#tacticalvalor

// the vicious archdemon goat bastard and all of his little bebes ❤️

I have once again been possessed by the little demon that makes you draw woofs in love 💙 ft @wolfpackmuses 's Caden and @tacticalvalor 's Bell!

(ignore this coming from my main; @tacticalvalor)

@tacticalvalor said: “ why do you trust me? ” -> from a pre-ship luna to tanner, we are so back babey (for a thread, mayhaps)

⚔️ Memes for That Specific Brand of Ship // CLOSED ⚔️

The question should surprise Tanner. If he were any normal person, surely it would. Then again, if he were a normal person this situation wouldn't be happen. Luna Youngman, former employee of the New York District Attorney's Office and head of the local community crime watch program, wouldn't be sitting here in a dark basement loosely tied to a chair and with 4 grams of midazolam currently being chased out of her system by pure adrenaline. Nothing about this situation was normal, least of all Tanner.

All the same, the young man straightens up with a proud smile, chirping as he adjusts his tie.

"As I said before, Luna--" her name is punctuated with a cadence that borders on sweet, almost adoring. "I'm very impressed by your work. Humble as you are, your skills are well-honed and you are a very driven and determined young woman. You saw that your employers weren't taking the grievances you were putting forth seriously, and so you decided to take matters into your own hands. You set up your own dedicated crime watch program and took it upon yourself to painstakingly sift through each and every report yourself, finding evidence and submitting reports you felt were serious and needed further review in spite of the fact that it wasn't getting you anywhere with your main objective. Even still, you persevered. You believe in what you're doing with such passion."

He speaks so candidly, almost reminiscing on the fact that he's been watching her every move. Like jumping in front of her cameras and breaking into her home and watching her scroll through pages upon pages of reports was some memory rich with nostalgia for him to look back upon and not a terrifying experience for her to live through. He looks as though he might melt, his cheeks rosy and squished by a wide, toothy grin. Then, his attention snaps back to her.

"It's disheartening to see all that dedication, that spirit, going to waste. All that effort you put in being neglected. So, I've decided to reward you. After all this time, you've worked so hard." He waves the folder filled with papers around briefly, before tossing it forward onto the table before her. "I know from watching you for so long that you're capable of handling this information. Even with your little bleeding heart! You've spent so long searching for the Blueblood Killer, and now, you can finally find him. With this!"

A part of her had known the comment wouldn't come across right. There just wasn't a way to put it succinctly; to say it without the air of judgment—the methods used to interrogate whatever prisoners were brought in were just… so brutal. Violating. She had seen it many times firsthand. Through Sokolov. All those she couldn't learn the names of… And herself. She still shivered under the scrutinizing gaze of Colonel Volgin, memories of her own interrogations running rampant in her mind each time her eyes met his. It was a sick, sick game… But it was one she participated in nonetheless. A facade she could not afford to let slip, especially now that she had an ace up her sleeve; a way out of this mess. She just needed to wait for the right time to spring the maneuver, which meant that, in the meantime, she would simply have to put her own skill sets to use. To charm her way into good graces. "I…" Her voice softened, vibrant blue eyes peering just over the rims of her glasses as she'd studied Raikov's expression. She smiled, attempting to placate the Major. "No, of course not. That wasn't my intention." A pause as she thought over her next statement, all the while watching him. "It was… a silly suggestion. What would I know about such matters, hm?" continued.

raikov cannot stand tatyana.

it was bad enough that this WHORE had wormed her way into groznyj grad through attempting to STEAL the love of his life and REPLACE him, but the fact she never seemed to SHUT UP with her USELESS opinions on every little thing that happened made him close to homicidal. were he as animal as he feels at times, the hairs on the back of his neck would be standing on end, hackles raised, teeth bared and clenched and beauteous face contorted into a snarl.

but alas, his animal nature exists in metaphor alone for now, and the most he can manage is a discontented wrinkle of his nose and a twitch of his upper lip.

" exactly. " he bites with a scoff. " nobody cares about your bleeding heart, soft touch bullshit. i dunno what makes you think you have a say in anything that goes on around here. "

but he does know. and it gnaws at him. despite how he attempts to persuade the colonel that his woman is most definitely not deserving of him, and really she's incredibly suspicious to have shown up here out of nowhere, and sokolov is a pushover anyway, wouldn't it be better to just kill her and be done with it ? but no, no, the colonel has a physical affection for her, god only knows how, and despite their differences in treatment at his scarred hands, she was gifted the same privileges as he was. and it makes him sick.

Jashera and Alastor are @tacticalvalor 's darlings

Alu is, unfortunately, my own burden to bear-

A Deal With The Devil

Closed starter for @tacticalvalor 's Jashera!

He guesses this is what humans call a Hail Mary.

It was a simple offer really. Cease the war, the fighting, the portals, the invasion - cease the unwarranted encroachment upon each other's territories in tandem. His troops would pull back and seal the tears formed between the realms, and Hayden would call back his invasive "explorers" laying their entitlement upon his land out with such ego, mining the energy and lifeblood of his kingdom and disrupting the lives of his nature and his people. End the war. Live and let live.

And all it took was a single sacrifice. At least, that's what it was in his eyes.

They called her Empress as they offered her up like lamb to slaughter, draped in a silky fleece of white and gold, adorned with flowers that complimented her painted lips, her blushed cheeks, her bright eyes. And like a lamb, she trembled with each step she took as she crossed the barrier. Yet still, she held her head high, clutched her floral bouquet to her chest, and walked with as much dignity as she could muster. it was a noble attempt; she graduated from lamb to fawn, and then to doe. Her steps the careful, timid exploration of a deer entering an open meadow.

In this case, she found that the soil was little more than black, polished stone. The grass and low flowers were little more than fanciful rugs of velvet and fur. The trees and open skies were more the opulent walls of carefully etched stonework, thousands of years old, lined with intricate stained-glass windows depicting various scenes, candle-lit sconces, and the hanging tapestries of various symbols traditionally associated with Abrahamic Satanism.

She stops a good distance from his throne - a towering seat with intricate sculpted black iron shapes depicting various goat and demon features, symbols that betray his story, his power, his origin, his reign. It is tufted with comfortable fleece and fur and fabric, allowing him to sit comfortably with arms resting on the arms of his chair, one leg crossed over in expectation.

He is regal. Though he wears not the common garb expected of a king - no cape, no tailored suit, not even crown to mark his regency - he is undoubtedly the king. He holds his head high, his horns his crown gleaming in the candlelight as he looks down at her. His bare torso is rife with inked images of satanic symbols and the scars of battles hard fought and won. His lower body is that of a goats - furry, digitigrade, and ending in cloven hooves and the tufted tail of a lion. His hands are but claws emerging from long, silk-like fur trailing up to his elbows - the same thick mane that form his voluminous plume of hair and his beard. He is handsome in the way a battle-hardened warrior is - tough, rough, and distinguished by strength rather than power.

This is to be her husband, according to them.

And she? She is to be his bride.

"So, they have sent you to be their sacrifice." It is not a question. It is a statement. An observation spoken plainly.