within him: he has to tell him, he has to tell his master that.
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He has to make his master stop. He is older now; he is not some fledgling youth to be beguiled by smiles and flattery as once he was. He has power of his own. One hand fully encircles his throat now, he feels his master take his hold, gentle and yet so delicately perilous. And in that strange moment he thinks of how easy it would be, how cruelly casual the motion.
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The clench of a fist, the rupture of bones, the brutal severance of veins and arteries and connective tissues with one swift, decisive crunch and then oblivion. So he waits, and with sage wisdom he knows that this decision is not yet his to make. But as the seconds trickle by in all their quivering trepidation something within him twists, and something bold in him burns behind it. Nails dig into his skin, and instinctively he feels droplets of blood well up beneath that pressure, throbbing crimson upon his skin. Yet deeper still how he adores it, this sublime cruelty, and from the abstract swirl of dissenting emotions within him he feels something coalesce.
Something bright, something urgent swirls to a core in the pit of his stomach, for a moment it wavers and then it seethes. Such reckless ardour for a moment devours him, it screams with the weight of centuries of denial and he almost does not feel his master soften to accept his gift, such is the tight terror of his passion.
Horror-struck he pauses, that bold lust suddenly severs as coldly, excruciatingly he becomes aware that he has far overstepped his bounds. Fearfully he stops, he wriggles his hand free and he tries to pull away as a flush of embarrassment mottles over his cheeks. But his master halts him, his hands grip with crushing force about his skull and his kiss becomes biting, hurting; even as he tries to squirm away his master prevents it. At that violation he whimpers, all thoughts of passion are banished as his master shoves into him, drowns him, and beneath that relentless onslaught he just tries to hold onto himself.
I want to take you. I want to break you. Skin you and hang you dripping vermilion across the floor. My lost little angel, I will take you by the hand and I will crown you, in snapping sinews and promises of love. And then I will seize you, strike home this brutal desire to its core, and you can sob, and you can beg, and you can gasp and cry and I will wipe away your tears, but you can do nothing in the end.
I will break you, and when you lie shattered across the stones I will re-make you. I will stitch you back together, all bold and vulnerable and glorious; and perhaps you will not know how to feel. Perhaps you cannot know how to feel. But I will show you. You can smash yourself against me, you can rip yourself apart, little one, but ever you will come crawling back. You will kneel bloodied before my throne.
Tears will fall down those precious cheeks, and you will beg for me to stop, you will beg for me to continue. You will plead for mercy at my feet, and you will not truly know if it is mercy you desire. Apollo by Ronald Langestraat. The Wisdom Line by David Bridie. Esja by Hania Rani.
Inspired by the hell known as the daily commute, this playful, shoegaze-flecked ambient suite makes the mundane seem magical. Explore music. Dave T. Kyle Boyer. Ethan Cruse. Occasionally Tapes. John Doree. Tucked away sound. Jil van Stanton.