SmarticleParticle

It only lasted for a moment, but the heat and the sense of lost-ness was enough to make you want to wriggle out of Ivan’s grip and plummet to your death by whatever was beneath you. Fortunately, the sensation disappeared before you could give the plan any more thought. You opened your eyes a crack—when had you closed them?—and immediately, your hand shot to your mouth in terror. You glanced up at Ivan, only to find him staring down at you with amusement in his eyes. It was then that you realised how, in your panic, you had flung an arm around his neck and were clinging on to him as if your life depended on it. Which it did

You could feel the demon looming over you, surrounding you with its membranous wings, needle-like teeth bared and inches from your throat, claws poised to rip through your chest in a desperate search for the soul you didn’t have. You waited. Nothing happened. There was a throaty chuckle from behind you, and the demon leaned down until his lips really were a breath away from your ear. Goosebumps sprang up along your arms, despite the pit’s musty warmth. “Look at me,” Ivan ordered suddenly. You steeled yourself. No matter how hideous this creature was, you decided, you would not show your fear. You would not scream,

It was laughable, in a way. The Cult of Adaciel had been at almost-war with the Order of Exorcists for centuries, perhaps even millennia, yet neither side seemed to know the inner workings of the other. Except in this context it wasn’t laughable at all, because you sat in the back of a rickety wagon with your ankles and wrists bound, gagged, and with an itchy sack on your head. “To stop you trying any magic,” one of the Cultists had explained smugly. They needn’t have bothered—the Soulless didn’t have the strength to access the white magic the exorcists used. White magic was useless for anything but exorc

You had never been given a soul. This was why you were knelt on the filth-caked tiles, working until your fingers bled. Your hands stung in the searing, cloudy water as you scrubbed the dirt from some Exorcist’s white robes. They were probably Daniel’s, given how they stank. You sighed, wringing the robe out and passing it to Morgan. He was only four, but since he was one of a set of triplets, he and his brother Stefan had been denied the privilege of a soul. Kazimira had made it quite clear that they were lucky to be alive at all. You watched as Morgan ran out to hang the robe on the line outside, before you dragged the basin

“I love you, Marco.” Silence. Jean sighed. It hurt. He had fought too many battles for too long and everything ached. His ribs bore purple bruises where the straps of his 3DM gear dug into his flesh. How the hell did Hanji and Erwin and that shortarse Levi manage like that for so many years? The wind toyed with his hair, playfully flicking it the way he so desperately wanted Marco to. It was a cool breeze—one that had come from outside. “I brought you flowers,” he ventured. “Foxgloves—you told me they were your favourites, because when the wind blows them they look like little church bells. I rem

Hey guys! I'm still alive! I'm sorry if I got anyone's hopes up because this is just an author note, but I've tried to say this in my journals before and I don't think anyone reads them. :( I recently went back on dA for the first time in ages and holy shit. Do you know how many hits the first chapter of this fic has? Nearly foUR THOUSAND WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE. Anyway, I can't leave this fic unfinished with that kind of audience. The thing is, over the year since I started that fic, I've had a lot of issues irl and writing was quite difficult for me. BUT! Things are getting better now. I should be starting therapy soon and I finished school

You stood on the edge of a golden field. Ears of corn swayed in the evening breeze, your skirt swished and your hair flew in front of your face. Wispy white clouds lined the pink sky, and birds serenaded each other in the distance. In the centre of the field was a woman. Her back was turned, but you could see that she wore a long white dress and seemed to float above the ground, on a cloud of her own. Her long hair was gracefully gathered on top of her head and held together with a delicate silver band. Had she not been standing in a field, she could have been a royal. You took a tentative step towards the woman in white. Dry grass snapped

You shuddered as you slipped into the basin of hot water Ivan had provided for you to wash in. The living room felt huge and empty with only you in there, since Ivan had at least had the decency to retreat to the bedroom while you washed.     As you leaned back in the metal basin to wash your hair, it struck you how peaceful it was. No brothers running around, chattering aimlessly and playfighting. You recalled the ordeal of trying to get them to take a bath; it wasn’t something you wished to repeat anytime soon. Still, you missed home. A lot. Even though Ivan didn’t seem like a terrible person and apparently wasn’t going

You and Ivan were both standing on an island of rock in a sea of magma. Through the heat-haze, you could make out a few holes in the rocky wall of the chamber, which was about fifty metres away. Behind you, the swirling black portal gaped like a grotesque mouth. Ivan clicked his fingers, and an arch of rock sprung up in front of you. He grasped your hand, and you realised that his wings were slightly curved around you. It was, you guessed, so you wouldn’t have to look at the molten rock that churned beneath you. “Go on,” he said, pushing you forward gently. You forced your feet to move, looking everywhere but down. Instea

By day, Ivan Braginsky was the epitome of strength. His sinister violet aura, tinted with just the right amount of insanity, was enough to make those beneath him cower in fear. Of course, this made it almost impossible to make friends, but who needed friends when the world was at your feet? This was the way Ivan portrayed himself whenever he was around the rest of the Allied Forces. However, those closest to him—-he did not have friends, but he did have subordinates—-were able to see through his façade as easily as looking through a window. They never let on, of course—-it wasn't worth getting beaten up over-—but everything was written clear