#flash stock rom

Hello there, I’m interesting in lovely submission and I’m looking for a good, honest, truthful, obedient and understanding slut to own and collar.

Prompt: “I’m so sorry I hurt you.” “Don’t sweat it, I could’ve just as easily have hurt you.” “Well it’s cute that you think that.”

Source:@skriveting

Okay, so just recently had an obsession with fight scenes so I came up with this.

Warning:extreme, boring detail of how the fight is actually going

The trainees were assembled in two straight rows, facing each other. It had been only a few years and yet, learning to fight under the strict, disciplinary measures of the Academy had changed them all: their gazes betrayed no emotion, they were a void, full of only determination and a passion for fighting.

A trainer stood in front of them. He scrutinized every pupil of his: each had a black mask pulled up, revealing their faces. Each had a hard glare, each at least one weapon in their belts.

He nodded approval.

In response, there was a hiss of blades being drawn from sheathes.

Protagonist brandished her own: a long, sharp dagger with a gleaming, metal hilt like that of a sword’s. She had strapped her extra scythe onto her belt.

Trainer whistled. Protagonist pulled down her black mask and lunged. The neat rows transformed into a mob of killers: they mingled, pouncing at each other and trying to get a any possible victim to the ground. They could never tell who.

That was the point of the mask: it made them all seem similar - uniformed. Everything happened too fast, in a flash of silver blades and there was never any time to look for specific notable features of a person, or identify who you were attacking, or teaming up with: a friend, or a foe.

Protagonist was smart enough to have none of either. Not at the Academy.

She was ruthless in her training. In a whirlwind of moving weapons, she pulled someone near her to their knees. She did not wait to see who it was. Trainer let a red flag flare and struck out the name of the girl she had just defeated.

Defeated Fighter moved aside, head hanging low with disappointment. Perhaps she had hoped to become Trainer’s most favoured one. A privileged student.

Protagonist did not care. She attacked another several people. Three red flags flared. A minute ticked by quickly. There were about eleven people left.

She had beaten many already, but no one had outrun, outsmarted, outdone her in any way.

Around her, the fighting went on. The crowd had dispersed, now fighting in twos and threes.

She paused and shifted away from the scene to catch her breathe. Trainer flared a red flag. And another red flag. And another one.

Surprised, she searched the room for the new victims. Three more of the defeated now stood by the door. Two of them ad received nicks on their faces, which, she guessed, were earned from the same fighter.

And she was right. She realized this when she turned and saw the fighter. He was in all black: his hair, his mask, his clothes, his shoes and weapons. He was wearing a watch. A black watch. She did not recognize it, could not tell who he was or if she had seen him before.

More red flags flared. Protagonist joined the fight again, but she was distracted. Somehow, she managed to pounce on a couple more people with her scythe, but when she pivoted to find herself another victim, she discovered the room to be empty but for Trainer and the boy with the black watch.

The defeated had left the room. There was no one else. So many had been easily beat, and it had all happened in barely two minutes.

Protagonist would have waited. She would have waited for him to catch his breathe, for both of them to regain their composure.

But he attacked first.

His blade moved fast, slicing through the air. For a second, she thought he really meant to kill her and began to duck, but the weapon flew right past her, missing her neck by an inch and stabbing into the wall. It stayed there, its point drilling a hole into a wall before it finally fell down and Protagonist detached her gaze from it.

The move was intentional.

But now she was at better odds. The boy had no weapons left. She had two.

She swung both of them in the air, the mismatched blades: a scythe, and a dagger.

He made a mistake, attacking first. Perhaps he was too tired to do better. That did not mean Protagonist was going to soften. She knew how to put a good situation to use.

Perfecting her defensive stance, she let him launch himself at her first. All it took was one swing of her right arm and a threatening nudge with her dagger’s end, and she had him down.

A red flag flared.

The boy pulled off his mask and thrust it to the ground in frustration. His skin was aflush, and he was breathing hard. She had nicked his flawless cheekbone with her blade - of course, she hadn’t intended to, but privately, she wouldn’t deny the small scar only enhanced to his face.

He was so close now, she could see his eyes more clearly: a vivid blue, like lightning.

She straightened her posture, awkwardly and spoke in the gentlest way possible: “I’m so sorry I hurt you.”

He made a sound in his throat that sounded like something between a scoff and a snort. “Don’t sweat it, I could’ve just as easily hurt you.”

Her sympathy faded into a mixture of slight annoyance and amusement. “Well, it’s cute you think that.”

She held out her hand for him. He accepted her help reluctantly. His grip was strong, his wrist both fast and rigid. No wonder he’d been doing so well.

Their fingers remained linked for a while. She let go first, turning away to distract herself. Trainer was unsmiling, but he congratulated her: it was the first time he’d ever praised anyone.

Her heart soared. She had done it, she would be one of his favoured pupils. One of his best. One of the stars of the Academy.

“Well done,” said the boy with the watch, but there was no enthusiasm in his voice. He was as competitive as she was, and he cared as little for her, as she had cared for anyone she had defeated without feeling a twinge of any emotion at all.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and her cheeks flushed with pleasure despite herself. It was rare to recieve a compliment from someone who looked like him, even if he didn’t really mean it. “Who are you?”

“You first.”

“Ah, but I won and I get to choose who goes first.”

“You wouldn’t have won if I had been at my best,” he said, defensively. “I fought more than you did. I was tired.”

She rolled her eyes. Held out her hand. Said: “Katie.”

He glanced at her patient hand, still in front of him like an offer. An offer of friendship, which neither of them had ever recieved, or provided before now.

“Cole.” He did not take her hand. “Nice moves, Katie. You almost did better than me.” He snatched up his blade from the wall and swaggered towards the open door, from where the deafeated had left.

He bade adieu with a wink and left. The door slammed shut behind him.

#—————————————————————————#

K, so not my best, but this is my first try. Is it too long, too short? Any opinions? You can comment here, or visit my primary blog: @thecenturybookworm

Anyways, I know a bunch of fellow writers or similar from Tumblr, so I’m just gonna tag ‘em. If you want to be removed, or added, you can DM me or smthng.

Taglist:

@gingerly-writing@writing-on-the-wahl@creativepromptsforwriting@watercolorfreckles@rehnwriter@givethispromptatry@themysticalbeing@yourheartonfire@onestopheroxvillain@wordsareinmysoul@paperburrows@prompts-for-every-need@skriveting