Fx F or NB Briar's Dark & Romantic Roleplay Desires

Blood Briar · May 2, 2025

· · ~ ･ ABOUT ･~ · · . · : · THE META · : · . · · ~ ･ CHARACTER & WRITING ･~ · · . · : · KINKS · : · .

Hiya! I'm Briar (they/her, 30s, queer, top-leaning switch, peanut-butter lover). I started roleplaying in my tweens, have been active in TTRPGs most of my life, and have a voracious appetite for writing. RPs - collaborative storytelling - bring an especially bright, conversational energy to writing that I crave.

My priorities in roleplaying are:
- relationship dynamics
- vivid emotional experiences & arcs
- compelling stories and
- romance
Smut that comes out of those is lowkey euphoric, while smut without those is completely uninteresting to me.

I range from the adorably fluffy and wholesome to the exquisitely dark and toxic, and generally prefer a mix of them. I'm here for writing that moves me when I write it and reread it, so I aim for a complex and engaging emotional journey - but there are many ways to do that! Tragedy is optional, grimdark is never necessary, and I actually want the vast majority of my stories to have a happy ending of some sort. When the darlings suffer, they deserve some sweetness for the trouble.

When figuring out new stories with someone, I lean toward moderate amounts of character and relationship planning, with some eye toward plot arcs and setting. I can make do with less, and definitely appreciate more. All of that said, I want to be surprised by my writing partners, and I love the improvisation that comes out of collaborative storytelling.
My Posts usually run ~200~900 words, though I go much longer as warranted.

I post from Weekly to a lot in a day. I never need an RP partner to post as often or as fast as I do; I trust you to engage when you can and want to.

I will also never poke you about posting unless you explicitly ask me to do so for our RP. No pressure on partners is how I do and I expect the same in return.

I don't care about Tenses or POV, just make it legible & coherent.
Don't worry about my Timezone, my ~~sleep~~ everything schedule is bananas.

Forums, Discord and PMs work for me, in that order of preference.

I want ongoing Communication; I thrive on collaboration, and like to know what my writing partners are thinking. Chatty is more my side of that spectrum, but I've done just fine with barely any, so aim for the balance you prefer.

Relatedly, if I write something you dislike/feel doesn't fit the story, please reach out, as I am always down to edit and rewrite. Collaboration is teamwork, and I'm here to be a team player.

I am decidedly Ghost-Unfriendly, since hearing nothing is a lot more saddening than you just telling me you're no longer interested. Closure, y'know? I will tell you if I want to end an RP. That said, I will never message you asking about posting (see above re: not poking for messages) or demand an explanation if you want to stop an RP. I'll take the hint whether you say it out loud or not, and leave it at that.
I mostly write original content, and when I do step into a fandom, I do it with OCs. The lack of precedent means anything can be on the table, and the vibes are custom-built to suit the story and writers. Nevertheless, some settings appeal to me rather strongly. Fallen London, for example.

Characters should have flaws, conflicting wants and needs, driving motivations and some history. I don't need (or ever write) a 12-page backstory from you, you don't need to deploy tragic backstories, and the push and pull in a character doesn't ever have to come from dangerous stakes; there are many ways to achieve this sort of character design, regardless of genre and fluff-level.

Mostly, I want to write and read characters that naturally drive story and have behaviors that feel organic to their design. I've often found that, once I really grasp a character, it's fairly intuitive for them to lead themselves through a scene just by acting and reacting out of their personality and history. It's a joy to watch it, every time.

I'm exclusively into sapphic/yuri & nonbinary match-ups, which is an inclusive yes for intersex, trans, agender, futa and similar characters. Species-wise, I'm open to nearly anything, including inventing new ones. For the range of physical characteristics involved, as long as it doesn't get into rather unrealistic body proportions, I lowkey don't care about heights, eye/hair color, cup sizes, dick lengths, and so on. I'm much more about the vibes and the dynamic.

With character art, I prefer drawn and anime style. I'm not especially judgy about AI art, but it is typically worse. Photos of real people are my least favorite; I'm not here to yuck your yum, though.

For almost all of my story ideas, I'm up for playing either character, and yes, I very much want to expand on them with you - they're starting points. You're also welcome to dig into the second set of story prompts below, I just keep the ones I haven't gotten to touch yet up top.
For kink and power exchange, I want it to work with the concept & characters. I can write/roleplay within a sizable range (and have a lot of experience to draw from IRL), so I'm fairly compatible with most D/s dynamics and kinks. That said, since I'm not smut-centric, I write for kinks and dynamics rather than fetishes. That doesn't mean I won't cater to most fetishes - just as long as it's a compatible element and not the central focus of everything.

Some of my favorite kinks:
Blood Play

Affection, cuddling, hand holding, kissing and nuzzling
Teeth & Nails & Fingers, feral as can be
Breath Play
Scars, Marks and Bruises
Knife/weapon Play

Banter and Flirting
Emotional/Physical Sadism & Masochism

And some limits:
NonCon in the RP or Concept, unless I explicitly include it in a story prompt
DubCon isn't a hard limit, but I'm picky about the context
Hyper/micro, Giant/tiny
Scat, Feeder, Inflation, Beast

As long as you've read the above and think we'd be compatible writing partners,
I am very receptive to hearing your ideas and being pitched stories.
Life is short, shoot your shot.

s t o r i e s

What You Understand
Corruption, Psychopathy, Cult Leader

Setting: Modern or Sci-Fi
Dynamic: Switch or D/s

Catching the Leader is supposed to be the end. Put them on trial, do a little dance, lock them away or put them to the chair. Cult followers might persist for some time, but without the core to hold it all together, it all falls apart.

That wasn't what happened. Terrorist activities of the cult continued their spiral into the fabric of the status quo. Worse, the cult Leader was declared insane, and committed to a psychiatric facility instead of a normal prison or the much preferred execution. Not a single shred of evidence could be produced that they had planned or taken part in any of the organized chaos the cult was perpetrating. At least they took the precaution of isolating them, lest they influence the rest of the facility's residents.

Of course the facility staff tried to question and 'treat' the cult Leader. All they got back was silence. It was clear enough that they were cognizant and could acknowledge what was said to them; they just refused to engage. With no end in sight for the cult, and no traction on the Leader, there was desperation for a solution. Then, while returning from one of their fruitless sessions, the Leader saw Interviewer. Once they were back in their cell, they offered to speak with Interviewer. A breakthrough, finally. There were stipulations from the Leader, and after some negotiation, the first session was set.

Focused as they were on answers and prestige, none of the right people considered the possibility about to unfurl: Interviewer was going to be the next soul drawn into the cult by the Leader.

The Bite That Binds
Courtship Dance, Supernatural Predator, Edge Play

Setting: Modern Supernatural, Alt History Supernatural or Fantasy
Dynamic: D/s with soft-power bottom
Iterations: It wouldn't take much tweaking to make this fit another monster that can hide in plain sight, e.g. vampire

Red performs the role of escort especially well, playing off of partners' interests and personality to best draw out their monetary appreciation and inflame their insistence for her. Her greatest desires, however, lie rooted in kink; her heart holds dark appetites for suffering, received and inflicted, physical and emotional. To play up her exclusivity and keep work and fun separate, she restricts kink and fucking to paying clients only. The only exception she gives herself is indulging in kink at events where enough eyes keep her self-control in check.

It's not an easy life balancing so much hunger, but she manages.

Wolf is generally well-respected in society, because that serves as the best cover. Trying to exist openly as a lycanthrope is a death sentence, after all. They have little trouble playing out hunts in the streets or the countryside because they're careful about location and target. An outsider looking in might think they have it all, but their existence is highly solitary and they are tired of being lonely. They want a partner in all of it to share everything with.

Despite how easily they eat humans when the craving strikes, the thought of carelessly cursing another to live their kind of life makes them hesitate. Sure, there are all the concerns of compatibility for both romance and the lifestyle; they could not have regrets or seek to expose them in turn. But it's more fundamental than that. Their partner ought to be perfect for this life, and for them.

As a primal predator type with minimal innate sadism or masochism, Wolf finds plenty of satiation in their hunts and the occasional rough seduction. They accept an invitation on a lark to a particularly kinky party, though, and that's when they meet Red. Something about how she gasps and smiles when her blood is let calls to Wolf - this just might be who they're craving. It isn't easy to get close to Red, though, and Wolf needs to know who she is when she's not putting on a performance for a client or audience.

Red's used to rejecting courtship advances out of hand from clients. She doesn't want them trying to get any closer outside of her work. Receiving one from someone she's never seen, though, that's something different. And Wolf's mysterious charm and predatory glint invites more desire in her than she can rightly deny.

Relevant.

The Only Reflection That Matters
Allies to Lovers, Wholesome Romance, Blood Magic

Setting: Fantasy, Magepunk or Urban Fantasy
Dynamic: Switch or None

Bloodless didn't asked to be cursed with blood magic. The universally condemned sphere of magic featured prominently in the worst myths, and a foundational tale of catastrophe for a precursor realm. Yet, when tested, she registered an overwhelming aptitude for the sphere and little to none in any other. Such a thing was so unheard of that superstitions had long faded away to legend, which was the only reason why she got to keep her life.

Of course, her family buried it. They would not suffer a terminal blow to their power and prestige from this damned fate. Bloodless was marked then as a black spot on the family, banned from learning anything more of magic, and raised to be nothing more than a pawn to marry off. The love she previously enjoyed from her parents withered, suspicion remained high of anything that might link her to practicing blood magic, and her future as a part of the family obliterated.

Bloodless did her best to endure it all, to put on a brave face and make do with the lot doled out to her. In front of her family and others, she dutifully practiced and trained to be an upper class wife and matron. It was only before her mirror she could give voice to the sea of misery in her heart and drain pitifully little of the what was steadily drowning her.

A chance encounter with a traveling merchant under no supervision led to her acquiring a book - an ancient book, unweathered by time. Something in it felt familiar, even though she could not understand it. Buying it and hiding it away, she began a slow study and attempt at translation. Sticking with section titles first, she roughly deciphered the name of a ritual - something about 'becoming the Ideal Self'.

It sounded like a dream come true. Bloodless sunk night after night into trying to make sense of the words and diagrams, and while it was still quite incomplete, she figured she had enough of it to give it a go. She was desperate for something - anything - to give her a life not laced in misery. Putting her blood to the mirror, she began, and what emerged was her own Reflection, given shape and form. It was better, though; stronger in many of the ways she wished to be. It was something that could live the life she wished she was living.

Were Bloodless like any who had cast this ritual before, a battle to the death would have ensued, the victor left to devour the fallen and grow in power from murdering their reflection. But Bloodless was a loving soul, bereft of such ambitions, and the half of her soul split off to create Reflection made it no different. Instead of simply replacing her, it suggested they work together to remake her future. That their shared future would entangle and fork into a new direction entirely, neither could have expected.

c h a r a c t e r s

Ellie/Ell
Feral Menace, Manipulator, Uppers-Chasing Depressive

Setting: Cyberpunk, Sci-Fi or Modern
Dynamic: Switch or Domme/Power Bottom
One-sidedly/Mutually Toxic Relationships

Incorrigible, audacious, criminal and chaotic, Ellie gleefully carves paths through life regardless of the walls (real and imaginary) erected to keep this away from that. Growing up with parents who considered her an exploitable nuisance at best and a society who saw her as noxious trash, she learned early on not to expect anything positive from anyone. Everything sweet will likely be gone before you wake, gone of its own volition or taken by another.

The game of life has thus been snatching up every joy you can, while you can, and giving the finger to those who'd rather see you suffer in misery. Despite her chaotic lifestyle, lining up dominoes and knocking them down is where Ellie excels most, and she's too good at pulling off cons and heists to quit it.

Unfortunately, a sea of drugs and thrills doesn't kill the deathwish inside; even ruthless teasing and salacious control of others has been losing its charm. Ellie spends more nights than not wishing she won't see the next morning. Calculated recklessness and extralegal pursuits keep her tense and afraid of retribution much of the time, and in the moments when she can actually relax (see: drugs), the fatigue of it all sweeps in once the high retreats. No respite lasts long enough to matter, and she knows it's only a matter of time before she just can't anymore.

She'd never admit it, because it's easier to believe it's a malicious lie of a concept, but the only high she hasn't tried? Love. Who'd actually be fool enough to fall in love with a wild manipulator, though, let alone stick it out through all her bullshit to make her believe it?

Blood Briar · May 2, 2025

Instruments sung cheerful tunes of civilized revelry, backlighting the laughter of adults still in the grip of their early years. The sprightly draws of hair on string paired with the swish of silk as ladies and gentleman stepped past and around each other. Bound in the steps of this cotillion dance, Liliya's lips held a perfectly polite smile while her eyes reflected a dead sort of apathy; if the man dancing with her had been a corpse, she would have been vastly more interested in what she was doing. Alas, he drew breath and blood nourished his body, giving him the ability to think and, worse, speak. Liliya endured a great many things on account of her father, but when it came to entertaining suitors, it was ever their inane chatter which grated upon her most. This one was droning on about something related to popular destinations in the Eastmost provinces, the details of which remained opaque to her indifference.

Over the past four years - yes, he'd had the gall to start before she was even eighteen - the eldest daughter of the Horkrith family had plenty of time to cultivate a rhythm of non-answers and polite recognition that freed up her mind to think of anything else. Even considering the menu of her next meal was more interesting to her, and the chore of eating ranked near dead last of all the possible enjoyments a living body could experience. For near a year she'd made a little game of seeing just how long it took for a suitor to realize she didn't care for them in the slightest, the results of which were frankly shocking at times. These days she just wanted it over with, and fixed her mind to matters that actually sparked excitement. Spirit-calling rituals were her latest obsession. Souls were slippery things, and despite the threads of history that connected the dead to the corpses they once inhabited, they near universally resisted the pull from tugging those threads. It seemed that the dead were normally quite content with their lot and had no interest in associating with what preceded that transition.

Not that Liliya could blame them. Tedium was an accepted fact of life, no matter how much power, magical and otherwise, one had at their disposal. Even the wealthiest of men still had to use a toilet, wash away their stink, get in and out of clothes, and really it was all such a bore. If she'd lacked the ability to retreat into her thoughts and had been an only child, she might well have already taken measures to shuck off the mortal coil. But neither of those being true, she stuck it out and conducted the labor of bearing the misfortune of being an eldest daughter. To do otherwise would court even more of her father's paternal wrath. Or, worse, expose her sister to the same fate.

Lacking gloves in her ensemble, Liliya could feel every drop of sweat in the man's hand as they touched palms to turn or held one another's for their cross-steps. Externally, her disgust was almost entirely muted, a slight curl at the edge of her smile the only indication that she'd rather stick the offending limb into the owner's mouth than entwine fingers with it one more time - and that was including the social consequences of such an act in the calculation. Internally, it was laid into its respective drawer in the Cabinet of Misfortunes that had grown larger every year since their mother had passed. The size of this drawer was nothing compared to the one that dominated it, aptly labeled by a profile cameo of her father.

Given her options, endurance of such lesser things was vastly preferable.

Mercifully, this song and dance at last concluded, and she could vacate the floor to offer space for another couple in the next round. The moment she left the vicinity, she removed her hand from the suitor's, deftly drawing a handkerchief from her black-laced crimson dress with the other to press it between the two as they folded together. "That was right splendid. You really bring grace to your steps, miss." Having returned attention to her body, she'd given him an opportunity to actually say something and be heard by her conscious mind. Unfortunately for him, sympathy was not a well-developed pillar in her emotional repertoire, and even though he was acting the part of a gentleman, nothing would move her to offer him the sort of attention and satisfaction he must have craved. Honestly, it would have been quite the feat to summon pity for any of them: she had a pattern for never lasting longer than three or four courtship dates before shutting down any given suitor. They had to have known the odds of success, no? Surely this must be apparent in some social gossip about her, Liliya reasoned. And if that wasn't the case, well, she couldn't find it in her to care.

"Oh, all credit must go to my instructor. Her unceasing persistence made virtues of my flaws." Another compliment deflected, another bid for connection shut down. She wished it could be even a sliver as entertaining as defending against hostile magecraft. It was an old game, though, and 'winning' moves made up strings of battles that, no matter how 'victorious', filled out an inevitably losing war. Father was determined to make her into a tool of his ambition, regardless of how much interest she found in the prospect of being a bride. They both knew that, eventually, he always got his way. That he wasn't able to directly command her hand at this age was all that slowed down his advance. Still, the litany of retaliations he laid upon her deepened with her years of resistance. Eventually, she'd have to break. But that night wasn't now, and would never be closer than tomorrow for as long as she could hold out.

"You give yourself too little credit." Polite smile; no verbal reply. "Is the cotillion your favorite dance?" Moment of consideration to waste time; reply without elaboration. "No, I can't say that it is." "Have you ever danced the Waltz?" Feigned interest; answer in the negative. "No, I'm not familiar with that dance. Is it foreign?" "Yes, but it's catching on splendidly in the balls of Grelaine. Some consider it quite scandalous, you know. But I've no doubt you could master it in no time." Pick one element for inquiry; ignore the rest. "Only in Grelaine? Did it come from Yertrus, then?" "Exactly right! Are you sure you haven't heard of it before?" Reasonable denial; humble reply. "No, I'm afraid not. I was just lucky in my guess."

The exchange dragged on like this for some time. Liliya snatched a moment of respite by noting that she was parched, prompting the man to carry out his gentlemanly duties and seek refreshments. Leaning back against the table, she appeared to gaze out at the assembly of other people in the 'prime of their lives' enjoying the chance to actually engage with a member of the opposite sex. In reality, she was pouring over the remembered details and her own conjecture for how one could circumvent the resistance of a departed soul. Trickery was an age-old method, unsurprisingly, and while that certainly worked, deception was one of her least favorite tools. Of course she'd learned it all the same - one should never abandon a useful weapon just because they don't like the taste of its metal in their hand. In matters of arcana, though, nearly every aim could be reached from many directions. 'Imagination makes the mage,' as they say, holds an unusual degree of accuracy for an aphorism.

Catching sight of the man returning with drinks in hand triggered an inward sigh. It would be a spell longer before she'd have any rest this night. As always, one of father's familiars watched her, and if she left too soon, he'd have all the more reason to punish her for disobedience. What we do for love, came the errant thought, and for the first moment in the night, her smile was genuine. When it came to her twin, protecting her was a matter of what it would take, not if she could do it; that was the only true victory she could find in any of this waste of time, and in spite of every onerous bit of it, it was enough.

That Aolieon's energy and demeanor was volatile might be an understatement. The shift between the start of the night and the end of the job struck Therrye as something more... complicated than that, though. There was enough complexity that she didn't mark it all off as her being a Dorphhead, even if that might be somewhere in the mix, highkey or low. Vices got folk through the endless grind of life in this era, and she certainly had her own. A shot of chemical still doesn't make you go from staring down people with the warmth of a glacier to speaking one's name in memoriam, and she didn't think it was a simple matter of no longer being strangers - they were definitely still strangers. Therrye had looked her way a couple times during the drive. Curiosity kept rapping its knuckles on her door in Aolieon's direction. The bruiser went in for femme, less so for fatale, and Aolieon made it dramatically clear just how fatal she was when she worked. One of her expressions threaded its way into her past, reflecting the eyes of another she spent years growing up and suffering with - and those eyes belonged to a serial killer. Even at the deepest pits of rage, the difference between foe and everyone else never dissolved. Maybe she was built different. But that sort was not someone you let your guard down around while expecting to live to a late age.

There were multitudes in the Liandri, that much was clear, and that's why she hadn't completely written her off as a 'ganic caricature of a cyberpsycho. What about that was enough to keep tapping at the back of her thoughts, though? Maybe I'll find out eventually, came the thought, with no expectation of her not ghosting completely after the payout.

Was Therrye surprised, then, when Aolieon asked for her hand? Absolutely. The pause in her was more out of consideration than straight hesitation, though; the circumstances made it excessively unlikely that she would try something dangerous, and she'd earned enough trust back to permit something so seemingly benign. Showing up to save her from flatlining isn't something Therrye would forget. She could count on one hand the number of souls who'd done that for her, after all, making it easy to put that hand into the samurai's.

Therrye's senses weren't augmented, so whatever Aolieon was doing seemed to be on a different level than the usual flesh and bone. Her hands had the callouses of one who repeatedly and enthusiastically punched things on the daily and didn't expect them to ever be treated like objects of curiosity. That Aolieon was getting dried blood on her didn't bother her at all; she just couldn't figure out what Aolieon was seeking. No resistance was offered as her hand was rubbed, turned over and inspected thoroughly. She'd begun picking up on how often the Liandri chewed her lip, and it was there again as her hands gently went down most of her forearm while her eyes dilated. As she did so, Therrye became aware of some subtle pulsing in her fingers, and for that she had truly no explanation. The way her hands moved didn't lend themselves to some special response like that (even with the softness of her hands and figure considered), and nothing in her data stream had changed.

Then her hands and the rest of her attention were gone, as abrupt as a few of her previous turns, leaving no answers to any of the questions that had started forming. What is going on with her? Maybe that particular vibe was what kept drawing some of her focus. But it was the telltale marks of self-directed violence she noticed on her wrist that occupied her thoughts in the time after she withdrew. Something deeply familiar, while also being a bit distant. She couldn't tell how old the marks were. Their presence lined up with a few other nonverbals, though, and spoke of things that roused the strings of emotions attached to Therrye's protective nature. The absurdity of feeling that way toward a verified murder-wheel of a gymnast was not lost on the bruiser.

Aolieon's dismissals made more sense in the context she had now. She wouldn't make any assumptions about it all, still. Aolieon yet remained a stranger. While she mulled that over, Therrye remembered something rather important and sent a signal off to her property.

Later, while the samurai was handling the drop, a faint sensation crept along the inside of her forearm. The closest she could come to placing it was as if her arm had fallen asleep. She tapped her arm pointedly to make sure she wasn't losing feeling - internal bleeding was a risk from the firefight, and deadening sensation would be cause for alarm. No less feeling came from her forearm, though. It was forgotten, then, in the louder words called out by the ancient Human dealing with the samurai. Another piece to slot into the largely empty puzzle that was Aolieon, especially alongside the context of her retort to the man. Therrye kept her curious look gentle, knowing how apt Aolieon was to deflect, wall up, dismiss and bark back.

Noting the name of the bar suggestion, she gave a not unfriendly wave and then pulled up a map while dialing an unfortunately familiar number. Spotting her bike's GPS dot blipping in her HUD as it came roaring down the street on autopilot, she limped down a block and a half to meet it halfway. Pulling on her helmet and mounting it with legs that'd rather be doing nothing at all, Therrye started off as the call connected. "Kara. You busy right now?"

Pink and blue lighting filled a rectangular outline on the storefront she pulled up to, extending out into blocky letters from its upper right corner to spell out "Doc Ryder." Therrye thought Kara could do better than this ripperdoc chain, but couldn't complain that they kept a doc in house 24/7. That was how she had met Kara in the first place, after just her second outing as a 'moonlighting' edgerunner.

Standing several inches shorter than the Liandri, Kara held a posture serious enough to compete with a Corpo agent. Lines in a sideshave denoted hidden cranial implants, the rest of her hair spilling out in an ombre of brown to blonde down past her clavicle. Her brown eyes didn't regard Therrye unkindly, and despite her demeanor, her history was clear in the rose tattoo on her neck. Kara was even more a product of the streets than Therrye.

She was grateful that Kara hadn't seen the same level of violence firsthand as she had, even if the ripperdoc had thoroughly seen the aftermath for many years now.

Whatever warmth she might have had for Therrye was marred by a frown that registered the moment she saw the bruiser's limp. She clicked her tongue chidingly, despite Therrye offering an apologetic smile and raising her hands. "Why are you always coming in here with this many wounds?" "Because you always turn me down when I ask you out for drinks?" The scoff and eye roll deflated some of her reprimand, but only some. "Roots below, get that jacket off. Letting them give you chest wounds like this. We're lucky you don't have a mother to worry over you." "Glad to see you too, Kara." Kara shook her head as Therrye stripped off the synth-leather, walking over to the patient bed and hoisting herself onto it. Rings of augmentation in her brown eyes expanded and contracted as she inspected the bullet holes. Poking Therrye's chest with a disapproving huff, she went to the console on the bedside and turned on the medtech system while her patient dutifully laid down.

"Tell me it was at least worth getting all of this metal inside you." Layers of light languidly swam over the Liandri's body, spitting out data with a rapidity that had always impressed her. "I'd be in the green even if they'd slagged my breakers and my bike." Kara let out an exhale that summed her feelings well and stuck a finger probingly into one of Therrye's bullet wounds, making her hiss and wince. "That part of the service, now?" A nail scraped the dermal plate beneath it and elicited some breathy sounds of pain. "Ah, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" "Good."

Withdrawing the finger, Kara mused over the data aggregating in her stream. "Damaged plates in your right side and leg, hairline fracture in your left leg, damaged synthetic muscles in your right arm." She looked quite unimpressed. "You're fortunate the rounds that punctured didn't land in any organs." "Fuck, they punched holes?" "Two." "That's two too many." Kara shut down her complaint ruthlessly. "I didn't choose your line of work or your taste in plating." "Hey, it's only a side gig." Another roll of the eyes. "You said that four jobs ago." Therrye ran it back through her memory and ended up shrugging very unreassuringly. "You don't need to spin me any sweet lies, I'm not your input."

Lips parted to toss back a retort, but closed without saying anything. She had a point, whether she wanted to face it or not. Edgerunning had steadily creeped up for her in her week to week, and it wasn't like she was even in any noteworthy debt. Who was she trying to convince at this point? Lifting the hand she'd given to Aolieon, Therrye turned it over, tensing and then releasing. Was she missing the violence?

Therrye really, really didn't want to think about that, neither tonight or at all, and dropped her attention entirely back to Kara. "How long will it take?" "Plates'd be a new install, so at least thirty. The rest, mm, ten-ish." "Just the wounds, then." Kara narrowed one eye down at her, sharpened medtool in hand. "You ring me up and then want to jet before I can even patch you up right?" Therrye tried to think up something slick to say, but was at a loss. "Shit, you got a date or something?" Her hands came up with an emphatic gesture. "No, no, just a meetup to get to." Kara shook her head, injected a painkiller into Therrye's arm, then started removing bullets. "Whatever you say, chica."

Laying back, Therrye didn't try to argue with her. Not that she couldn't, or unable to spell it out, but her attention was wandering. The job that night really saw her going all in once the guns got hot and not letting up. That wasn't her usual style. Despite her brazen tactics, throwing her life away was not in the cards she dealt herself, and pushing too hard, too fast, made it all too easy to get zeroed. So why did she do it? That the main twist of influence far from her usual range was clearly Aolieon was clear to her. What about her had so steadily pushed under her skin and got her acting on stranger lines, though? Toxic competition, definitely, immediate trust breaches, yes and yes, yet that wasn't entirely novel. So, the question remained. Another pulse of sensation in her forearm distracted her, then, making her stare at it. Kara hadn't said anything, and she'd just given her a scan, so... maybe she was just getting a little old. She never knew how long she could expect to live, naturally, and it would've made sense. Being a member of a rare species was filled with a wide array of downsides and ignorance was chief among them.

"You're awfully quiet tonight." Therrye gave a mild shrug, trying not to move too much while Kara treated her fracture. From her position, she could see blood well up from her skin where the scalpel went in, but couldn't feel a sliver of pain from it. That had always unnerved her. "Guess there's a lot on my mind." Kara, at least, was entirely a professional. She didn't make any cuts that weren't necessary, and she was more than deft with her hands. "Alright, alright, I'm not going to drag it out of you." "It's... not that." The bruiser fell quiet again, her violet eyes distant as she looked out the window. "I just don't know the words for it yet." "Go chat it out with one of your chooms then, eh? Work's done, though you should stay light on that leg for awhile." Therrye chuffed, settled her bill, and got herself out of the bed with a modicum of care. "Thanks, Kara." "Yeah, yeah, thank me by not getting so fucked up next time, y'hear?"

Something about being fussed over made Therrye smile. She supposed it was growing up without that, in spite of all of her fierce independence throughout her life.

Well. She had a bar to get to. Hopping onto her bike, she took off toward Neon Hearts.

The entire process was disgusting, of course. When she first witnessed it, she messed the earth with the contents of her stomach - a lesson not to summon with a full one. Of the few cultist writings she had perused in her search for ever greater goetic knowledge, the references to this were grotesque. Adulation upon adulation was laid out in observation of the demonic birth that followed transfer into this world. They extolled the miracle of it and dove into skin-crawling detail about each step of the process that traded part of this world for theirs. She had wondered, in one of her less focused moments, if the whole of the world could eventually be shunted into the hells through summonings.

To her eyes, this was a boil in the flesh of the world, infested with an invasive creature. A parasite bursting forth. The parasite she called, with every intention to unleash its horrific nature upon humanity. That was what it was meant to do, after all, wasn't it?

Yaryna gave herself only a little respite from watching the process unfold. She had long ago resolved not to look away from everything she wrought. This was all part of the miasmic, ichorous hate that bubbled inside of her. Every stomach-dropping, gruesome outcome of her actions would be witnessed. She chose this.

The witch didn't feed herself despite her hunger while waiting for the demon to finish its transit and reawakening, but she did permit herself some water. It wasn't a quick thing, after all. Her face had all the impassivity of a resigned criminal waiting to die on the gallows while it dragged on.

When the Demon came to awareness, she expected haughtiness, clamor, threats and insults. Clamor, there was, but an immediate wish to return? Down there? Sure, that demand had come up plenty of times, but later, during the back and forth of a typical negotiation. Not right off their 'birth' into the mortal plane.

The trembling sorrow that followed furrowed her brow in confusion. Tears and desperation - was this an act? A ploy to swing her human sentiments? This was a demon, and she was a summoner. It didn't make sense to expect any practitioner in the profane to drip sympathy onto the display of a creature they wished to use or worship (or both). Demons were known to see humans as food, tools and toys, anyway. One does not expect sympathy from their cattle or steak.

And still, the display of emotion continued. Yaryna found herself leaning forward and wanting a closer look, though her legs did not move her away from the spot. Disturbing the circle would be deadly.

In all her readings, had a demon ever expressed emotion like this? Could demons even cry? Proof shivered before her in a heap, certainly. This was her first Greater Demon. Perhaps they were better able to mimic and exploit human emotion. Perhaps -

The witch released her tension with a soft sigh. In the thicket of hatred around her heart, this did nothing to tremble her resolve. But a whisper of empathy slipped out all the same. She'd experienced utter breaking herself, more than once. Her expression softened from the blithe disinterest that rested there not long before. Not that there was anything she could do, really. Not without breaking the circle or ending the binding or shunting the Demon back down to hell. And whatever empathy she felt for the display before her, there was purpose in the demon's presence. There was Work to do.

Yaryna did not speak. Patience was her ultimate weapon against the chaotic creatures of direst darkness. Despite counting their life spans in generations of mortals, their nature made them fidget eventually. They needed to move, to act. Imprisonment and boredom were potent inducements. One just had to wait them out. She continued to watch Kalódyxspthemnia, taking her eyes off of her only to relieve herself, to get herself some dried meat and nuts, to treat her arm, and to take a small break to look at the stars. The respite was sorely needed after putting up with the throbbing pain in her arm for so long.

The wait was time enough to get a decent look at the creature, despite the low light of candles. Those wings would be very useful as long as she could stay out of sight. Demons had many talents and powers humans could only wish for. They weren't impaired by darkness, their wounds could heal swiftly (if they took wounds at all), their tongues could beguile, their touch could burn, their throats could spit poison, their legs could shatter steel - the list went on. No demon had all of these strengths, of course. Had she her choice of them, Yaryna wasn't sure she would have picked a different Greater Demon, though. Kalódyxspthemnia was reputed to be as a blade in the shadows, to subdue victims through words, and to puncture through even armored knights. She could make for a terrible and terrific ally.

The stoicism in the demon, once she was no longer a mess of sorrow, wasn't something to which the witch was accustomed. They typically railed against the 'hubris of mortals'. It was easy to scoff and mock them. This one, however, didn't give her much. Did that change anything in the witch's approach? No, no it did not.

Eventually, wordlessly, Yaryna snuffed the candles and found a broken shelf of earth to press herself into and curl up under a blanket. Exhaustion had long ago settled in, but she had continued waiting until she could wait no longer. She needed rest, and it came quickly.

Beneath the blanket, she stirred as the hours slipped by. A quiet cry, a broken sentence, a thrash here and there. To an onlooker, there was little of sleep's supposedly restive qualities going on here. Still, she slept, the torments of night hers alone to endure.

The rise of the sun eventually brought Yaryna back to waking. Her body felt stiff and sore, and her arm's sensitivity and pain told her it'd make a very unpleasant scar if she did not treat it further. Not that there was any avoiding scarring at this point, but she could make the wound much less angry with some effort. She rose out of the tangle of cloth that had formed around her in her midnight thrashings and let out a large yawn while she took a deep stretch. Sleepy eyes scanned the circle and there the demon still was - oh, wait, was that movement?

Well, she could wait a little longer. Yaryna continued contorting her body to comfort it, working out the tense muscles of a cramped rest and all the work from the night before. Once she was done, she went to the fire, assembled the kindling from a not-so-nearby stash, and started it with some sparks from struck flint. When the fire was going in earnest, she drew out ingredients from the stores she'd packed. Wild grains, dried fruit and some flowers were poured into a pot with water and left to simmer. She slaked her thirst, then, before taking up a seat next to the fire.

The crackle of the wood and bubble of the porridge was all that disturbed the silence in the ruined church. If she hadn't been stirring the pot occasionally, the witch could be mistaken for a statue in tattered cloth. Her hair remained bound up and pinned behind her head, so there wasn't even much movement there to betray her stillness. Just a few strands in the little air that flowed through the gaping holes in the walls of the ruined church.

Once she had pulled the pot out of the fire and set it beside her to cool, Yaryna finally returned her attention to the demon. Its emotions were clearly different, now. What had changed? Giving up on the tactic of silence? Fatigue over the inaction? Resignation over her fate? Whatever the cause, she now resembled the demons she was familiar with. A monster that would take anything and everything from no matter how hard she begged, if it had the chance.

"Kalódyxspthemnia." The name still felt like a live snake on her tongue, but it had also come to be like part of a song, whether through attunement or brute force repetition. "I have need of your skills." She let the words hang, simple and without demand or, really, much emotion at all. Her expression had long returned to impassivity, the face of one who was on year 50 of a lifetime of toil; this was a step in the process of an end she could vividly imagine, but had yet to see even a glimpse of, stretching out into the vastness before her.

Yaryna wasn't one to be coy in her dealings with demons. She got right to the point. "I'm going to kill every official in the Church and tear the entire institution down." Her eyes remained fixed on the demon's, to read any responses it might have. "And I want you to help me end them."

Revelation
Lorn - I AM DAGGER

Yearning & Need
Fever Ray - If I Had A Heart
Lorn - Sega Sunset
Flower Face - Spiracle
Dove Armitage - In Chaos
Ratwyfe - Cryptid (Mothman)
Hozier - De Selby (Part 2)
HEALTH - God Botherer
aeseaes - Desire

Enduring
The Acid - Basic Instinct
Emma Ruth Rundle - Darkhorse
HEATLH - DARK ENOUGH
Lorn - KOLD MIRAGE
Lesa Listvy - Machine's Waltz
Lorn - Conduit

Memories & Hopes
Ólafur Arnalds, Bonobo – Loom
Lorn - There Is Still Time
AK & Direct - Sehnsucht

Conflict
Carpenter Brut - Turbo Killer

Ascent (Descent) / Into
Lorn - Anvil
Mountain Realm - Fog
Kords - Kilohertz
Ben Frost - Undulating Beast
Annihilation - The Swimming Pool
Lorn - MEMORY MANAGEMENT
Halloween - The Grind
Ólafur Arnalds - Broadchurch Theme
Hans Zimmer - Furnace (Bladerunner 2049)
Lorn - DRAWN OUT LIKE AN ACHE

Becoming
July Talk - After This
Annihilation - Were You Me
Lorn - REPLIKA
Cyberpunk 2077 - Mining Minds

Grief & Despair
aeseaes - White Noise
HEALTH - DON'T TRY
Lorn - Lock Bites Key
Silent Hill - Not Tomorrow (Piano Cover)
Lorn - Silhouette
Ólafur Arnalds - Lost Song
HEALTH - Demigods/DSM-V
Apparat - Goodbye (feat. Soap & Skin)

Bliss
Rameses B - Spacewalk (Feat. Veela)

Toxic & Abusive
Greta Isaac - Undone
The Crane Wives - The Moon Will Sing
Meg Myers - Curbstomp
Phantogram - You're Mine
Lorn - L'APPEL DU VIDE

Blood Briar · May 5, 2025

.
s t o r i e s
on the back shelf

An Inescapable Resonance
Corruption, Serial Killing, Musicophilia

Setting: Modern, Sci-Fi, Cyberpunk or Urban Fantasy
Dynamic: D/s

Listener is more than just into music; they dive into it, extrapolating layer after layer of meaning, and inhabiting the world within the notes like a new skin. Language, clothes, behavior, they all lie mutable in the sway of the song. It started out small in the understandable ways that the young idolize bands - except that Listener didn't care about the musicians. They were merely a means to an end. The music, and existing inside of it, was all that mattered.

Not all songs could match their 'appetite'; most songs didn't, in fact, and of those that did, the weight of them varied widely. Some could be a couple night's passion, while others could last a month, and some persisted, off and on, across years.

The rarity and duration was the main limiter to how much each song could affect their life. Still, they hunted regularly for new music to devour and inhabit, and weren't terribly shy in sharing their passions. One such post on a board caught Whisperer's attention. Whisperer thrilled in dissecting and deconstructing the elements of music, picking through the minutiae and adjusting sound to shift the fabric of a song. That was their first passion, and with their skills in sound engineering, they were lucky enough to make a living off of it.

Their second passion was killing. Humans could make sweet music of their own, and the range within those not just fearing, but seeing death approach them, diverged substantially from the day to day chatter and emotions they usually wore. Wringing new possibilities out of victims was an exquisite experience they indulged whenever they could.

Of course, murder is typically a rather lonely endeavor in polite society. While Whisperer could collect enthusiasts, the thorough nature of their second hobby's cleanup left little for serial killer fans to enjoy and praise. And then Listener slid the perfect opportunity right into their lap. Reading through their relationship to music, Whisperer immediately began charting a path in their mind - if anyone could be molded into a killer like their self, Listener was an ideal candidate, and they had the perfect skills to craft a tailor-made journey for them.

A simple invitation to listen and give feedback, so eagerly eaten up by Listener, was all it took to begin their spiral away from humanity.

Inspiration.

In Toxic Threads Strung
Abusive and/or Toxic Love, Multi-Relationship Drama, Dark Acts; highly variable

Setting: Nearly any, as long as proximity is enforced
Dynamic: D/s

Poison and Muse looked like the gorgeous, popular, "it" couple... if you stood back a block and squinted real hard. That Poison was a toxic partner at best was an open fact. Nevertheless, Muse was infatuated; there was no arguing her out of the relationship, no matter what kinds of marks Poison left on her heart and body. It was generally written off that she was going to spiral out until Poison lost interest.

Until, against all odds, Muse broke it off with them.

Whatever her turning point was, she had had enough, full stop, leaving Poison dumbstruck by her refusal to continue. This, of course, was wonderful news to Muse's best friend, Hopeless. Hopeless knew it was pointless to try and dissuade Muse from her relationship, so they simply supported her as best they could. With Muse no longer in Poison's grip, they could finally slide back into their primary preoccupation: pining after Muse.

Muse wasn't oblivious. She knew Hopeless was lowkey obsessed with her and wished for nothing more than her love. Unfortunately for Hopeless, toxicity has a way of infecting its victims, and Muse indulges herself in a moment of weakness, wrapping Hopeless around a poison-drenched finger. The more time they spend together, the more they play into the twisted behavior and the darker their relationship becomes - all while Muse keeps it 'pleasantly platonic'. And to top it off, Poison persistently does their wretched best to wrench their way back into Muse's life.

From there, I see several options (though you're welcome to pitch your own!)
. Hopeless pulls a Muse and demands proper treatment or they'll walk and Muse, surprisingly, apologizes and formally asks them out.
Navigating the mutual wounds and darkness to find happiness ensues. It'll probably still be kind of fucked, though.

. Poison picks up a new partner and descends into even worse behavior, leading the partner to come to Hopeless and Muse begging for their help.
They endeavor to then destroy Poison's life (literally or figuratively).
Optionally, new partner creates a V or triad relationship with Hopeless and Muse.

. Muse goes full Poison (never go full Poison) and inverts the obsessor/obsession relationship.
Hopeless becomes inescapably trapped in her web and made to do horrible things. Tragic ending ensues.

. Poison, in a surprise twist, repents their ways. They're still not... great or upstanding, honestly, but they're trying. Truly, honestly, trying.
Amidst Muse being not so great, Hopeless finds themself unexpectedly drawn to Poison, which only makes Muse want them more.
Lots of relationship drama ensues, possible V or triad consequences.

It Could Be No Other
Dizygotic Twins, High Society, Secret Love, Necromancy

Setting: Fantasy or Magepunk, Victorian-esque
Dynamic: Open

It wasn't intentional. One does not mean to fall in love with their sibling; even the royals try to keep it to cousins. And yet, who else could be so perfect? Growing up together with an abusive and demanding father, the twins kept each other's confidences. Following in the family footsteps of excellence in necromancy, they were both the strongest competition and the fiercest supporters of one another. In speech, in art, in dance, in craft - well, with a twin so perfect, how could Youngest not love her?

But to admit that out loud... Youngest tried to disabuse their heart of its notions. To separate affection and familial love from infatuation - no, that was too impotent a word for their feelings. No matter how hard they tried, it stung as the burning obsession of romantic love. And the more Youngest tried to smother the feelings, the more their need grew.

Of course, time was not their friend. The twins were both adults, and despite their collegiate studies, the pressure to marry off and bring further power and prestige to their family was building. It would increase exponentially when they graduated. And atop all that, even if their twin shared their passions, the scandal would be tremendous. Surely their father would disown or banish them if he found out. Thus was the struggle twofold: win the heart of their twin and chart a future where they could be together. All while their parents and society endeavored to push them away from each other into lives they'd resent.

There was no other option, though. Youngest could love no other the way they yearned for their twin.

The Suicide Café
Surprisingly Wholesome, Doomed Romance, Mental Illness; Terminal Illness/Suicide Pact (optional)

Setting: Modern or Cyberpunk
Dynamic: Very much open
Plot Arc: Unlike most of my prompts, I am 100% on board with this ending in utter tragedy;
that said, I'm also up for having a happy twist ending

It's hard to talk to friends and family about suicide. They get upset, they make it about themselves, they argue with you about it - really, they just don't get it. The grey area between choosing life and death where many find themselves mired is a difficult place to see without being in it yourself. Sometimes you're tired of talking about trying to get better, too. And, well, there's a certain peace to be found in accepting that sort of fate.

So it was that The Suicide Café was started. An informal, biweekly meetup at a semi-popular café on Wednesdays, advertised fairly subtly to avoid protest or outreach. All you had to do was show up wearing a safety pin to flag your participation. This was a place and time for the terminally depressed and despairing to meet up and hang out with people who get it. No awkward reveals of mental health issues, no bottling up all of that misery. No judgment. Here, you could commiserate and laugh together about all of the awful without risking anything.

And with nothing to risk, many of the attendants who might have otherwise struggled with socializing found it easy to talk about anything and everything. More than a few close relationships developed.

So it went with Doomed and Cursed. Doomed had no prospects, little in the way of family and friends, and no hope for real, enduring change from their condition. Cursed suffered an unending string of bad fortune, always putting them back several steps any time they made any headway.

Outside the café, they probably would have never been in a space to talk to each other. In the café, they began a relationship that could spiral wide open into whatever hopes and dreams they could fulfill for one another. After all, they had nothing to lose.

The Taste of Love
Revenge Quest, Demonic Pact, Dark Acts, Antipathy to Love

Setting: Alt History Supernatural or Fantasy
Dynamic: Probably either switches or Witch/demon D/s (because it's hilarious and wonderful), but am flexible

Living as an orphan was a predictably wretched existence for her, bereft of warmth and joy. That all changed when she was taken in by a family of herbalists. Life became pleasant toil instead of risky crime and humiliating begging, and she slowly warmed up to the family that loved and accepted her as one of their own.

All of that ended after the Heresy Proclamations. 'Pagan witches using the devil's powers' were tortured and given to the flame, and it wasn't hard to be condemned into this grouping. Her family's well-respected skill in banishing sickness earned them a place on the pyre, her two adoptive siblings dying first to their barbaric methods of interrogation. In truth, she shouldn't have escaped notice - she was born and raised an actual Witch before her mothers were executed for their identities. The grief in her was quickly overshadowed by a hatred for the people and kingdom that had murdered her family twice and committed unforgivable injustices.

Returning to where the ashes of her old life were buried, she claimed the magical knowledge left by her ancestors. Obtaining allies would overwhelmingly help her position, but she didn't want anyone else to suffer for association with her - so, the Witch opted for something less mortal. The Witch summoned a Demon.

Outlooks vary among demons toward humanity, yet they are always seen as a source of sustenance. Demons feed off of the emotions of mortals, and the more intense, the better. Dead mortal souls aren't as exquisite as living ones, but they do well enough in the hells tormenting such souls to wring out agony and despair.

Between their food, their society, and their environs, politics are one of the few major preoccupations of hellish life. Greater power directly translates to more food, more security, and less work. So it was that the Demon was in the midst of orchestrating a coup when they vanish from the hells to find themselves bound in a summoning circle. The Demon understandably resents the Witch for ruining their coup (and incurring dire punishment when they do return to the hells), and, besides, does not view humanity with anything resembling amicability. The Witch remains patient in their aims, however, and with no comfortable home to return to for the indefinite future, the Demon eventually accepts a pact: they will aid the Witch in their quest for vengeance.

In the journey that follows, the Witch comes to trust and rely on the Demon contrary to any expectation, and learn of the misery of demonic society, while the Demon is treated with empathy for the first time in their existence, and experiences the intoxicating emotional dishes of a mortal with a singular intensity, learning one of the greatest lies of demonic society: joy and love taste infinitely better than pain and hatred.

It Cannot End Like This
Ghoulification, Poverty & Marginalization, Dark Acts, Necromancy

Setting: Fantasy or Magepunk
Dynamic: Can see either being more top/dominant, and both are interesting to me, but no dynamic is necessary

Little makes you lower in the realms' society than working with the dead, and necromancers make it their life. It doesn't matter that the best of them can reconstruct and reattach your limb. You wouldn't want to be caught getting services from a necromancer when clean, respectable healers can you help at temples. There's a thin silver lining in that, though: when no one wants to look at you, you have a certain freedom to live your life as you please.

It's never been easy for Beloved and Gentle, but they've always had each other. In work, in play, in trouble and success, they've been the only respite and aid they can truly count on. With parents dead to plague or snared up in addictions, and a society that despised them well before they even started in dark magics, they've carved their own way to a semblance of a precarious yet happy life.

But then Beloved got infected. Beloved wanted to surprise their best friend with a special commission, and get Gentle a gift they'd wanted for years. Instead, they stumbled in, ghoulification irreversibly setting in. Most would have abandoned or mercy killed Beloved there, yet unbeknownst to their partner, Gentle had been trying to find the words to tell them their true feelings. This... changed many things. But it didn't change Gentle's love or their loyalty. They would never abandon them.

Even if Beloved now hungered for their flesh.

A Bloom Slowly Unfurling
Deeply Wholesome, Patient Kink, Dialogue Heavy; Slice of Life (optional)

Setting: Modern, Cyberpunk or Fantasy
Dynamic: Clear D/s dynamic here, but the content can skew between mild kink to edge play kink, and there's a possibility of an eventual switch dynamic as well
Character: Unlike most of my prompts, I only want to play the shyly bottoming character of these two

It wasn't like they didn't know each other. They played in some of they same circles, enjoyed some of each other's company, and respected each other's work. Their kinship as fellow tops wasn't that intimate, but it was established; they were more like fellow enthusiasts than flirtatious friends.

One of them had been losing the pulse of desire, though. The spark in topping wasn't scratching the itches like it used to, and the care, energy and planning that went into it felt more like a burden than an exciting endeavor. They could try to explain it away with a variety of reasons, yet none of it quite resonated.

The deeper truth behind the control fatigue was a yearning for trust, vulnerability, and... bottoming. See, their introduction to bottoming was laden with trauma, and that door was quickly closed and locked tight. Yearning brewed beneath everything, though, and eventually the cry of it pushed its way toward the surface.

A fateful night spent talking more than usual breaks the dam, and the desire rises with a fierce intensity. But this sort of thing was fraught with fear, uncertainty, and pain. One doesn't just... ask for something like this, up front, after locking it away for so long. Something about their interactions, how they handled themselves, it just put them at ease. If it was at all possible to push past their skittishness, this was the person; this was the chance.

How long would it take for them to work up the courage, though? How would this friend see them if they opened up this side to them? Would they even be interested in an inexperienced bottom who needed lots of patience and trust?

Eventually, they couldn't help themselves: they had to ask. What followed was a journey of romance and kink that they never dared hope for in this lifetime.

A Mirror Darkly
Corruption, Obsession, Dark Acts, Blood Magic

Setting: Fantasy, Magepunk or Urban Fantasy
Dynamic: Switch or D/s

Bloodless didn't asked to be cursed with blood magic. The universally condemned sphere of magic featured prominently in the worst myths, and a foundational tale of catastrophe for a precursor realm. Yet, when tested, she registered an overwhelming aptitude for the sphere and little to none in any other. Such a thing was so unheard of that superstitions had long faded away to legend, which was the only reason why she got to keep her life.

Of course, her family buried it. They would not suffer a terminal blow to their power and prestige from this damned fate. Bloodless was marked then as a black spot on the family, banned from learning anything more of magic, and raised to be nothing more than a pawn to marry off. The love she previously enjoyed from her parents withered, suspicion remained high of anything that might link her to practicing blood magic, and her future as a part of the family obliterated.

Bloodless did her best to endure it all, to put on a brave face and make do with the lot doled out to her. In front of her family and others, she dutifully practiced and trained to be an upper class wife and matron. It was only before her mirror she could give voice to the sea of misery in her heart and drain pitifully little of the what was steadily drowning her.

Little did she know that she wasn't just speaking to herself. In The Places Between, a wandering Spirit heard the defeated melancholy in her voice. So rich in emotion, so rare in quality and quantity - the sound of it drew them in. Night after night, week after week, they listened, and an obsession grew within their spectral heart. Bloodless had such a gentle heart, taking all of the blame upon herself and refusing to lash out in anger or cultivate resentment. As her despair deepened, the Spirit's desire to intervene rose. They saw potential in Bloodless, and not just in her particular sphere of magical talent. But as a Spirit immaterial, with no anchor to The Space Without, there was little they could.

Until the night Bloodless cut herself on her mirror in a fit of desperation, bleeding upon its surface and wishing, begging for a release from her fate. Even without training, her soul called, and the Spirit answered, taking possession of her reflection and emerging from the glass. Now, they had a body, and a bond. All they had to do was help Bloodless become who she was always meant to be... even if they now had to account for everything being embodied entailed.

Blood Briar · May 24, 2025

Blood Briar · May 25, 2025

"Voracious describes you aptly, with what hunger you still wear. Do you even know what satiation feels like?"

Fx F or NB Briar's Dark & Romantic Roleplay Desires

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