The Memory Circuit

Can you do a prompt about the Hero being apart of a team and Villain is forced to work with the Hero's team after being kicked out of their own villian team. The members of the Hero's Team doesn't trust the Villain but the hero does, mostly because the hero thinks the villain cute and reminds him of someone.

Very inspired by prompt 339.

Corrupted By a Pretty Face

The alarm blared across the spaceship. Red lights flashed on and off. The hero put down their sandwich. What was it now? They looked down at their watch. An incoming call was coming in from their second in command. The hero left the dining bay, running, and picked up the call. Their second’s distressed face projected above the watch. The hero held up their wrist as they ran.

“What’s the issue?” The hero said.

“Your fugitive!” Their second shouted. Veins were popping out of his forehead.

The hero sighed. “What has the villain done now?”

“Come and see for yourself! We’re next to the greenhouse.”

On the plus side, by the time the hero got there, the flashing lights and the blaring alarm had turned off. On the other hand, half the crew was standing there, everyone glaring at the villain. The hero slowed down, trying to piece together what had happened from everyone’s faces.

“This is why we don’t just pick up every criminal we-”

The second cut himself off when he saw the hero. Everyone else saw them and quickly scattered. Except for the second and the greenhouse head. The hero approached them. They gave the villain a quick look. They looked very pretty, as always. But also very guilty. Not a good sign.

“Okay. What happened?”

“Disaster, captain!” the greenhouse head said. Her eyes went wide. “They sampled the hybrids!”

‘The hybrids’ were several cross-plant breeding projects the on-ship farmers were working on. They were an innovation, considering the mixed plants were from different planets. A project like that could get you access to any planet across the galaxy. They took a long time to grow, and only 5 out of 100 would ripen well. So they were saved for the most important diplomats across the Milky Way. And the villain had eaten some.

“You’re joking,” the hero said.

They looked back at the villain. The villain blinked for a second, remembered what they had done, and took a deep bow of apology. Mostly, the hero thought, to avoid eye contact with the three people staring daggers at them.

“I’m truly, deeply sorry, captain. I didn’t know the fruits were of significance.”

The hero had to tamp down a laugh. The villain’s tongue was purple with fruit juice.

“The fruits,” the greenhouse head mocked. “They’re scientific marvels! Why, I-”

“Hey,” the hero touched her arm. “How about you take a minute. Survey the damage. Get back to me later. Okay? I’ll deal with them.”

The greenhouse head looked even angrier, but she nodded. “Okay, captain.”

She stomped back into the greenhouse and slammed the door. The hero gestured at their second to get lost, too. He frowned. The hero gestured again. He rolled his eyes. 

“I hope you finally see what a mistake this was,” the second said.

Then he turned on his heels and walked away. His heels clicked down the corridor. The hero rubbed their temple. The people on this ship sometimes acted no older than five.

“Hey. Look at me.”

The villain finally broke their bow and sheepishly made eye contact. The hero tilted their head, surveying the villain up and down. Hopefully the villain would think they were just assessing the situation. The hero looked into the villain’s eyes again and started walking backwards.

“Follow me.”

The hero did this sometimes. They knew this ship with their eyes closed. And it was more convenient looking at someone while they talked. Bonus, it made the villain focus on them, trying to see if the hero tripped up. After watching the hero make two flawless turns, the hero finally started the interrogation.

“Tell me what happened.”

The villain rubbed their arm. “Okay, so, like I missed mealtime, right? So the dining bay wasn’t serving food anymore.”

“There’s always food. Make a sandwich.”

“But I didn’t want a sandwich.”

“Fine. So you went into the greenhouse?”

The villain nodded. “I was just picking some fruits for a snack.”

“And you didn’t notice the giant ‘don’t touch’ sign above the hybrids.”

“I don’t think so? Or I ignored it. I’m not sure.”

Of course they weren’t. The hero came to a sudden stop. The villain almost ran into them. The hero turned to their left. The room was numbered 38625B. Their office. They pressed their thumb to the scanner. The door slid open.

“Come in,” the hero said, moving inside.

Their office was a desk with high shelves on either side. They contained books, gadgets, and pictures from across the stars. Behind the desk was a mounted painting of the outside of the ship. The hero knew the villain thought the painting was a little over the top. But the hero loved their vessel.

The hero sat down at their crowded desk and had the villain sit across from them. The hero went into a desk drawer and rooted around. Finally, they pulled out a sheet of paper. They put it on the desk so the villain could see it. It was the agreement the villain had signed a few months ago, when they had just boarded the ship. It was an agreement to behave according to the ship’s code of conduct. The hybrids were explicitly mentioned. The hero plucked a pen from their overstuffed pencil holder and pointed at the clause.

“You’ve done some strange things on this ship. Spreading greenpox-”

“I didn’t know I had it when I boarded!”

“-and making the soap in all the bathrooms explode everywhere-” “I was just testing their durability.”

“What about almost killing Lucky?”

The villain rubbed their neck. “My bad. But dogs are contaminated with a million diseases.”

“That’s what his shots are for. Remember how you didn’t have any for greenpox?”

“Okay, point taken.”

The hero continued. “But messing with the hybrids? Clear violation of the code of conduct.”

“Trying to kill the dog wasn’t?”

“We’re not supposed to have dogs on the ship. So.”

“I knew it!”

“Anyway,” the hero tapped the contract. “I have grounds to kick you off this ship. Abandon you on the next sparsely populated exoplanet and let you find your own way.”

The villain took in what the hero said. It gave them pause. “But. . .you’re not going to?”

The hero balled up the paper and tossed it in the trash can next to their desk. “Nope.”

The villain stared for a second. “The crew’s not going to like that.”

“Which is why I’m going to draft up a new contract,  without hybrids, and we’re going to pretend that was the agreement all along. Like I forgot to add it.”

“You never forget anything,” the villain said.

“I almost never forget anything,” the hero responded.

The villain reached out and clasped the hero’s hands. The hero looked down at where their skin touched and tried not to blush. This must be a custom on the villain’s planet.

“Thank you,” the villain said. “How can I ever repay you?”

“By behaving,” the hero deadpanned.

They pulled their hands back. The villain was smiling wide. “I don’t know why you’ve decided to help me, but I’m eternally grateful.”

The hero smiled back. “If I left you, you would just find another gang to get abandoned by, and we’d find you again in six months trying to rob us to make ends meet.”

“Hey,” the villain said. “Rude.”

“But I’m not wrong.”

The villain didn’t have to know how cute the hero found them. Or that they reminded the hero of everyone back home they had a crush on. The villain would probably tell everyone, and the crew wouldn’t take kindly to the hero giving someone they found attractive special treatment. But boy, did it make it hard to look at the villain’s face and stay mad. If the hero ever even was mad.

“Okay,” the hero said. “Get out of here. I don’t want to see you leave your quarters until tomorrow.”

“But-”

“I’ll bring you food later! Just get out of here.”

The villain nodded. They stood up, bowed once more, and quickly shuffled out. The hero leaned back against their chair and sighed. Why did they always fall for criminals? It was going to get them in big trouble one day.

Then again, you only live once. The hero hated to say it, but they were looking forward to visiting the villain’s room later.

The Memory Circuit [III]

Get In Line, Mister!

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⎉: @chaotic-orphan Let me know if you'd like to be added or subtracted from the taglist!

TW: physical assault, attempted sexual assault, substance use, internalised trauma, psychological breakdown, imprisonment, coercion, manipulation, surveillance, systemic abuse.

Line dividers by @sister-lucifer!!!!

The bar has no name anymore—just a fizzing strip of neon clinging to a rusted beam above the door. Inside, the red light pulses like a hammer, and the air is thick with oil, sweat, and something vaguely metallic, like old blood on iron.

Bok sits at the edge of the bar. One foot hooks around the stool leg, anchoring him. His other boot taps lightly against the floor, in rhythm with the bass that shakes the walls.

His glass is half-empty. The liquor is acrid and sharp, coating his throat like engine fuel.

A man drops onto the stool beside him. Loud jacket, richer than the rest of the room. A slick grin follows.

“You working tonight?” the man asks, voice pitched low.

Bok doesn’t answer. Just lifts the glass to his lips, sips.

The man leans in closer. “You’re too pretty to be sitting here alone.”

Fingers trail up Bok’s thigh, casual. Bok stiffens. The glass in his hand trembles. He shifts his weight, the stool wobbling slightly beneath him.

The man chuckles. “You shy, sweetheart?”

What was meant as a term of endearment lands like a blow.

The man reaches up, runs his fingers through Bok’s damp hair. His hand tightens—bunching it in his fist.

Bok exhales slow through his nose. His knuckles whiten around the glass.

“Come on,” the man murmurs, leaning in close enough to smell his cologne. “I know what you are.”

Bok stands suddenly, too fast. The stool scrapes loud across the floor. The man grabs him by the back of the neck this time, tries to yank him near—but Bok spins, shoving him off-balance. He stumbles into the bar, curses sharp.

A fist flies. Bok ducks. His palm hits the counter for leverage. Light hair falls into his eyes—he shoves it back with slick fingers, knuckles at the ready.

The man lunges again. Bok pivots low and slams his elbow into the dude's ribs. The sound is wet, guttural. The guy staggers, then roars and swings—

This time it connects. Bok’s jaw snaps sideways with the force. Pain explodes down his neck. Ink spatters across the bar.

People are shouting now. Moving back. Watching.

Bok wipes his mouth, black smearing across his palm. His chest heaves. He steps forward—gets in one good hit, right to the man’s throat.

Then they’re grappling—hands, fists, elbows. The man claws at him, snarling. Bok’s hair is grabbed again, yanked hard. His body slams into the bar, ribs cracking against the edge.

He tastes salt and metal. His ears ring. And still, his body moves.

He’s not trying to lose.

Bouncers shove through the crowd. One grabs the guy. Another seizes Bok, jerking him backwards. Bok tries to loosen himself, but they’re already hauling him.

"Out."

The door opens. The city screams.

And then they throw him.

He hits wet concrete with a grunt, shoulder flaring white-hot with pain. The door slams. The music vanishes like a heartbeat cut short.

He lies there for a moment. Breathing.

Rain spatters down, cold and biting. Night blooms in slow spirals around his knuckles, washed away by gutter runoff.

His chest rises, falls. Again.

I almost let him.

His jaw tightens. Teeth grind.

A tremor takes him, small and violent. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. Ink and water run down his arms.

He stays like that, hunched and shaking, for a long time.

No one stops.

The city keeps moving.

¶¶¶¶

Hal stares at the ceiling of the room where they keep him.

Fluorescent light hums, flickering at irregular intervals beneath the sparkling chandelier.

His wrists are cuffed to the chair again, tighter this time. His ribs throb under soaked bandages. Each breath pulls at the place where flesh tried to close around pain.

Ricky is already there, leaning against the wall like he’s waiting for a friend. A file folder sits open on the table—thick, heavy, bloated with things Hal already knows.

“You were one of ours, Hawkins,” Ricky says at last, tapping a photo with two fingers. “Senior clearance. Protocol Valparaíso access. You wrote part of the legislation that governs automaton integration.”

Hal doesn’t speak.

“You knew the regulations,” Ricky continues. “You helped draft the punishments. You were the one who suggested neural tagging in the first place.”

A long pause. Ricky walks around the table, slow.

“And then you go off-grid, shack up with one. A freelance nomadroid. Unmarked. Off-record. Illegal.”

Hal raises his eyes. They’re dry, exhausted. “He wasn’t—”

“No,” Ricky interrupts, voice sharp. “He wasn’t just a droid. You’re right. That’s what makes this worse.”

He drops another photo. This one is of a disassembled model. Wiring exposed. Liquid black pooled around the table where the skull used to be.

Hal flinches. Just slightly.

Ricky leans down, smile thin. “You know what happens if this goes public, right? If your involvement leaks?”

Silence.

“Your clearance. Gone. Your name. Smeared. Pensions, benefits, citizenship? Stripped. Your friend’s address is still listed in the system. Do you think she’ll appreciate a midnight raid?”

Hal’s jaw tightens.

“So,” Ricky says, flipping the folder closed, “we're offering you a free route.”

Another folder. This one thinner. Sleeker.

“Conditional release. You'll be tagged, tracked, watched. You’ll check in every seventy-two hours. And when we find Joyeux—and we will—you will help us. Or everything comes out.”

Hal swallows. He flexes his hands in the cuffs.

Ricky’s smile grows. “So? What do you say?”

There’s no real choice. There never was.

The cuffs hiss open. The chair scrapes as Hal stands.

He doesn't look at Ricky. He just turns, and walks.

¶¶¶¶

Outside, the rain is louder.

Bok leans against the alley wall, a cigarette trembling between his fingers, though he hasn’t lit it. His jaw is swelling. Blood still clings to his collar.

His breath clouds in the cold air.

Behind his eyes, the fight plays again—frame by frame, sensation by sensation. The hand in his hair. The pressure on his throat. His own hesitation.

You’re too pretty to be alone.

He doesn’t feel pretty now.

The cigarette falls from his fingers.

He presses his back to the wall and slowly sinks down. The rain keeps falling. The city doesn’t stop.

His hand touches the edge of his coat, fingers finding a hidden seam inside the lining.

Bok shuts his eyes.

Tonight, he just breathes.

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The Memory Circuit [IV]

Good Morning, Sunshine

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⎉: @chaotic-orphan @morning-star-whump Let me know if you'd like to be added or subtracted from the taglist!

TW: police brutality, physical assault, vomiting, surveillance, systemic abuse.

Line dividers by @sister-lucifer!!!!

The door buzzes.

Hal jabs the button again, hard.

Nothing.

Then: “It’s four-fucking-thirty in the morning, Hal.”

Her voice crackles through the speaker like it’s pissed, too. He presses his forehead to the doorframe, eyes closed.

“Hey, Piggy.”

The lock clicks.

Jules stands in the doorway in a billowing shirt and one sock, hair a frizzy halo of sleep and pure, undiluted fury.

“You look like shit,” she settles venomously, stepping aside.

The flat smells like chamomile and burnt oil. There’s a threadbare orange blanket on the couch and a spider plant hanging in the corner, definitely named something like Milo. Hal sinks onto the couch, spine curling in on itself. Jules crosses her arms.

“Is this about Bok?”

Hal’s head jerks up.

She sighs, already turning for the kitchen. “I’m putting the kettle on. Start talking before it boils.”

¶¶¶¶

The kettle clicks. Hal’s in the kitchen, shoulders hunched as he pours water into sleek mugs. His hands shake.

Jules watches him from the table, unreadable.

“He’s gone,” Hal says, voice hoarse.

“I figured,” Jules replies. “The silence wasn’t exactly reassuring.”

Hal lets out a slow, ragged breath. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Lucky me,” she mutters.

Then: Knock knock knock.

Jules’ eyes snap to the door.

“Please tell me that’s not—”

“Open up, Jules,” comes Ricky’s voice, carrying that signature lilt of his.

She doesn’t move. Hal, already pale, goes corpse white.

Jules opens the door just enough to glare through. “You’ve got a lot of nerve.”

Ricky smiles coolly. “Just here to chat.”

“Go chat with a blender.”

She tries to shut the door. He plants a booted foot in the frame.

“We’ve got Joyeux,” he says. “You know what that means.”

Her jaw tightens. She steps aside, reluctantly. “You’ve got five minutes.”

Ricky walks in like it’s his flat, brushing droplets off his shoulders. Hal retreats to the sink, one hand braced on the counter like it’s the only thing holding him up.

Ricky’s eyes flick to Hal. “I assume you know Hal was keeping company with a nomadroid.”

He halts mid-pace, catching Jules’s look.

A beat.

“I’m assuming you didn’t know it was unregistered. Fully illegal. Possibly unstable.”

Hal makes a noise—half breath, half choke. Jules glares at him too.

“I know it’s complicated,” Ricky hums. “But Joyeux was dangerous. The raid was clean. We have footage. And Hawkins’ prints.”

“Shut up,” Jules says.

Ricky lifts an eyebrow.

She turns to Hal, voice quieter now. “You didn’t tell me everything.”

Hal can’t look at her.

“Did you love him?”

The air goes still.

Hal’s grip on the counter slips. He doubles over and vomits into the sink, body wracked and shaking.

Jules doesn’t flinch. Just grabs a dish towel, runs it under cold water, and presses it into his hands.

Ricky looks away; pulls out his datapad.

“We’ll be in touch,” he says lightly, and walks out.

The door shuts behind him.

Jules exhales—long, slow, furious.

Hal leans against the wall, towel clutched in his hands, face pale.

“You loved him,” she says again, not asking this time.

And Hal, eyes puffy, just nods.

¶¶¶¶

Earlier.

They blow the door in.

No warning, no pause. Just the shockwave and splinters, smoke curling into the hallway like fingers.

Bok’s head snaps up from the mattress on the floor. He doesn’t move fast enough.

They’re already inside.

Three soldiers. Black gear, black masks, silent. Their eyes glint faintly like glass behind the visors. A flick of motion, and the room is theirs.

Bok reaches for the blade on the counter. Cheap boxcutter. Pathetic. He grabs it anyway.

The first soldier closes in.

Bok swings.

Steel kisses flesh—a shallow cut across a gloved arm. The soldier barely reacts.

Bok bolts.

One grabs his shirt, misses. Another’s faster. A baton slams into Bok’s spine. His knees buckle. He drops, scrambles, still crawling, still fighting—

Another hit—his side caves in around it. Something cracks. He sucks in air.

He twists, knife in hand, jabs upward.

The blade rakes a thigh—deep. The man swears. Stumbles. Bok surges forward.

It doesn’t matter.

A boot catches his shoulder. Slams him sideways into the wall. His skull hits plaster, leaves a dent. He falls.

They’re on him.

He thrashes—kicks, claws, spits black.

Someone grabs his hair, yanks him up. His neck strains. He stabs back—nothing.

A baton hammers down.

His hand breaks. Knife drops. Gone.

They don’t stop.

Two hold him down. One crushes a knee with the baton—crack. Bok jerks, bites his own tongue. Ink floods his mouth.

“Still fighting?” one mutters. Disgusted.

Second knee. 

Crack. 

He goes limp, twitching. Ribs heave. Eyes wide. Still conscious.

One more hit to the jaw. His head snaps sideways. Something dislocates.

They drag him.

By the arms. His head falls back, eyes dull, breath fogging through slightly parted lips. His bare heels scrape against the floor. Sweat clings his hair to his forehead, dripping down his face. The rest of his body hangs limp, trailing behind them like a trainwreck.

“Secure,” one says.

Another checks a watch. “Thirty seconds over. Let’s move.”

They vanish into the hallway.

The door hangs from one hinge. The room still smells like smoke and metal and blood. 

And they’re gone.

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Everyone clap for non consensual body modification everybody loves a character whose body has been altered against their will

Goretober [5/15]: BEATEN UP

Now consider: a man in a dress. Not in drag or all dressed up or anything. No accessories, no makeup or styling, just wearing the dress, some ratty boxers and muddy sneakers. No socks or stockings, hairy legs in the open air, just raw dogging those nasty shoes. Hair mildly damp. Visibly sleep-deprived. Bruises on shoulders, elbows and knees, left palm bleeding. Sitting on a curb on the street, shivering, looking wretched, and absolutely miserable.

I forgot where I was going with this.

Becoming a writer is great because now you have a hobby that haunts you whenever you don’t have time to do it

Hello! Would you be willing to write about someone who finds out that their roommate and childhood best friend is actually some kind of supernatural creature? Preferably m/m but its okay if you’d like to change the genders.

Have a nice day!!!

"You're...uh...wow."

Maybe Holden should be horrified, but all he could really do was stare, dumbly entranced. The staring wasn't that different to normal, if he was going to be really horribly honest with himself.

But Atlas also wasn't normally crouched near stark-bollocks naked in the middle of their dorm room. He didn’t normally have dark, gorgeous wings unfurling from his back. He didn’t normally stare at Holden with eyes that had gone from blue to literally black too. Hungry. Heated.

Holden hastily shut the door behind him before someone else on the floor saw.

"Are you, uh, okay, man?"

His best friend was, very clearly, not okay. His gaze tracked every small movement that Holden made.

"You," Atlas growled through his teeth. "Are not supposed to be here."

"Right. Yeah. Uh. My class was—" Holden lost his trail of thought as he continued to stare. "God,” he said, a little dizzy, “you look incredible."

Five-year old Atlas had been funny and brave. Nineteen-year old Atlas also had the absolute gall to be stunning on top of that. It was, frankly, terrible on a night out. On his own, Holden did okay. When he was standing next to Atlas though, more and more as the years passed by, he may as well have been a potato. He couldn't even hold it against anyone. He did enough trying not to stare himself.

But...he definitely hadn't noticed the wings before. He would have noticed wings, right? Even with that smile and those cheekbones to distract.

He realised, dazedly, that he'd drifted closer. One step, two step, three, until he was standing right over Atlas. Close enough to touch.

"Get out." Atlas sounded strained. "Now." His fingers – his claws – dug into the threadbare carpet.

Holden wanted to run his fingers through Atlas's blond hair. He wanted to kiss his parted lips, the line of his jaw, the beautiful curve of his throat. He wanted to touch every inch of Atlas that he could. He wanted Atlas's hands on him, sure and just as smitten as Holden had been for years, and he'd do anything, offer anything if—

"Holden."

The sharp snap of his name cleared Holden's mind a little. He shook his head and backed up. "Sorry. I—"

What the hell was he doing? Heat rose to his cheeks, mortified.

There were a lot of reactions one could have to seeing their best friend suddenly sprout wings, but Holden was pretty sure he wasn't supposed to just drool over his roommate like some kind of neanderthal. He'd done such a good job of not letting his stupid feelings impact their stupid friendship until stupid now too.

It wasn't like he'd never caught a glimpse of Atlas without his clothes before. It had never made him like – he would never have – but would it be so bad if he just—?

No. Something was definitely wrong.

Holden whirled around, heading back for the door. He'd opened it only a crack when Atlas's hand slammed down on it, shutting it again. The lock clicked as Atlas bracketed him with an arm on either side. They weren’t quite touching, but they were close enough that he could feel the heat of Atlas against his back.

He hadn't even heard Atlas move. His breath hitched.

Atlas groaned. He let his head thunk against the door, above Holden's left shoulder, as he drew in ragged gasps.

Holden heard him swearing and muttering under his breaths. He caught a few words that’s sounded suspiciously like ‘bloody scheming bastard vampires’ and a much more familiar ‘shitshitshit’.

Up close, Atlas’s new cologne was…was it cologne? Holden’s head felt cloudy again. He dug his nails into his palms, desperately shoving down the truly ridiculous urge to turn around and kiss Atlas immediately.

“What the hell is happening?” He squeezed his eyes shut. “You have wings. You have – I feel –”

“You’re supposed to be in class for the next three hours!”

“My class was cancelled,” Holden said. “Some last minute—”

Atlas caught hold of his hips, spinning him as if it was absolutely nothing, pressing him back against the door.

The bit of Holden’s brain that wasn’t too busy with oh, yes please reminded him that Atlas was not that bloody strong. He should not be able to do that. He always skipped the gym when Holden went, despite looking like that.

“What are you?” The obvious question finally penetrated the fog.

Atlas’s attention lingered on his lips, seeming…distracted.

“Incubus,” he murmured. He’d always had a nice voice, but in that moment, that word, it was like caramel. Sweet on Holden’s senses. “God, you’re pretty. Sharing a room was a terrible idea.”

It took a second for the actual response to register, let alone the rest.

Incubus.

“What?” Holden yelped.

It was all some elaborate joke.

(Atlas didn’t do pranks.)

It was impossible.

(Those wings looked very real, no matter how impossible they were.)

How had it taken 14 years for him to notice his best friend was an incubus?

(Did that mean he didn’t really have a crush on his best friend? It was just – what he was?)

Atlas’s fingers grazed just slightly beneath Holden’s jumper, blazing hot against the skin above his hips.

Holden asked no coherent questions whatsoever. He didn’t even manage an incoherent word. Every reasonable thing he should have been considering vanished in a haze.

His best friend was an incubus? Sure! Whatever. Nothing mattered except the fact that there was really far too much distance between them. Atlas’s mouth was right there and – Holden couldn’t have said which of them initiated the kiss, but it was ravenous and he was putty against the door. Head empty. All need and greed and wanting. He finally got to tangle his fingers into Atlas’s always annoyingly perfect hair and –

The lock clicked.

Faster than Holden could fully comprehend, the door was open and Atlas had bodily shoved him into the corridor. He landed sprawling and ungraceful on his butt.

He had a second to peer up, bewildered, at the look of absolute raw desire on Atlas’s face before the door slammed shut. The lock clicked again.

The texts pinged on his phone a moment later.

Don’t come back until I say so.

Will explain later.

Sorry.

Well, crap.

Holden pressed a hand to his mouth, catching his breath and his sanity with Atlas out of view. Then he went to the uni library to research everything he could about incubi.

By the time Atlas texted him that evening, he was ready.

wow lesbians.......

Training assassins at ballet school sounds like a good idea. They learn to control their body. They learn discipline. But the police begin to catch on when they keep finding bloody footprints at crime scenes en pointe.