phantom troupe number 8

Noah then struck Viktor’s elbow, breaking his arm. Viktor screamed and tried to pull away, but Noah silenced him with a jab to the Adam’s Apple. Crippled by pain and struggling to breathe, Viktor desperately swung at Noah with his other burning hand, but just like before, Noah grabbed his arm and then broke it. Noah then slammed his knee into the young man’s solar plexus over and over, not stopping until he was puking blood. He held Viktor by the collar to keep him upright, and from there, the punches began, Noah’s fist striking Viktor’s face with rapid speed and crushing force, splattering blood and disfiguring flesh. Noah had pummeled Galvin the same way in their duel, moving his arm like a piston.

Once she’d finally found a good spot, she remembered what she was trying to do. Slowly and steadily, she brought her hand up and over his chest, the light sheet rippling above her the only thing keeping them from the warm autumn night. Again, she brought it down past the end of the hair on his belly and only stopped once she felt that rough patch of hair just above his groin. With only the moon filtering through the sheet above she could barely make it out as she peered over her dad’s waist. Short and curly, much curlier than his armpit hair, pitch-black, though most of his hair was with only a bit of grey poking through.

She’d snuck into her parent’s bed a few times over the years, something she hadn’t grown out of since her childhood. But to her credit it always got her a good night’s sleep after a bad dream. After she hit puberty, she’d been told she had to go back to her own bed, but after giving her dad a sulking pout she was always allowed to stay until she calmed down.