Hey, I like that chivilrousxhybrid post about kisses, but I felt it was missing some Important Smooches and had to fix that. So send me two characters and “I want the K” and I’ll generate a number for them!
1: Passionate Kiss
2: Gentle Peck
3: Firm Kiss
4: Shut-Up Kiss
5: Romantic (Tender) Kiss
6: Teary Kiss
7: Distract-Someone Kiss
8: Kiss in the Rain
9: Underwater Kiss
10: Upside-Down Kiss
11: Goofy Kiss
12: Almost Kiss
13: Hair Kiss
14: Forehead Kiss
15: Eyelid Kiss
16: Nose Kiss
17: Cheek Kiss
18: Jawline Kiss
19: Collarbone Kiss
20: Chest Kiss
21: Stomach Kiss
22: Hipbone Kiss
23: Hand/Wrist Kiss
24: Butterfly Kiss
25: Asker’s Choice (OR pick one from 1-12 and one 13-24)
the moment they speak, the moment they look at her, her expression changes. something akin to panic appears. if douman, the one who had even made her lostbelt possible, forgot about her… her thoughts start to race but the most prevalent one is the fear of going back to being that cassandra. naive cassandra. dumb cassandra. the seer, the cursed. the one who did not manage to get a hold of her fate, who had lost everything, the dumb girl who could not protect her family. the cassandra who had been part of some entertaining little war for the gods.
no, no. ritsuka still remembers. she had made sure that the master would not forget her. would not forget all the lives they had decided were not worth living. then why, if she knew that, did that fear not go away? ( she knows why, it is because she genuinely cares for douman. because she had missed them. because they were now part of what she understood as her family. as her troy. she could not admit that losing them would personally hurt her ).
…and then they continue speaking, she has half a mind of telling them with teary eyes to just shut up. just so cassandra can go and hide but…
this cursed jester knew her ! they were just toying with her. and she had fallen right into that trap.
“…I hate you” and for less than a second she somewhat does. because they make her vulnerable and cassandra had promised herself to never be that anymore. ah but, she remembers their screams when she had sent them away. she isn’t the only one here who can become vulnerable. “cassandra of troy” she simply says before turning around, waving a hand. “not that such a name tells you anything, right? I must have mistaken you, so please excuse me. I believe I heard master is preparing for a mission and as I am newly summoned I want to see what this body of mine can survive on the battlefield”
“Mouuu, what a shame.” Ah! Cursed jester strikes once more! They take not even a moment to hoist her up into their arms, holding (revealingly) tight. The way Cassandra folds, the bit of panic, is more than enough. “I was thinking my Queen may perhaps have realized a fraction of the anguish she caused this humble servant of her’s. Perhaps even this moment, feeling forgotten, may suffice to give her a bit of insight...”
Ah, they are a horrible servant. Too bad. Cassandra picked them, as their talismans unfold out from their sleeves and whirl around them, just to make escape a bit more difficult.
“...of course, I expect my queen will be wise enough to know...” Ah. There’s the anger. The long buried rage, as their clawed hands tighten but do not harm. (Of course they wouldn’t.)
“...that there will not be a second time for Queen Cassandra of Illium, Mighty Lady of Troy, to pull such a thing off.” Ah. Their teeth still are rather sharp. Especially looking down at her, something fond and furiously terrified in their eyes.
Peperoncino was more than ready to stand up against entire Chaldea on his own if that meant reaching and saving Ophelia… but he was there also to accept and support her choices, no matter what they were. It was her future; something beautiful to be born one day. No, wrong - it was born already, now it only needed to blossom.
‘I understand. Ahhh, don’t worry, Ophelia, I don’t plan on dying ~✰!’
And then, first time ever since they have met, Ophelia managed to surprise him. Arou raised hand to his own cheeks. Oh my, was that blush? What a sly cunning little mage she was!
‘I wish I could see you right now, Ophelia.’ Pepe whispered softly. To see if her colors changed. To see if that desaturated, dull color palette changed into something a bit more lively. Oh, how curious he was! If they weren’t right now at such critical situation.
‘Oh… If you called me and not Kirschtaria… Do you want me to keep my pretty mouth shut? Not a single problem, sweetie, if that’s a case ~’
...ah, she really wanted to see him, too. “It’s not fair. I want to see you, too... especially after everything that happened in my Lostbelt...!” For as fair as life could ever be. Truth be told, she didn’t think of it like that very much, did she? Ophelia never cared whether life was fair. Honestly, though...
...it was frustrating, in a way she was learning to appreciate, to have people respect her decisions, to wait for her to make them. Her eye winces, just a tiny bit. (Right, right. She remembers. She gets it.)
“...I would prefer him not to know, if it wouldn’t endanger you.” The concern is a little unfamiliar. No, not unfamiliar, just... still hard to reciprocate. Her friend’s words are reassuring, but she still feels unsettled, right now. This room isn’t really a ‘safe’ place yet, if ever. Her knees rock against her chest. “Like I said... I don’t think... I’d be able to think for myself if I went back, yet. He- he’s not a bad... it’s just...”
‘Yet’. It’s not like she really would mind, going back, if things were different, would she? Ahh, why did things have to be complicated, or things like ‘what she wants’ have to matter? Why did this newfound... ‘will’, have to be so fragile and weak-spirited?
“I did want to tell you one thing, though. Nobody but... well, the Chaldeans, and Kirschtaria, knows. Do you know... did you, know, who my servant truly was?" Ophelia wouldn’t put it past Pepe to know, even as something in her brain/soul pushes back with idle curiosity. It’s okay. Pepe is trustworthy.
“Did you know the full extent of my contract?”
It’s... well...
...
...Surtr is still a force that can be fated to burn the world. If anyone is to know he’s still around, and is probably (she’s still not sure) why she survived, then... Ophelia would want it to be Pepe.
it’s so noisy. not in a literal sense, the thoughts scrawling in the corner of his perspective aren’t voiced aloud, but they are distracting. things to parse, words layered quick and flashing with letters jumbled together. seimei would prefer not to notice them at all, but they are unfortunately rather obtrusive.
It’s not much quieter, on Bei’s end, even if they can, ostensibly, be more quiet like this. Their head, lost to their current circumstances, are not as aware as they normally would be of the pressure of a spell pressing in on their soul and brain.
‘Well done’ sings in their veins and it makes them cum just at the words. Ahah. Master said they did good. Master. Master said it, to them, and their eyes glint with something between earnest love and horribly devious intent. They keen at the sound he makes above all. Theirs, their Master, theirs and nobody else’s.
(’master isn’t ignoring me’/’maybe this time he’ll keep me’/’if i’m with him i can’t be-’)
The thought cuts off. Bei freezes in their own skin. Their movements still. Something in the back of their mind, formerly riding along the heat without comment, rears its ugly head.
(’leave a bite’/’leave a scar’/’ruin him’/’ruin master for everyone’/’you’re tainted’/’doing this taints him too’)
Ahh... ahhh... their hands shake. They- they don’t want that. (’i don’t’/’but i wanted’/’i don’t) Bei’s eyes well up, but the tears don’t fall. Their sweat, lustful, feels now like a chill.
What... what are they doing? They... they can’t... they... they need...
(’i love you’/’master’)
(’i don’t want to hurt you’/’why did i even’/’even like this’)
(’ah’/’but the last time i said that’/’you didn’t even hear me’)
(’then’/’the sky went so red’)
They know, out of technicality, that they have been summoned out of time. A something even Alter Ego doesn’t seem to fully recognize. To them, when they first arrived, nervous and flustered, it was scarcely a few minutes ago that they had looked at the carnage their worst desires had wrought, and then-
Then... they still don’t understand why he would stop their death.
It... it has to be that. They don’t want to hurt Seimei. They don’t want to ruin him. That- that would be the last thing...!
(’and’/‘someone else’/‘someone i don’t want to be’)
(’they’)
He had yelped, had gotten hard under their touch, was flushing and whining before them, and this monstrousness is how they repay him...?
(’ahhhh’/’this is why i deserve to die’)
(’i hope you kill me after this, master’)
(But why? Why did this-)
Ah. They pull their tongue out, the heat in their body suddenly now cold. It isn’t gone, it can’t be, but- (’make up for it’/’you’re a burden’/’they should have killed you when they [ ]’) - the empty space fills with fear and static. Things they block from their own mind can’t be read if they do not even think them, and any confusion it could cause has no reference for Bei, just now beginning to grow aware of the pressure upon their mind.
Something burying itself into their desires. (Ah, how sickeningly cute, to dismiss those kinds of desires as some other’s influence entirely.) They want, and they want, but the rationality is forced, dragged from their mind kicking and screaming. They usher themselves into Seimei’s chest, letting their dick rub against his own as they force themselves to breathe.
“...I am... your Ashiya Douman.” They’re spoken like a prayer. Like love. Not the Caster of Limbo, beautiful excised loathing. Not Alter Ego, made of Gods. Not even just any low level, worthless Caster. (’not them not them not them never never never’) “Yours. Your stu- stupid... your Ashiya Douman, not... not...”
They force themselves, flushed and body burning and screaming, to raise themselves off of him, staring down at him intently, even as a third eye peels its way out past their cheekbones to take Seimei in. Their nails have long past become claws, and their hand, limp around his dick, finally starts to pump again, still shaking.
Seimei... Seimei came to fix their mess. He isn’t loathing them, he doesn’t know what’s going on (’i’m taking advantage of him’/’i’m horrible’/’i should stop’/’i don’t want to’) but he’s just... letting them do this...
He looks... like... like he...
Why is their mind...?
“you have to stop thinking so loudly, please.”
(’in here’/’not them’/’it’s not them’/‘master’/’you’re in here’)
(Why is the thought comforting, a removal of control, before something smirks and twists it?)
(’you... you were in here the...?’)
Ah. Why does it hurt when they should have known? Just- just listening, laughing, enjoying it- he’s cruel, he’s cruel and hates them and-
(’betrayal’/’disgust’/’hurt’/’fear fear fear FEAR FEAR FEAR FEAR FEAR FEAR-’)
Bei... gets to work. They drag him closer by the hips and take his dick in their mouth with one, smooth motion. Maybe the narration notes the defensiveness to their actions, even as their tongue curls around him and they suck at the head like they’ve done this before. Even the heat is less potent than-
Even the idea of Seimei beneath them is less potent than-
Someone grabbing salt, salty like cum, the strong smell of oak-
(’FEAR FEAR FEAR FEAR NEED FEAR FEAR FEAR FEAR NEED’ like someone else’s thoughts are amplifying their own)
They feel like they’re going to choke. It’s not the lack of a gag reflex as they fully take him in. The saliva covers their mouth from how hard they’re working at ruining him. Their fingers take some of it from the base of Seimei’s dick to try to lube up their fingers. They seek out his entrance and push one in, gentle even like this. If they just make it good enough- then-
Bei looks up. Their unsullied hand, still monstrous and flaked now with red and black, shakes. This is Seimei. This is Abe no Seimei. Breathe. Breathe.
Whatever... whatever he heard... he asked them to stop thinking, but he’s still here. He could have gotten rid of them... but he’s here. It’s probably... hahah, it’s... probably not even important to Seimei. It- it’ll be okay...
(It doesn’t dispel the fear and dread in their gut, or how it paints their actions. Still...)
...still, Master isn’t a normal person. Or a good person- he’s good, but not at being... a person. Master is a wonderful person, but a terrible person. They... they know they’re overthinking, they’re misreading, it’s the heat smoothing away worries so they can finally stick their fucking dick in something tight and warm, but even so, he... he trusts them.
...it’s still bitter, but their brain and body can’t take it. Their poor heart can’t take it. But he trusts them. He trusts them, despite before, to make sure he doesn’t bleed.
(’ah... master... i promise...’)
“...you won’t regret it, Master.” They have to return to their work to keep the bit of pain out of their voice. It should have been a croon, or a smooth line, not... that. Ah, they want to be angry, but they tongue at his slit, rubbing a gentle rhythm, taking in the taste. Insistent fingers start to work him open. There’s no rush. Their dick hurts, but when does it not around Seimei, honestly?
“Seimei... Master... have you cum before...? You must have... please... tell me what feels good, alright? I need you to feel good...” Their unsullied hand inches higher, still. It reaches for their teacher’s hips, initially, but then his hand, holding it carefully. They breath hot on his dick, staring up at him without breaking away.
(Maybe it’s a bit of retaliation.)
There’s a bit of the heat, even though their brain stubbornly says they would prefer if he hadn’t, so they had- ah, that’s a bit possessive... but they don’t really care. They pop off of his dick, watching the saliva connect them for a moment, looking up at him through watering eyelashes. Ah, right, they were supposed to decide when he was ready, right? Why can’t he be ready now so they can- no. Don’t hurt him. They still bat their eyelashes like nothing is wrong, and like they are not, in fact, desperately grinding into Seimei while they finger him and suck his dick.
(’master... i know i’m flexible, but you’re so needy... haha...’)
Slams her hand into the wall next to Fafnir’s head.
“Look, you keep running away when you see me, and that just feels shitty, dude. If you have a problem with me, tell me.” Maybe slamming her hand into the wall next to his head isn’t the best way to get on his good side, but. “Did I do something to you? At least give me a chance to make it up to ya. Something. Or tell me to fuck off, that’s fine, too.”
Ahhh... awahhhh... “You’re scary.” Hyuhhhhh, the scary fox person is trapping him...! He’s not a scary intimidating dragon like this! He’s but a tiny humanoid shape! A stupid soft skinned tiny defenseless ball! (Ignoring that Fafnir can, in fact, just change forms...?) The spines on his tail have clacked up and together like a porcupine, and despite his aloof looking face, his eyes are... almost sparkling? Is he tearing up??
“Y- you’re really scary... I can’t figure you out... awahhhhhhhh...” People with this strong of an identity are one thing, but this- “I can’t tell how valuable you are and it’s scary...!”
“What else can a man hope for, my friend?” Karna is equally smug. If there’s one thing he takes pride in it’s persistence. (Or perhaps being a gadfly.)
“Nothing more!” Ah, two horrible, horrible bastards finally reunite. It’s probably not a surprise they got along. “Except, of course, a good friend to menace others. Would you happen to know where I could find that?”
It’s wordlessly difficult, to throw away the person one has always hoped to be, even for a single moment of weakness. But what a horrid existence they are. Their skin crawls (hairs raise, goosebumps take over the flesh) as the door closes, and some forbidden part of them thinks, the escape is closed off, despite knowing Seimei could escape anything.
Ah. Their tongue (berry red) swipes across their lips. Delicious. Maybe- maybe that’s the better part. That he’ll kill them at the end.
(’if i die then it makes it worth it/if i can feel him dying is worth it’)
“Alright, don’t worry, you came to me so I’ll take care of it–”
Ah. He must know what this is. So he must know what saying such a thing will do. Their body moves in time with their pulse. Theirs, theirs, theirs- he’s smaller, against the wall, and their body in all its monstrousness doesn’t press too tight (despite still being pressing into him, close) and their teeth, grown in sharper with each shaking yank, pull him open with the gentle jaws of a starving carnivore.
Words are a blur. “Thank you, sorry, thank you, thank yoouuuu-” Bei speaks, pleads and begs, but their hunger acts. (’he’ll hurt me soon’/’i need to hurry’) Seimei’s eyes were so wide. (’i don’t want to scare him’/’but he reacted he reacted’/’i need to see him react’) He tastes good. He tastes so good. Their canines drag over his lips and the blood makes a sound like chirping pull out of their chest. Ah. It’s not enough. (’i’m sorry, seimei’/’you have to focus you can’t hurt him’)
(’if i say i love you’/’can i still touch you’)
Their body pushes him into the bed (when did they get there?) as they whine. They’re hard. They’re... very hard. They want him, they want him badly, but they can’t hurt him, especially as their teeth meet his neck. It’s terrifying. (’fear fear fear fear fear’) It’s euphoric. (’mate mate mate mate mate’)
“Seimeiiiiiiii. Here. Here. Sorry. Seimei-” He tastes so good, even as he futilely pushes against them, he tastes so good. There aren’t words. There could never be words for something this perfect. Their tongue drags against his neck, rough and slow. Their hand reaches for his back, holding him in a more supportive way than strictly necessary, admiring how large it is against his body. Their tongue laps at the blood, and then his hand meets their face.
Oh.
They don’t think before pushing against it, purring as their eyes darken. Their eyes meet his. For a moment, willingly touched by him, the thought leaves them. Their teeth take his finger but don’t press down. They just stare, shivering at the touch. Their eyelids flutter half closed, too heavy as they stare at him and drink in being touched. Driven just by instinct and heat-
(’love’)
-they press a nuzzle into his neck, and a pulse of mana sparks from their tongue. It hurts to not be inside, their hips burn and are heavy, but Seimei hurts more. An unorthodox ‘talisman’, but it mends the flesh, quiet mumbles lisped through their saliva and teeth. Seimei deserves better than this. (’how did i think i could ever fight you’/’i never want to see you hurt’/’even this’) Chapped lips press into Seimei’s own, gentler, even as their hips make tiny, rolling thrusts into his body and their body shakes. They want (’want want want want’) but they keep their motions shallow, even as they consume him with their eyes, trace claws carefully over the skin.
They purr louder at Seimei’s assistance with disrobing him, tracing claw and tongue over each exposed bit of skin. “G... good. Good.” They can’t help but keep eye contact wherever they can, hungry for his (returned) gaze. It’s worth more than this carnal pleasure. (’focus focus can’t stop thinking focus’/‘fuck fuck i want cum wanna be inside’/‘seimei seimei seimei’)
As soon as his layers are removed, however, they don’t hesitate to pull him by the hips, licking at his thighs. Their face is red, even as their hands carefully try to pull his legs into a comfortable position- before they snarl in irritation. They want to be inside. They want him to not hurt. They cannot hurt him but they need it. Their claws are far less careful looking around the bed for thrown aside pillows, pilling them beside Seimei, trying to ensure he’s comfortable despite not asking any questions as to how to improve that, before returning their attention to him. Their clothes, still on, are starting to fall apart, and the wet spot where their cock has rubbed against their clothing is visible. It’s... definitely not a human’s shape.
“S... Seimei...” Their tongue is even redder. Longer. They maintain that eye contact (’not prey couldn’t be hunt no hunt mate’) They nip at his thighs, intent on leaving bruises with a suckling tongue, lapping at the skin, healing anything that pierces the skin before more than a bead of blood comes out. A hand reaches for Seimei’s dick, stroking it with more gentle motions, aware of their claws. It hurts to not be inside him. It hurts but they need this. (’he needs’)
(’taste good taste good’)
(’inside taste’)
It’s easier to trust their instincts, as their tongue laps at his entrance. Something hungry overtakes them, as they hitch a whine and keep licking even as they stain their clothes. (’how many times has it been’/’need more’) They whimper and go still for a moment. (’hold back hold back hold back hold back hold back hold back hold back-’)
“Master... lube is... better than saliva. Te... tell me when...” A hint. A growl and a whine in one. (’think think hold back hold back for seimei think’/’want to knot him want to cum in him want him’) They don’t have a better alternative, though, so they continue to spread him apart, doing their best to devour him.
Even like this, pinning him down with a firm hand on his leg and another hand trying to pleasure Seimei, even blown out and needy, they won’t go any further than this without his word. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts-
(’seimei seimei i want you you you only you only you seimei master seimei seimei mate i love you seimei’)
It starts like this; you were born a twin, somewhere years ago, in a small house that is in a small village that is in an expansive mountain range that is isolated from the rest of the world.
It was expected. Your mother, who you were never told the identity of, must have been one of the [ ] haired women, because they were known to bear twins, and their mothers and fathers bore twins, and of course, this was a trait that your family preferred, because it meant more children were born.
Your family was a strict one, who gave out rights scarcely. You grew up sharing everything with your siblings, but your twin especially. In your small room, you shared a bed, and for a while, shared clothes, going out at separate times because you had not yet earned the resource cost of separate outfits.
You did, of course. You were both prodigies. Your twin was always a little behind you, in intellect. You were able to impersonate accents you’d never truly heard, a parrot, a perfect spy, and you were precise. The older heads took to your training especially.
You were born with only one thing lacking; magical circuits.
Your family were meant to blend in. They did not have a place. Your family, as a result, had specialized in particularly odd magical circuits.
Some focused on quality. Some focused on quantity.
Your family focused on size and composition. Thin, tiny, with a peculiar pattern that aligned with the natural veins of humans. They would be invisible to any but the most keen eye. Even your family’s bodily temperature was the same as a normal human’s when using magecraft.
Your siblings and cousins, nieces and nephews, often were born, as such, with many circuits of lower quality.
You were the same. You had 11 magical circuits, with a quality roughly of rank D for a typical magus. Average, for your family. Lower than what a normal magus would have, but it was fine, for chameleons who were not meant to stand out.
...your twin was not so lucky. Or, you were not so lucky. Your twin was born with 65 magical circuits. They were of decent quality, too. C++, put into a ranking. This, and their lack of intelligence, meant that they were a poor spy.
You always told them that they should be more careful. You thought they couldn’t be that stupid. But they smiled and said you were the smart one, so that was your job, and they wouldn’t mess with it. It was such a dumb thing to say that you immediately believed them. Their stupid face was so gullible. They must have believed every stupid thing told to them.
The clan heads preferred you, anyways.
...you used to get the feeling they were smarter than you, but they always acted stupid, so it was fine. They made easy mistakes. It never was something you had to worry too hard about. Their reflexes were better than yours. Their body was tougher. Their magecraft was better. Something that would kill you wouldn’t kill them, or something that would be impossible for you would be easy for them.
But they were stupid. The clan heads and elders agreed. Even your older siblings agreed. They joked that since your twin was born a few hours after you, it must have messed up their brain. You liked that idea. It made you feel special.
The first time you went on a mission, you were sent together, with your other siblings. You had the important job of you two. Your age let you sneak around better. Gathering information, acting the part. Your sibling was your servant, your aid. They just had to stay quiet and kill people. You were prepared to step in when one of the children you were mingling amongst said they were too young to fit for their part, that they must be some bastard. You knew they were too stupid to shut up, and servants aren’t supposed to talk, so you had an excuse ready.
You’d play into it, of course. Imply, subtly, they were a dumb bastard. It would leave the children eager for gossip, and your twin wouldn’t care. They were too dumb to care. They’d just smile it off.
But they did stay quiet.
...it didn’t make sense. You were caught off guard. But they just gave a polite nod and smile and didn’t say anything, and the child (child, because they weren’t as mature as you- maybe your twin would be a child if you weren’t nearly the same age as them) was bored by the lack of response and left it be.
You put it away for later.
The mission was a success. You, especially, did great. The elders took you aside privately to commend you, leaving your twin smiling in the room, too dense to realize. As a reward, you were given a great right. A journal and pen.
You never had the right to such things. Paper was for practice and pens were for practice. You knew this, too, was a test. They’d obviously read it. But you were smart. You were a prodigy, a genius. You took lemon juice and wrote your real thoughts in secret ink, and used a careful spell to read them by copper infused firelight. The other things you wrote were not suspicious at all, but not too praising, either. You left little dissatisfactions, like food not being sweet enough or wanting a specific juice, or slight jealousies you didn’t truly feel, to make you not seem too perfect.
Because you liked being on your own. You knew the second you had a room, alone, on that mission, you were going to escape. You decided you didn’t like being under control. You were a prodigy! You’d do better alone.
Meanwhile, your sibling was easily convinced by your smart words that the journal wasn’t really a privilege, it was just work. They smiled and nodded along and never asked about it.
Bitterly, you thought it was embarrassing they were your twin.
It was good the clan was noticing their talents were distinctly separate from your own. You were still useful together, of course- being all but identical in the important, immutable details meant you could pull off things others couldn’t even in disguises- but you were more and more often sent on different missions. You started asking for journals, and writing that you enjoyed writing, that you had some trivial memory issue and wanted to document your days so you wouldn’t forget. It was a brilliant choice, as you would think to yourself and write in your lemon juice ink.
First, it would make your desire to write not seem as if it was a wish for thoughts and a place to plan. Second, it made it a good thing to encourage, because a spy that documented thoroughly was a good one, as long as they weren’t caught. You, a prodigy, would never be caught, so it was a win-win for everyone.
Even better, your twin’s exercises were leaving them tired. They fell asleep early and you had all the time in the world to write, as they curled up on their (now separate) bed in a pathetic fetal position that made them look half their age.
Time went by. Years, years that you counted in secret. You were even more determined with each passing mission. The older you grew, the further in advance and more thoughts you were allowed on your missions. Your intellect meant that you could even plan on your own, while still going through a supervisor, when most your age would be handed ready made documents.
Finally, your chance came.
A long term mission, you and your twin, making use of your appearances, you’d pretend to be one person, utilizing this to make connections quickly and abuse the trust of others.
You knew this family, a Clock Tower bunch, were the sort to, bluntly, kidnap someone. Use them as breeding stock. But they were too smart to throw away a prodigy at their doorsteps. You had a perfect out. Build an alliance, escape your clan, frame it as a useless endeavor to get you back; you'd be useless at the time of any rescue.
It was a perfect plan.
There was only one, slight, potential hiccup.
(Just a tiny fact. No more significant than the weather. A fact to be planned around.)
Your twin had to die. It would be fine, though. Disfigure their body and let it be found. They'll draw their own conclusions.
(Every other point was easier, but if this was the cost of freedom, so be it.)
They smiled like a fool travelling with you. Ooh-d and ahh-d over something trivial as an airport. Distantly, you thought they'd die smiling. Maybe you'd try it in their honor, after this. They didn't have much, but their sacrifice wouldn't be in vain.
(Your clan had an artificial mystic eye waiting for you after this mission. There was no way you'd escape if they gave it to you. (An equalizer, so your instincts matched your twin's, to make you more valuable.) You had to pull it off.)
It'd be greater than anything they could ever do. The days ticked down.
(Their one weakness was always one element they could never counter. You had it planned out to the exact flinch. You were a genius, after all.)
Three.
(They always hated fire.)
Two.
(They smiled up at the sky, at peace in their ignorance, and you thought it was a fitting way for them to go.)
One.
The spell roared to life. You had them stuck, even if they survived, taken blindly off guard they would be too injured to - - - -
- - -
"...I thought so."
You turned around. Your leg was a useless limb, filled with stone, now, but that was fine. You stared at the wide, shocked eyes of your twin.
(It's funny. The memory is such a blur, you forget how it happened. But you remember how the dirt stung in your eyes and how they smelled like mint. It's such a silly detail. Your beloved twin always wanted to be presentable.)
(Even performing fratricide with a cold logic.)
"How? How could-"
You smiled.
(You truly never stopped smiling. It was how you lived and breathed.)
(You even smiled reading their notebook by that copper flame they loved so much.)
They tried to activate their circuits, but a chunk of iron lodged its way into their head, making them scream, and you held their blood still by the water and iron it was made of.
(Foolish sibling. Idiot. They weren't wrong. You could never be as ambitious as them. They called you dumb and you smiled.)
"Ho-"
Their hands shot out. The nails were so blue. It was funny.
But you didn't wait.
You never hesitated.
(That part sticks out to you. It wasn't just instinct or impulse. There was no excuse and you never pretended otherwise. It was a choice. It was purposeful.)
You smiled as their head left their body.
It looked so… angry. It was funny.
Your hands picked it up.
You held it with a smile
"I'm sorry. It seems one of us will die here."
They were dead, but you said it anyway. That face didn't change. They were so angry. It reminded you of the way they pouted when they didn't get sweet fruit. It was so funny.
It was all so funny.
You smiled cauterizing the wound. You smiled as your maimed body accepted another forever loss. You smiled as you returned home, their head beginning to rot in your carry on bag. You smiled the whole time. You smiled as you were given the eye that was meant to be their own.
Your greatest strength, in your opinion, was that since you were little, you needed nothing else.
What a funny twin you had.
You would respect their memory by locking it away. You didn't need to actively consider it. You did this to all things that could make you hesitate.
(But you kept their journals until you memorized them and then you burnt their words to ash, and immortalized their brilliantly short-sighted mind to secrecy.)
You, the unnamed executioner, didn't need a twin to smile.
You didn't need anyone or anything. You didn't need escape. You didn't need freedom. You didn't want any of it.
If you could smile, as you always would, it'd be enough.
It’s rare that he’s ever speechless except out of choice. Sometimes things were better left unsaid. Sometimes things were preferred left unsaid. But this… he’s not sure what he expected her to answer with, but he couldn’t have imagined this. Perhaps rather he refused to consider it. Maybe he wanted her to admit to some ulterior motive even if they both knew she was lying. That damn woman lays before him, bloodied and just barely pulled from death.
She knows he can kill her. Knows he could have in the past. She’s vulnerable both for her state and for the honesty she chooses to show him. And she smiles. She trusts him. Not because she thinks she can control him, but because she has come to know him.
He hadn’t considered it and for a moment it terrifies him.
Something pulls at the back of his mind as it often does. Something defensive. Something self destructive. A well-ingrained instinct to push or pull away when something (someone) got too close. He could prove her wrong in her trust for no other reason than that. She says he could ask for anything and she’s right. He’s practically handed her his life. His existence. All things must be met in kind. All exchanges must be equal and thus he could ask for anything.
Anything.
Anything.
And he knows she would smile giving it to him even if it were her own life.
“Good gods, the blood loss really is making you delirious.” Finally he finds his voice, sharp and critical despite his expression moments earlier. A sense of control to sever that thought as quickly as possible. He knows what he wants and perhaps that’s more shameful than wanting her dead. Maybe he would think it’s a fate worse than that. And suddenly a decision made to selflessly save her life feels selfish.
“Anything, huh? Then try not to whine too much. You look awful, you know.” And he’s quick to busy himself in tasks rather than thoughts. He finds a section of rock that’s dipped inwards to use as a makeshift bowl; a sigil carved into the air that causes it to fill with water. A strip of fabric is torn from his robes and after wetting it he begins the slow process of cleaning her wounds. A gesture that now feels a bit too intimate with the sensation of feeling the mana flowing between them.
“Maybe if you wore something a bit more practical we wouldn’t have this problem. ‘Mystic Codes’. It’s just a fancy way of saying you wanted an excuse to wear a cashmere sweater instead of armor-” It was a meaningless argument meant to do nothing more than fill silence. Make things less awkward as he worked. Hands that were steadier and more gentle than one might expect pause as they trace the edges of what he worries will turn into a scar.
Something sinks in the pit of his gut.
He now reaches for the satchel at her side, taking it as he turns away without a word. Sophia always carried a few different ingredients with her and for that he was thankful. Everything he needed wasn’t exactly here but he could make do. There was a recipe for a salve he remembered that old bastard had him make before and he’s quick to do so now. This needed to be crushed… That needed to be diluted with water… He was missing another thing but he could substitute the effect with a spell more than likely…
Stupid woman.
If he could ask for anything, he already knew what it was. To walk beside her. Thankful that he has. Thankful that he could continue to do so. But for someone like him who seemed to invite misfortune anytime he grew close…
…What a terrible fate to doom her with.
Hah. Part of her, vindictive (internal, not to push him too far by laughing in his face,) laughs at the face he makes. Suck on that, bastard. Now you’re stuck with this shitty Master for life. Not even a Chaldea contract. Direct, straight to the bone marrow, to the horrible runes and maladjusted veins. Sucks to be you.
(Bloodied still and ever watchful, her reason may be fuzzed at the edges, but it only makes her words truer, not scrambled and false.)
So her grin is a bit sharp in its softness, something far too aware of consequences. She keeps his gaze. Sophia doesn’t act without thinking (well, she does, as proven by the wound she now possesses) and this is only one example. (It’s not cleaning up impulsive, gushy, emotional bullshit with pragmatic, cold thought. Nope. Not at all.)
“Oh, I’m delirious? Says the one who would have died back there, mister slip in the mud. At least your dogs are smart. They’re good girls. They liiiike me.” It’s teasing that nearly hits too close to the quick, even as her good side’s arm fluffs out dirt clogged, wet hair that makes her look like a mud soaked pomeranian. Her foot tries to kick him, but Keeva laying on it makes that not successful. Traitors.
Sophia understands the give and take, though. (In a way, her give is now his take, and she can give some more to allow it.) “You think this is comfy?!” Fine! One weird, Chaldea issue t-shirt belt strap thing is thrown his way, a wet slapping sound as it falls short of him despite the lack of any real distance. “I’m not the one whose outfit looks like a shitty Halloween costume store slutty druid outfit. At least go to the shitty Samhain costume store! Maybe when you burn it it’ll insult you in your fortune!”
Geez, that just proves she knows about his holidays, doesn’t it? The sulking is lighthearted, even as he comes close. Her head nearly tilts over at the warm touch to her feverish body, runes working overtime to try to return equilibrium and keep their host and vessel alive. The back of her neck feels like a fire, and her heart beats so fast... weird, that her cheeks are heady and hot too, despite a lack of runes there. Weird. Must be nearly dying.
The rummaging through her satchel catches a distant part of her attention. Oh. The ingredients used- her eyes light up.
“Oh, you’re making that...! I asked Fergus if he knew any old...” Sophia’s hand fishes into her shirt collar, ripping the fabric apart with a shaky hand. There, sewn into it, is a chip of juniper wood. A small piece, but- “Having a bit should help, even if it’s not enough, it’ll smooth over having to replace the rest of the ingredient. I have more of the rest if you help me undo the cuffs of these pants, I sewed them in just in case...”
Ignoring that she kept all the ingredients for a celtic healing remedy in her clothing. (Ignoring that a few dried apple blossoms are kept in a pouch literally over her heart. It’s purely practical to keep potion ingredients close to the chest, especially ones a trusted ally could use best.)
hello! this is a brand new roleplay blog for a ritsukaface master oc by the name of leo watanabe. he’s a whole bag of fun (aka huge disaster). please consider giving this post a like / reblog if you would be interested in following!
It’s summer! And as everyone in Chaldea knows, summer is for taking it easy and summer is for parties!
Lately, there’s been a feeling in the air… an excitement, like something great is about to happen, but there haven’t been any notices. Some more supernaturally attuned individuals might feel like they’re being tugged somewhere – not maliciously, simply in invitation, in a charitable and happy youkai inviting them to a party.
After all, what’s a festival without participants! What’s a party without friends to make! A carnival without those to play the games!
Eventually, it becomes concrete, a paper invitation and a certainty in everyone’s minds, somehow:
The Great Festival and the youkai parade is about to begin, and everyone’s invited for a few nights of fun and worry-free revelry! Even Sion and da Vinci confirm there’s no threat to humanity when the Rayshift to get there appears – it really is just a grand party, thrown by the spirits, and Chaldea is all invited, simply for fun.
Come one, come all, to the Demon Parade Festival!
[[ FATE RPC EVENT hosted by originlist, brilliantpride, and caimkairos! Open to all, watch this space for updates and check blog for information! It takes place over July 18th-31st! ]]
“I called this because I am a professional. Congrats on being the coolest class, Sophia.”
“A KNIFE ISN’T A SWOOOOOOORD-”
“...I feel like it’s hypocritical that I’m mildly offended, yet here we are. I would have bet Assassin.” ...she’s just offended that she didn’t get to bet.
“Toldja she’d be a Berserker. What d’you have to say about them not being the coolest class now, huh? Pony up a solid mil QP, kiddo.” They’re kidding about the last part. / @caimkairos cassie
Something has broken. It’s a loud noise. The world is a blur in her head. It’s all so loud. It’s all so quiet.
Something has broken. It’s a loud noise. Someone is crying. There’s a lukewarm sugar in her brain.
Something has broken. The world is splintered around her.
Something has broken. Someone is crying.
“My child… my child…”
A dog is barking.
“My wife… she doesn’t remember…”
All the evil things in the world speak.
Her fingers ache.
A child born without an arm wails. Someone too depressed to go to work wails. The prostitute wails. The soldier on the wrong side wails. Their screaming is deafeningly quiet. The surrender is deafening.
Ah. Is that the point?
All these people. These beings. Lost in an empty space. It almost tastes like milk.
Oh. That’s what happened.
. . .
She fell.
There’s a scream. Captain Nemo and Kleinici don’t have enough time to respond. The Master is the most clear threat to the one who seeks to keep his position as the final god of this world.
A single lunge. A single swipe.
Sophia Vogel-Westenra stood on the Shadow Border.
Sophia Vogel-Westenra fell off of the Shadow Border.
Sophia Vogel-Westenra reached out her hand.
Sophia Vogel-Westenra locked eyes with her murderer.
Sophia Vogel-Westenra and Arjuna’s gaze met.
Sophia Vogel-Westenra reached out her hand.
. . .
Sophia Vogel-Westenra plunged into the milk sea.
Everything was colorless. The people wailing were uncountable. Screeching with grief and rage and their nonexistent emotions. This empty white space was where everything deemed not right for the world was placed.
Perhaps it was fitting that she fell here.
...Cassie would be okay…
...so maybe…
She could just…
...close her eyes for a moment…
…
. . .
…...
. . . . .
.........
. . . . . . .
...no.
...this sea isn’t screaming.
It’s singing.
The wails become a harmony. Something understandable. The lost flowers, the scattered arms of eaten gods. Every lost life exists here.
...no. It wasn’t lost.
It was put here.
It was-
[ S a c r i f i c e d ]
-so that a perfect world may exist. It was
[ S a c r i f i c e d ]
-for one person’s own ambitions. It was
[ S a c r i f i c e d ]
-and occupies this space because of it.
This very, accessible place. This sea of sacrifice, of suffering, where she now was placed.
It made her angry.
Who was he to choose? Who was that blue eyed god to choose? (Eyes were more grey, but they’re cold as ice.) Why does this blood that drips from her mouth feel so cold? (The ice killed her. It has taken root in her.) All this screaming has become a beautifully frigid noise, sliced through violin strings, a broken piano. (The funeral song of rage and grief plays as the Master of Chaldea dies not from a dramatic action but because her suit failed and she froze to death, a death devoid of purpose or meaning, just an empty, sad accident.)
Who was he to choose? Who were they to choose?
Ah. The death of her parents, too, was a
[ S a c r i f i c e ]
It’s all so obvious. (Something still obscured has become a weapon of unknowing origin and violent intent.)
All of this, all of this here, from the first god who reached a hand to a lost son, to the most very recent victims of the cycle, and everyone and everything in between, can all fall under the label of
[ S a c r i f i c e ]
And that… was something she could reach out to.
Sophia nearly laughed.
She could grab-
[ S a c r i f i c e ]
-and use it like she was used.
No human could survive this.
But it was fine.
She wasn’t h u m a n -
. . . .
The world outside continued for the seconds that passed. There was not enough time to respond with anything of value.
But those seconds resulted in something odd.
It was a cough.
A wet, choking cough.
From the final god, Arjuna.
Then, something rips. His stomach splits open, like cut from within.
It’s a beautifully horrific knife. A pale, nearly blue blade. A hilt like rusty red blood. It was sharp. Horribly, horribly sharp. The hilt itself even has rough edges, like ripped paper, like a swan song in a solid form.
Something crawls from the milk.
Da Vinci gasps, tears in her eyes. Captain Nemo seems more confused. Within the Shadow Border, Sherlock Holmes steeples his hands.
Sophia Vogel-Westenra grabs her knife.
Madness fills her mind.
She breathes, inhuman.
The ice fills her lungs and she draws power from it.
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