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starry-bi-sky · 2 months

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my body's aching like a knock-down drag-out

and my poor heart is an open wound A Childhood Friends Au snippet that very briefly delves into Danny's life post-accident. CW: Mild Mentions of Blood, Violence, VERY mild gore ig. Danny briefly recalls getting impaled during a fight.

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What they don't tell you about being dead is that it hurts. That it can hurt. That it can hurt more than when you were alive. That when you die, the emotions you die with stick with you like a leech that just won't let go. That emotions are ugly little thorns that stick their barbs into you and grow beneath your skin; or, at least, whatever’s left of it.

Danny is familiar with anger. It kept him warm in Gotham, when his parents weren't home from work and he and Jason were crowding Crime Alley with their presence. It kept him warm in Amity, when the fresh sting of moving was still needling into his heart and he wanted nothing more than to rip and tear into the closest person next to him.

He's familiar with violence. With fights. With death. He's seen people die in Crime Alley probably every day. From overdose, from gunshots, from stab wounds; anything that can kill, rest assured he's seen it. He's familiar with getting his own knuckles rough and bloody when other kids turn and bare their teeth at him and Jason; they're all just starving dogs stuck in a fighting pit, primed and ready to rip out each other's throats.

Black eyes, stomped hands, bloody noses. You name it; he’s had it. Gotham is paved with the blood of her children, and Danny likes to imagine that when he was born, the doctors handed his mother a file and told her; “Take it. He’s going to need it for his teeth.”

Danny’s mom (and dad, for that matter) was too busy trying to keep him and Jazz fed, so Danny stole the file from her drawer with Jazz’s help, and did it himself.

He’s familiar with anger, he thought he was getting better at it these days. It doesn’t come to him as easily as it did before. Of course, that was before Jason died.

Danny is less familiar with grief. Caring kills and Gotham kills the caring, so Danny cares very little about other people. Or he tries to. But grief hurts. His grief hurts. It hurts too much. It hurts like a bug trying to crawl out of his chest; like a rat chewing a hole through his heart. Some days he wants to dig his hands into his hair and split himself down the middle. Some days he just wants to scream.

He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead.

He wants the whole city to hear him wailing, some days. It sticks itself in the back of his throat like bile, and Danny is one wrong retch away from letting it loose. It sticks in his lungs like all the tar he’s smoked in since he was nine. It pushes and aches at his temples, in his head, like his brain is trying to swell out of his skull. His thoughts becoming so loud they threaten to commandeer his tongue.

He has no mouth, but he must scream.

Something they don’t tell you about being dead is that it hurts. That it hurts more than when you were alive. Something they don’t tell you about being dead is that it’s violent. That it’s bloody. Or as bloody as it can be when everyone has no blood.

Another thing they don’t tell you about being dead, is that it’s a lot like Gotham that way.

With no threat of death, Danny’s enemies forget death itself. Blood comes easy, like water, and teeth are encouraged. Bring your own fangs to the fight. Dying is something you can just walk off.

Danny’s been dead for three months. He can’t say he’s been walking it off easy. He’s perfected the art of turning his nails into claws since his heart was still beating, but he can’t say he’s perfected fighting other ghosts.

Scrappy is just not enough.

He feels like he’s back in Gotham again. Back in her death-shroud alleyways, fighting someone bigger than him. But there’s no Jason to watch his back, and Danny has to get himself out of there alone. Or he might just not get up at all.

Black eyes, busted lips. It’s familiar to him like an old scent, Danny isn’t quite sure that he’s missed it. It’s more familiar than his fights with Dash.

But there’s no one else who can do it but him. Not Sam, not Tucker. He can’t lose them too. He can’t. He can’t. He can’t. His heart can’t take another break, he already feels like he’s going insane.

With no threat of death, Danny’s enemies fight like death themself. He learns why when Technus puts a street sign through his stomach one day. It pins him to the asphalt like a moth pinned by its wings.

Danny claws at the metal like how an animal caught in a trap chews off its leg, and every move is blinding pain. He thinks he was howling, but it’s hard to tell. He couldn’t recognize the sound of his voice.

He bleeds green. It mixes in black with the pitch blackhole in his heart, which throbs and twists and cries in time with his reckless panic. The finger-choking terror of dying again strangles out the air he doesn’t need. His blood evaporates, only to reabsorb into him. It just bleeds out again, cycling like a snake eating its own tail.

Danny breaks his nails clawing at the metal, and eventually gets it in his mind to pull it out. So he does, and the end drips ectoplasm green as he gets to his feet. In red-vision, Danny sends the sign back with snarling, vicious fervor. The pain is irrelevant in his rage.

Only after the fight does the hole the pole left start to close. Danny doesn’t shift human until it’s gone. Unlike other injuries, a scar stays behind. Ugly; mottled, it aches for a week with every twist and stretch his body makes. He hates it.

Being dead is agony.

Every part of him is in pain. Every step, every word he speaks, everything he does, it is prerequisite with pain. The body is temporary, but the soul is forever, and death has carved into it with its freezing green hands and left him with never-ending heartache. It has torn from him and stolen what of him it could, and in return it’s left him with sorrow.

His pain is his grief, and he’s sobbed in the safety of his room more times than he can count. It’s still as fresh as the day he heard the news of Jason’s death. He knows, instinctively, that it will stay fresh forever.

In his room, Danny shoves his hands over his mouth and shrieks in whatever, muffled way he can into his pillow. It’s not enough. It’s never enough. He needs to be louder. He needs to be heard. He refuses to be.

Being dead hurts.

#tw mild gore #cw mild blood #cw mentioned violence #dpxdc #dp x dc #danny fenton is not the ghost king #dpxdc crossover #dpdc #dp x dc crossover #dead on main #dp x dc au #dp x dc fanfic #cfau #cfau danny #obsessed with the fact that danny just has the WORST fucking time after jason dies and baby i can make it worse #*kills you and makes you a banshee and puts you in an irrevocable state of grief*#delicious angst. danny is having the wORSt time ever lol. lmao even #was originally meant to explore the idea that danny can survive lethal injuries as phantom. which briefly got mentioned.#but i got away from myself. leaning reaaal heavy into the fact that danny's a banshee. At 19 he's got a pretty good handle of himself #but imagine being a fresh out the gate banshee. usually they get time to themselves in the zone to cry until their heart's content.#sorry danny. you have school tomorrow and family sleeping in the bedroom next door #kinda proud of myself. you can kinda see how Rath would've occurred here.#danny is going through it rn #was gonna add a snippet about the city's thoughts on phantom but couldnt fit it in

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ro-sham-no · 3 months

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It's his first piercing, probably done against his better judgement. The guy who did it had called himself ‘Tool,’ and he was huge, taller and definitely broader than Sam. Their paths had crossed when he grabbed Sam by the waist and tugged him out of a doorway, turning to glance at him with a wink and a smile as he walked through to the kitchen. Naturally, Sam followed him.

or,

The story of Sam Winchester's safety pin initiation into the punk scene at Stanford.

cw: mild blood/gore, oral sex, wincest themes & references, under-negotiated kink (but Sam's into it, re: he's a whore)

Sam's wearing a shirt that's hopelessly sweat-stained, to go along with where it's literally dripping from his skin and too-long hair. The sweat and grime around him blend in with his own in a heady mix of adrenaline and chaos.

He's screaming his throat raw at a show, throwing fists and elbows just to stay upright along with all the other scumbags down in the pit. His height keeps him from the worst of it, but he still takes hits to his own shoulders and jaw. One solid knock gets him in the gums and makes him bite his tongue and cheek in one go, mouth filled with blood instantly.

It tastes like copper. It tastes like sex.

His blood's all thin 'cause he's drunk, so he's bleeding enough for it to drip out of his mouth- crimson spraying out as he shouts along to the lyrics, the words punchy and mean, scratching out from the back of his throat.

He's got a safety pin shoved through his swollen right earlobe, done two hours earlier in some punkhouse bog that probably carried more diseases than he cared to know about. The alcohol is making the fresh piercing drip blood down the side of his face, adding to the crusty brown trail it's already left every so often whenever his ear gets jostled by the crowd. He doesn't notice.

It's his first piercing, probably done against his better judgement. The guy who did it had called himself ‘Tool,’ and he was huge, taller and definitely broader than Sam, and he wasn't afraid to use it - bodily moving people out of the way as he moved through the overcrowded punkhouse. Their paths had crossed when he grabbed Sam by the waist and tugged him out of a doorway, turning to glance at him with a wink and a smile as he walked through to the kitchen. Sam's heart had stuttered in shock and, to his surprise, crackling waves of lust had splashed down the insides of his torso, settling into a low tingle in the spots where the man's hands had been.

It shouldn't be a surprise, though. Not really. In that moment, Tool had so effortlessly made him feel so small, so delicate, and enveloped in a way he hadn’t been since even before he'd left that godforsaken motel room, forbidden from ever returning. He hadn’t felt this specific, intoxicating facsimile of nostalgia since he’d outgrown the only confining force he’d ever known. John had tried to be that, tried to shove Sam into a box of his father’s creation, but Sam had only ever absorbed it (accepted it, needed it) from Dean.

But the feeling hadn’t left when Sam was finally big enough to win in a spar against Dean or anything like that, no. It had slowly started chipping and splintering away when Sam caught Dean kissing a girl for the first time (and then every time after that, when he caught Dean with a girl, or caught him inside one, or caught him coming home from the bar reeking of that specific girl-scent that was simultaneously exhilarating and rancid coming from his brother's skin-).

It had all finally collapsed for good when he’d just turned 17, and Dean was with a girl in the bed that they had been forced to share because they were tight on cash. It was a common enough occurrence by then, but as Sam was waiting outside the door, he heard Dean calling out the girl's name, Sam- ah- Samantha!

So, Sam hadn’t felt held, felt subsumed since then. A feeling like betrayal itched from under his skin, but he didn’t examine it. And maybe it was an illusion from the drinks he'd had already, or from the rebellious company (or from the crushing loneliness), but this random guy in a shitty punkhouse in the fringes of Palo Alto had recreated that feeling so perfectly, just with a simple, thoughtless gesture.

Naturally, Sam followed him. After a lifetime of slipping in and out of towns and spaces and people’s lives, he weaved through the crowd easily, catching up to him as he was in the depths of the punkhouse fridge (is that mold?). They bumped shoulders slightly as he stood, Sam crowded in too close, but excusably so because of the crowd. The man had two beers in hand, and he immediately shoved one of them into Sam's. Sam had a sinking feeling that the guy knew he would follow after him. He ignored it.

“New to the scene, huh? Pretty sure I would’ve remembered a face like that, otherwise,” his gaze scraped Sam raw from head to toe, jaunty smile searing itself into his brain.

Sam smiled ruefully with a nod, blush forming on his face and neck despite his best efforts. “Yeah, just moved here, so…”

He returned the other's gaze quickly, almost unconsciously- he was built, and Sam had to look up to meet his eyes, an uncommon occurrence ever since he'd outgrown John. He had an undone mohawk that was bleached to shit, basically straw- spikey and stiff in a way that suggested he usually put it up with copious amounts of heat and hairspray. Piercings littered his ears and face, with the beginnings of tattoos poking out from all edges of his crew-cut collar. He was dressed similar to Sam, layered shirts that were all various stages of slouchy, but his were all torn up, even worse than Sam's. Worn and repaired repeatedly, it seemed, safety pins and roughshod patches holding together parts of his ratty jeans, t-shirt holes exposing more glimpses of tattoos over his torso. The flash of arousal from earlier returned with a vengeance, starting up a burning heat in Sam's gut.

The guy offered him a hand, “Well, I’m Tool, then.” Sam took his hand instinctively in a firm grip before his brain caught up, right- a name, and obviously “Tool” wasn’t the guy’s government name, and duh, of course, we shouldn’t say our real names, so he scrambled to think of anything that wasn’t his own and the silence was stretching and they’d been shaking hands for slightly too long and-

“Dean! I uh. I'm… Dean.” What the fuck. DEAN?

Tool raised his eyebrow with a slow nod like, Sure it is.

Sam ducked his head with a sheepish smile in response, acknowledging, Yeah, that lie totally sucked. But it didn’t matter. Tool knew why. “Dean” knew why. It didn’t matter.

Tool let him off easy with a clap to the shoulder and a raised beer, “Welcome to the fuckin’ fold, man. Hey-” He turned to somebody slightly off to the side, keeping one hand on Sam's shoulder and using the other to jostle the person for their attention, “Hey, this guy’s a punk virgin, ‘ve you got any pins?”

He turned back to Sam, “We’ve gotta christen you, kid. You’re too clean-looking- they’ll eat you alive if you turn up to the show like that.”

A wad of safety pins, all strung together onto one bigger safety pin, sailed into the side of Tool’s head with a jingling thwack. Sam went to catch it as it fell without much thought, only belatedly noticing with a thrill how close he had to get to the other man to reach for it.

The thrower shouted a loud GOAL! that had Sam laughing as he handed over the pins, “Christen me, huh? What, one beer in, and that’s all I get?”

And if it came out a little flirty, Sam blamed the alcohol. And besides, why not? Wasn't this what college is for? Because you gave him your older brother's name as your own, THAT'S why not.

Tool grinned, “Hell yeah, dude, gotta get you deflowered.”

Sam felt the flush build on his face once more. Deflowered. He looked Tool up and down again, catching minutely on the curve of his bulge in his threadbare jeans before quickly snapping back to his face. He huffed a laugh with a casual, low-toned, “Yeah, alright.” He gestured to Tool's piercings, which gleamed tauntingly in the dim light, “You know what you're doing, right? You wanna stab me?”

A rush of satisfaction ran down his spine as the other man's gaze darkened, roaming down across his body, tongue flitting out to wet his lips as he grinned, “Dean, shit dude- I was just thinking we'd fuck up your threads. You wanna get pierced?”

DeanDeanDean-

Sam nodded, his blood thrumming. It was impulsive, sure, but he needed to get closer to this guy, to get him alone. To soak in the first familiar thing he’d experienced the whole time he’d spent in California.

Tool's grin grew sharp at his nod in a way that made Sam shiver with anticipation, the prey part of his brain lighting up in a warning that had him adjusting himself in his increasingly too-tight jeans.

“Sick, man, let’s move,” he drew out all the vowels, in that funny Californian vocal-fry way. Sam couldn’t help but think about sounds drawn out for different reasons (Sam- ah- Samantha!).

But then he was being pulled out of the kitchen via the hand that Sam hadn’t realized was still on his shoulder, though it was now migrating towards his bicep, gripping just on the right side of too-hard. Following Tool's lead, Sam drained his beer, and they tossed their crumpled cans into a pile in the corner of the kitchen as they exited.

The bathroom - more of a bog, really - was just around the corner from the kitchen, where Tool dragged him inside before shoving the half-hinged door into the frame to effectively wedge it upright and shut. Holes were punched in various places in the drywall, and it reeked of piss and various smokable substances. A lighter was helpfully attached to the (doorless) sink cabinet by a string. The floor gripped at their shoes with an undeniable stickiness.

It was foul. It was perfect.

The toilet didn’t have a lid or even a seat, so Tool guided Sam to sit on the sink counter, face now just at the chest height of his soon-to-be piercer as he stood in front of him. The hand on his arm finally left it, leaving a cold spot in its wake as Tool pulled up the hanging lighter and got one of the safety pins out of the bunch.

“You thinking of an ear?”

Sam shrugged, “Figured I should start off with something simple.” He bared his neck and ear towards the front, his hair subsequently falling down and obscuring it. Sam twitched his hand up to fix it, but Tool got to it before he could, dragging his fingers through Sam’s hair more than a few times, raking through it, soothing and nice. Sam thought it was probably just to make sure the hair stayed on the other side of his head.

He nodded at Sam’s response, flicking the lighter on under the opened safety pin. “The right one? That how you want it?” He met Sam’s eye with a raised brow. He didn’t just mean the placement of the earring.

Sam held his eye as he bit his lip, giving a slow, purposeful nod; he knew what it meant.

Tool knew what it meant, too, giving him a crooked, wry smile. “Me too, but you knew that,” he spoke out in a low register, voice caressing the air. Sam shivered, swallowing heavily and leaning into the hand that was back in his hair.

Tool used it to tilt his head slightly back into the light, letting go to line up the supposedly sterilized pin to his ear: no ice, no wipes, just a raw, soot-covered safety pin.

“Fuck, ‘s gonna look so good on you…” it came out absently like he didn’t really mean for Sam to hear it. Sam’s hand came up involuntarily to rest on the other’s waist in front of him, holding him close as he thumbed almost fondly over Sam’s ear. His hand was cupping Sam’s face in the process, big enough to fully span the side of it. He crowded in closer, to the point where Sam’s nose and chin bumped along his chest and upper abdomen (just to steady him, surely).

Sam couldn’t help but lean in, inhaling the scent of sweat and stale cigarette smoke that permeated the shirt he was now resting his face against.

He looked up to see Tool bite his lip (obviously just in concentration) as he finally began to line the safety pin up, Sam feeling the prick of it against his earlobe. “You want a warning, kid?”

Sam hummed a “no,” eyes now closed and pressed up against the man in front of him. He was held. Subsumed. At peace, even if it was just for a moment.

Tool finally grabbed his ear, bracing a finger against the back of his earlobe and holding it firm as he placed the pin against it. The pinching sensation increased sharply with the applied pressure until it quickly crested and Sam felt it stab through him, making his breath catch in a rush of pain-hot-arousal.

He slowly exhaled, though it quickly turned into a groaning hum as Tool fiddled around with the safety pin to close it, tugging and moving the pin around in a way that already ached. It shouldn't have been erotic, feeling the metal minutely slide back and forth inside of him, but it had Sam shifting uncomfortably in his jeans all the same.

The torso Sam was resting against rocked with repressed, disbelieving laughter and a muttered fuck as the fingers on his ear slid off the pin and snapped down onto his earlobe. It made a jolting, swollen pain ring dully from Sam’s ear straight down the inside of his torso, washing down low into his gut and warming him from the inside out. He managed a minute flinch, trying to keep up appearances, but it was belated and unconvincing.

In a voice full of amused apology, Tool spoke up, “You’re bleeding like a stuck pig, man, it's making it all slippery.”

Sam could feel the drops of blood already sliding down his neck, backing up his story. He laughed softly in response, giving his own muttered apology with a shrug, still resting against the other man with his eyes closed.

After a moment of continued fiddling, Tool clicked his tongue and gripped Sam’s hair none-too-gently with his less-bloody hand to pull his head back further into the light, ripping Sam away from his warm resting place. The separation caused a protest to escape the younger man’s throat before he could stop it, the pull in his hair then making his breath pick up in a way he couldn’t quite get a handle on.

Tool tsk-ed again after another failed attempt, more of that pinching, sore pain racing down Sam’s spine as he missed, making the younger man slowly open his eyes just in time to see Tool stick his bloody fingers in his mouth and then wipe them down the front of his shirt, getting them dry once more.

That was Sam’s blood in Tool’s mouth, Sam’s blood down his throat when he swallowed-

He moved his face in extra close next to Sam’s ear so he could see, breath tickling the side of his neck. He gripped Sam’s ear and the pin ever so carefully, and with a muttered fucking finally, he got it closed. He dropped his head onto Sam's shoulder, suffering a quiet bout of exasperated laughter that fanned onto Sam’s skin.

Sam laughed with him, sliding the hand he had on the man’s hip up to pat his back sarcastically, “Jesus, man, talk about a first try.”

Tool laughed harder at this, finally pulling back to wipe a hand down his face. “Fuck- Dean- I’m sorry, I swear I’ve done this before- you’re just bleeding so much, dude, it’s everywhere…” he trailed off, looking over Sam’s ear which was still tilted toward him. He bit his lip as he looked down at Sam, “It looks sick, though. You should leave it like that for the show, the blood goes hard.”

(“Fuck- Dean-”)

Sam stood up from the counter then, the two men just barely fitting between the wall and the sink as they faced each other. He still had to tilt his head up to meet Tool’s eyes, and he did so with a deceptively sweet smile that turned sharp just at the last second, “I should leave it for the show, or I should leave it for you?”

All at once, he was being manhandled again, shoved up against the opposite wall where Tool had just been standing. Tool’s hands were in his hair and gripping his face, his middle and ring fingers framing Sam's right ear and brushing the brand-new piercing in the process. Sam groaned into the thin sliver of air between them as his ear throbbed, the pain more and more insistent ever since Tool had really begun to fuck with it, trying to get it closed.

Tool was breathing heavily into the space between them, tongue darting out over his lips and looking for all the world like he was about to swallow Sam whole. Sam’s lips parted in response, inhaling on Tool's exhale, head tilted back and eyes fluttering with desire-lust-need, tauntingly pushing his chin up to tease at a kiss, trying to goad the other into it.

He succeeded, Tool moving in on cue like he aimed to devour, laying a claim he didn’t have the authority to enforce. Their lips pressed together hard, mouths opening to each other far too soon, brutal and wet and dirty. Lips got caught harshly between teeth - though Sam wasn't sure whose - and then everything tasted like blood and spit.

Kiss, “Fuck, look at you,” kiss, “just a punky little fag, huh?” kiss, “You want dick that bad,” kiss, “just willing to shout it out to everyone,” kiss, “who sees you with that pin?”

Sam was actively gasping for air, trying not to waste his limited breath on a moan but trying to nod at the words. Needy, like a whore who wouldn't even get paid by the man molesting her oh-so-perfectly, but to whom she would return over and over again, instantly addicted and helpless to it.

Tool crowded in closer and closer throughout their kiss, pressing himself in a long hard line up against Sam, up against the disgusting, smoke-stained wall. Sam gave back in kind, opening his legs to slot them further together, hot brands pressing against each other through their zippers. Tool didn’t waste a second in gripping Sam’s hips, putting one knee between both of Sam’s and hiking the younger man up his own thigh, Sam now straining on his tip-toes to accommodate the position and still keep their mouths deliciously connected.

They ground together gracelessly, Sam keeping his hands clutched around Tool’s head and neck, not unlike the way girls would often do with Dean, alternating between putting his thumbs at the man’s jaw, gripping the back of his neck, and sliding up further to grip at the strip of hair from his ‘hawk. In turn, Tool groped everywhere he could reach - Sam’s ass, his sides, his chest. Tweaking his nipples, harsh and mean, eliciting a sharp sound from the back of Sam’s throat, who pushed his chest up into the grip wantonly, encouraging, begging as the other man abused his flesh.

The caresses migrated upward, up and up until Tool was thumbing at the piercing again, Sam’s nerves lighting up with pain - sore and aching and making him weak at the knees. Such an innocuous spot of skin made into such a fiercely erogenous zone, all from a simple piercing. Entering onto a higher plane of existence that only pain can bring you to, as Sam knew well.

The tugging on his lobe made him cry out viscerally, cock throbbing in his jeans, breaking the kiss to gasp out, “Please, unh- please-”

He didn’t know what, exactly, he was asking for - he’d never even done anything like this with a man before, now just acting on pure instinct and unadulterated lust.

But Tool seemed to have an idea as he pulled his head back, panting harshly, responding, “Yeah- ah, Dean- yeah.”

He gave one more devastating grind of his thigh into Sam’s groin before ripping himself away and leaving Sam to sag against the wall with a whine. But Tool kept them connected, pushing his hands down on Sam’s shoulders until the younger man couldn’t help but fall to his knees with a painful thud onto the sticky floor.

(“Yeah- ah, Dean-”)

Tool gripped his chin with one hand and undid his belt and zip with the other, forcing Sam’s head up to face him, “You wanna be a faggot so bad, Dean? Fucking prove it.” He shoved his jeans and boxers down, letting his, fuck, extremely proportional dick swing tantalizingly in front of Sam’s face.

Sam swayed forward instinctively, mouth sagging open and eyes fluttering as he inhaled deeply, salt and days-old sweat permeating the air in a way that should’ve been revolting, but just made Sam’s cock leak in a way he could feel.

His thoughts were like syrup. Dean. A giant dick waving in his face, reeking and gorgeous. Dean. His mouth watered.

A mean laugh sounded above him, “Already cock stupid, of course. Undo your zip, but don’t take your pathetic excuse for a dick out. You won’t need it.”

Sam quickly fumbled to do as he was told, entirely cock drunk just as Tool predicted, not even comprehending the insult but turned on further nonetheless. His cockhead showed obscenely through the giant wet spot on his boxers, poking out of his jeans and catching on the zipper teeth.

“I’m gonna fuck your face, and you’re gonna like it, got it?” Sam moaned pathetically with a nod, feverishly anticipating it.

He reached his hands up to grab Tool’s hips to steady himself but was slapped away, “Hands behind your back, you don’t get to fucking touch.”

Sam hurried to comply, gripping his hands together at the small of his back, dropping his mouth open further with his tongue out instead, leaning forward desperately with an open-mouthed moan to try and get Tool’s cock in his mouth. Aching to get his first ever taste of man-sweat-sex - real and tangible, not just something he could faintly smell on Dean's skin after midnight in a motel room.

Tool’s hands gripped his hair painfully tight, making Sam’s dick weep into the fabric covering it. The hands held his face back, pushing his head into the wall and keeping it there, pinning his arms and hands awkwardly between his back and the wall. The man shuffled forward, shoving a boot between Sam’s legs as he went, Sam’s hips fucking forward onto it even as he tried to stop himself, trying to be good.

Sam kept his jaw limp, eyes crossing as he focused on Tool’s dick as it pushed forward. Tool used Sam’s hair to tilt his head this way and that, rubbing his cockhead against his face, demeaning and dreamy, wiping pre-cum all over. Sam was whimpering embarrassingly with each initiation of contact, twitching his face to try and tilt it into his mouth.

Finally, Tool acquiesced, muttering through a laugh, fucking cockslut.

The slide over Sam’s tongue was slow and oh-so-blissful, Tool feeding him his dick steadily and not stopping, even when Sam gagged, instead pushing further into Sam’s throat with a groan. He kept it there, adjusting Sam’s head slightly to rub the crown over the closure of Sam’s throat, making him cough and wretch further, completely unused to the stretch in his esophagus.

He was tearing up enough as he gagged that it spilled onto his cheeks, head in a haze as his oxygen was cut off. Through the haze, Sam idly noted that it must’ve been his lip that split earlier, during the kiss, as the drag of Tool’s dick into his mouth brought in a fresh wave of blood that made the truly eye-watering taste all the more sweet.

Tool finally started to fuck into Sam’s mouth, pushing Sam’s head against the wall and drawing back with his hips just to thrust forward, again and again, at an entirely heady pace.

He grabbed roughly at the piercing, clearly an obsession at this point, groping Sam’s bleeding ear with a sickeningly smug moan, muttering, “Getting so wet, fuck,” as he shoved his cock further down Sam’s newly devirginized throat, his fingers covered in Sam’s blood.

Sam gave an instinctive, unavoidably high-pitched squeal that came out garbled and obscene, combined as it was with the disgustingly thick, wet sounds of getting face fucked within an inch of his life. He twitched uselessly, both into and away from the grip on his ear, indecisive of wanting or hating it, effectively rocking into the rhythm set by Tool’s hips. The man let go at his squeal but moaned with the vibrations, clearly expecting the response and reveling in it.

After his ear was let go, the movement of Tool’s legs was enough to draw Sam's attention back to his own neglected groin, the steel-reinforced toe of Tool’s boot shifting against and underneath him, shoved far back enough to tease at his balls. It ground into him almost painfully hard and without remorse, ratcheting up Sam’s arousal further and further, the combined sensations of the pressure from Tool’s shoe and the friction from his own zipper and boxers entirely intoxicating.

Sam’s head kept knocking into the wall with the force of Tool's thrusts, arousal too twisted up in his guts to brace himself, and the man above him not doing a thing to stop it. It was disorienting, more than the blood leaking into his mouth or from the side of his head or even the distinct lack of air making its way into his lungs, keeping him solely focused on the repetitive thud-thud-thud of his head slamming into the wall.

He barely had enough cognizance left to register the deep uh-uh-uhs that Tool was steadily letting out in time with his set rhythm. His breath was getting harsher and harsher, hands turning fidgety and restless, accidentally wiping blood further onto Sam’s face. It was far enough forward on his cheekbone that Sam could look down and see it, a deep, shiny crimson.

It was all Sam could do to stay upright, compliant like putty in Tool’s hands, dutifully gasping in air when allowed, and obediently keeping up as much suction as he could manage, even though his jaw ached with it, unused to the awkward strain. All of it combined to raise Sam increasingly higher into the aether, senses inundated with the thrillingly new and yet heartbreakingly familiar ministrations of masculine domination.

Sam was fucking up onto Tool’s boot in earnest now, whining and twisting in place, desperate for friction but keeping his arms demurely locked behind his back, willingly following orders for the first time in his life. He blinked pretty cocksucker tears out of his eyes as he let his gaze roam over Tool’s figure in front of him, taking in as much as he could, memorizing it, leading Tool to meet his eyes with a punched-out groan, reaching down to thumb away a tear track on Sam’s cheek.

“Fuck, you’re so pretty like this. Gorgeous little whore, drooling all over the place,” he pressed his boot up even further under Sam’s dick as he continued to slam into the back of Sam’s throat, making Sam drive onto it harder, Tool’s laces and his own jeans’ zipper chafing his cock raw. “That’s it, slut, grind that dick on me… ‘s it turning you on, getting off on my boot like that? Bet you’d wanna get stepped on, huh? You’d let me grind you into the fuckin’ floor.”

Sam nodded with a pitiful moan, inhibited by his mouthful but captivated by the imagery of Tool’s words, hips pumping and surging forward erratically, pushing him humiliatingly closer to the edge. So, so close, but it wasn’t enough, tears of frustration welling up as he just couldn’t quite manage to get there.

Tool read the expression on Sam’s face like a book and laughed at him, gripping his hair tight, “Aw, Dean, you’re so close… What's stopping you? Not a good enough whore to get off on just this?”

Sam lit up with simultaneous shame and arousal, his brother’s name firing up neurons he didn’t know existed, sending nauseating arousal racing right through him, reeking of guilt and disgust.

Tool’s own rhythm was starting to falter now, jostling Sam’s whole frame as he started pulling his face forward to meet his thrusts. He was biting his lip, not focused on Sam at all - using him like a toy, just a cocksleeve for him to fuck.

In his distraction, he moved his grip from Sam’s hair to the sides of his head, clutching around the back of it with his fingertips and subsequently grinding the palms of his hands into Sam’s ears, smashing Sam’s bloody earlobe and safety pin harshly between his hand and Sam’s skull-

An absolutely wrecked, screaming moan ripped its way out of Sam’s throat, tears instantly pouring down his cheeks from the sharp, violent pain. He choked and gagged on the cock in his mouth, torso twisting around involuntarily with the raw intensity of it, completely electrifying. The cumulative tenderness of a fresh piercing that had been fucked with over and over again in such a short time ultimately resulted in a specific kind of agony, unlike anything Sam had ever felt. Unlike being shot, stabbed, scratched, bitten - unlike even a thumb being shoved inside an infected wound, which was its own special sort of pain.

A fresh wave of blood poured out from Sam’s ear, splashing all warm and wet down the side of his neck as Tool pulled away, startled by the sound of his scream. The air filled with the smell of rust.

The hot-mean-lightning sensation still rang through Sam’s system even after Tool let go, forcing him deliciously close to the edge. His hands shot forward to grip Tool’s leg and keep it from escaping, exerting the strength he’d gained from years of grappling big, buff older brothers. Trapping Tool’s leg between his own, thrusting against it, keeping the man's cock deep in the recesses of his throat.

The pain, the smell of blood, the cocksucking adrenaline - they all combined to finally, finally scratch the itch in his brain just right, and he shot over the edge with a wail, coming so hard he could see stars. He kept thrusting against Tool’s leg through his orgasm, pinning him against the sink and humping him like a dog, whining and scrabbling with his hands against anything he could grab, ending up with fistfuls of denim and cotton and the skin underneath.

He pulsed shot after shot of hot, sticky release into his boxers, all drawn out as he felt Tool’s dick twitch and throb in his throat as he clutched at Sam’s hair with a stunned, moaned-out warning of his own release, shaking apart above him. Sam drew back just enough to get the satisfaction of salty, bitter come sliding down the back of his tongue and throat as he swallowed it down with a moan.

He kept suckling and teasing at the man’s dick, feeling more than a little mean now that his high was starting to taper off, still forcing Tool up against the sink and making him just take it.

“A-ah! Stop- dude,” he was actively pushing at Sam’s head now, voice a little shaky, which made Sam laugh around him before he gave one final sucking, too-rough pull on his cock, just to be an asshole, and then finally letting him go.

Sam leaned back against the wall, collapsing into (more than slightly hysterical) giggles, still a little drunk, high off of adrenaline and remembering Tool’s scared reaction when he’d screamed in pain, which was supremely funny to him in that moment, for whatever reason.

Tool shoved his pants up past his ass in an attempt to save himself from potential health hazards and then collapsed down to the disgusting floor with him, joining in on the laughter as they both panted through the sharp afterglow. They were soaked with sweat, clothes and hair wet with it, more than a little blood spread between them, belatedly drying on their skin as they cooled down.

They sat for a second before Tool spoke up, infuriatingly smug, “Dude, your ear is gonna be so fucked.”

And when Tool didn't make it to the show later? Well, Sam thought, surely his freshly-broken nose had nothing to do with it.

#5k+ words #bloody sam winchester #my beloved #do NOT @ me about the accuracy of the 90s NorCal punk scene okay #i wasn't there i'm SORRY #(#18+#under-negotiated kink #mild blood and gore #wincest #but only mentioned/referenced #sam winchester/original male character #spn #sam winchester #punk sam winchester #ro writing tag #)

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desultory-novice · 9 months

Note

I found out that if you layer the True Arena Mix (Phase 2) of OVERLORD on top of itself, you get this sort of tinny Magolor voice.

Perhaps you could use this info for Mechalor?

Ooh, neat! I ought to try that! And I suppose I could use...

...Wait....

In the True Arena Mix...

...Magolor is crying for help....

...

You all do remember how Mechalor was born right?

...

I DID say that Mechalor loves to shock people by casually info dumping his gory death and rebirth in TMI levels of detail but it seems even he has a soft spot for Kirby...?

That or he doesn't want to be caught in a moment of weakness...

(And yes, he did insist everyone start calling him "Mechalor." He'll viciously tease anyone who doesn't! Marx is still his friend :cough: and more :cough: in this universe and calls him "Magolor" anyway. He's the only person Mechalor begrudgingly allows this from.)

#Mechalor #What happens when you mention 'True Arena' to Dess #Dess haven't you killed enough characters for one night?!#I-I'll draw some fluff or something tomorrow...#Dess Comic #CW: mild horror #CW: blood #CW: character death #CW: angst #Implied Marxolor in the comments #Magolor #Dess Sketch #Crowned Marx + Clockwork Mechalor

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rose-riot-johnson · 17 days

Note

So Rose! As per usual I'm gonna request Hitoshi.

But I want to hear about a freshly turned vampire Hitoshi having hidden his turning into a being of the darkness. Then finds himself nearly fainting and due to lack of blood. They figure out and offer themselves to him as his source of feeding. So he vows to stay loyal and only feed on them (as they're established partners already) :)

Hi @hitoshisbf 😃This request of yours definitely sounds fun to write about😁👍Also this is my first time I recall writing any character, as a vampire, so I will see what I can do with writing this requested Hitoshi Shinsou fanfic🧛😃👍And as usual (if not always) pertaining the fanfics you requested I will be writing the reader as they/them reader😁👍

*This fanfic contains 1 or more long paragraphs😅

💜🧛(Adult) Shinsou The Newly Vampire🧛💜 (Hitoshi Shinsou x They/Them reader)

Genres: Mild Angst (Warning⚠️: Blood and Mentions Of Blood)

Your pro hero boyfriend, Hitoshi Shinsou, used to fight crime especially during the day, however after he came home from defeating a villain, things have changed. While it's good he has been sleeping better than usual, however he's been trying sleep in complete darkness during the day, then he has been fighting crime during nighttime. It's mainly fire and sunlight that he doesn't want around him for some reason. You just knew he was hiding something (if not multiple things) from you.

Then one night you gave noticed Hitoshi Shinsou has been nearly fainting, and when you got up close to his face you noticed fangs, as you asked him, "Are you a vampire? If yes, then why didn't you tell me?", as you had your suspicions about Shinsou becoming a freshly turned vampire, being the reason why he has become unlike his usual self. Shinsou then answered, "Yes, I'm a vampire now, (They/Them Reader Name)... You must understand... It has only been recent that this happened... I was fighting a vampire villain and he must have bitten me before I defeated him... After I defeated him, that's when sunlight has been bothering me... The reason why I haven't told you is, because I don't know if you would see me as nothing more than a monster and treat me differently... I'm afraid you wouldn't have love me anymore, if you were to find out I became a vampire, no matter the reason...".

While you weren't shocked about him being a vampire, you were really shocked about his reason why he kept the fact he became a new vampire, as long as he did. You then replied, "So this is why you kept this from me, Shinsou... I wish you would have told me! I don't care, if you're a human or a vampire... I would have still love you the same! If you would have told me sooner, you wouldn't have been nearly fainting like this! Here... Take my blood... You're lacking blood, which is why you're fainting! I gave read plenty of books especially manga and comic books about why newly vampires faint and that they need blood to survive... It's essential that you take some of my blood, atleast once in a while, for you to stay alive, Hitoshi!". Shinsou had to think about this for a minute before replying back, "If it's the only way to stay alive, fine then... However my vow to is that I will stay loyal to you and I will only feed off you... I refuse to feed off anyone else... Only you, (They/Them Reader Name)...".

You understood what he meant and agreed on his vow, as you then have him bite you, inorder for him to be able to feed off you. After the moment of his first time feeding off you, not only he feels like he's no longer fainting, he also decided he's going to take care of you, since you did willingly decide to be his source of feeding. Eversince then, the both of you have been taking care of eachother and never looking back.

🧛💜The🩸End💜🧛

Okay my Tumblr Peeps I hope you enjoyed the first fanfic I involved any character being a vampire, even if it's a freshly turned vampire🧛😁👍As for you Aevyn I hope I did well with writing this Vampire Shinsou fanfic😃👍As for genres I think mild angst is all of could think of using as genres considering How I have written the fanfic and stuff that is requested with the fanfic😅🧛😃👍

#rose riot writings #rose riot johnson #fanfic written by rose riot johnson #rose riot answers #request answered by rose riot johnson #vampire Hitoshi Shinsou #vampire shinsou #vampire Hitoshi #vampire shinso #hitoshi shinso imagine #hitoshi shinsou x reader #shinsou hitoshi x reader #hitoshi shinsō #hitoshi shinso x reader #shinsou x reader #hitoshi x reader #mentions of blood #tw blood #mild angst

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herearedragons · 3 months

Text

Homecoming

(3,876 words; Dorian/m!Lavellan; angst, post-Trespasser)

written for a Florence + The Machine prompt from @greypetrel : “Can you protect me from what I want? The lover who let me in, who left me so lost?”

read on AO3

On a summer night, the Pavus estate stands empty.

Not empty of visitors or of the presence of its owner - empty of everyone. There are no guards at the gates or in the garden; no cooks in the kitchen; no servants in the hallways. Its rooms are cold and unlit, illuminated only by moonlight breaking through the large windows and painting bright geometric shapes over surfaces and decorations.

In the study upstairs, one of those shapes falls directly over an armchair with a small wooden table by its side. On the table, a freshly opened bottle of wine; in the chair, the last remaining resident of the estate raises a glass to his lips, appreciating the fine vintage.

A staff rests balanced on his knees. An artisan dwarven clock with twelve handles ticks away on the wall beside him.

Magister Dorian Pavus drinks his wine, and waits for the man who is supposed to come kill him.

“All staff have been escorted off the premises, Magister.”

“Marvelous; thank you, Valeria.”

The captain of his guards regards him with a look that is familiar: respect, alertness - and the slightest hint of suspicion. She is saying, without speaking a single word aloud: you are behaving unusually, and I would like to know whether my job of keeping you alive is about to get harder.

“What are our orders?” she asks.

Unfortunately, she will not like the answer Dorian has for her.

“Go home,” he says. “Forget everything you’ve seen and heard here today.”

If she has an immediate reaction to his words, it doesn’t register on her face. Wait, no - it does, just very subtly; a slight tilt of her head to the side, a twitch of her brow.

She’s saying: excuse me?

“Magister, I beg your pardon, but I’ve been led to understand that someone will attempt to assassinate you tonight.”

Valeria is highly professional. A slight emphasis on the word “assassinate” is all she allows herself as an attempt to communicate extreme incredulity to her employer.

“Exactly - and I want you to be as far away as possible when it happens.” He sees the resistance brewing beneath her composed exterior and adds, quickly, before she has a chance to speak again: “This is an order.”

The resolve drains from her at once; an expression of defiance becomes one of defeat. She will not argue; this is above her station.

“Yes, Magister.”

Her tone, though subdued, is unbearably miserable; he can’t possibly end the conversation on this note.

“Oh, don’t look so grim; you don’t have to shop for a new employer quite yet,” Dorian says. “I can assure you that I have every intention to survive the night - and, when I do, I’d like to have your services still available to me. That last part will be tricky if you are dead; reanimated guards have fallen out of fashion, I’m told.”

Confusion, writ large across her face; the veneer of professionalism broken.

“This is about protecting me ?”

“This is about protecting all of you, if I can help it. You are very skilled, and I would trust you with my life - I do , in fact, trust you with my life, regularly - against any threat but this one. If you are here when he comes, you’ll be in his way, and you will die.”

Her brow furrows. He’s gotten through to her; there was enough gravity in his words to make her realize that his decision to send her away isn’t a foolish whim.

“And yet you will survive… him?”

“I certainly plan to. Now - ” Dorian raises an eyebrow - “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

Valeria nods shortly and hastily collects herself; their little moment of eye-to-eye sincerity has passed.

“Of course.” She hesitates. “...Have a good evening, Magister.”

The setting sun shines in bright oranges and reds on the back of her armor as she walks away.

In the moonlit garden of the estate, there are shadows.

Their presence is subtle and easily overlooked. Their footsteps make no sound; their clothes blend perfectly with the dark greens and grays of the night, hiding them behind pillars and in foliage, in solid blocks of shadow and in the mottled patterns of bright moonlight filtering through leaves.

There are twenty-seven of them, in total. Fifteen serve the Divine, and have traveled to Minrathous in secret from various corners of Thedas. The remaining twelve are Dalish, who have made the long, long trek from Wycome to one of the most dangerous places for their kind - just to be here tonight.

Some of them are on the outer side of the fence. None of them are inside the building. They are scattered across the perimeter, and, when the intruder comes, they will make no attempt to stop him.

They are not a wall keeping him out; they are the iron teeth of the bear trap, waiting to close on him once he has taken the bait.

The morning sun reflects off the crystal embedded in his transmitter amulet, each facet polished to perfection. He’d be able to spot his reflection in one of those quite easily, had he tried.

He doesn’t.

“Tonight, then,” Dorian says. “Are you sure?”

A small blue glow ignites inside of the crystal for a fraction of a moment, indicating that his message has been sent properly. Some seconds pass as the other party speaks their response, and then the amulet vibrates with the familiar voice of the Inquisition’s former spymaster - or, as she is more widely known these days, Divine Victoria.

As always, the sound of her speech comes with a pinprick of irritation in his chest. This is not what this amulet is for, and no, he has not gotten over that gripe after four years of it being used in this way.

Still, it would be foolish not to use it at all. The ability to instantly communicate between Minrathous and Val Royeaux has granted them an immense advantage in their hunt.

“As usual, we don’t have much evidence when it comes to his intentions - but what we do have shows that it is likely.”

Dorian allows himself a moment to process her words, taking his thumb off the back of the amulet so that it would not record and send the sound of him taking a deep breath and slowly releasing it, with only the slightest shudder at the end.

He always knew that this was a possibility; hoped for it, even, on some of the worst (and best) days.

He tries to parse his own feelings. Fear is certainly present, his self-preservation instinct kicking in (good - it’s still working). There is also anxiety - different from fear; the vague tremble of uncertainty rather than a call to action - and something like… excitement.

Hope, even?

No. Not hope. He’s made some good progress from the point of denying himself hope for anything at all, but hoping for the best in this particular scenario feels too daunting.

Excitement, however, is something he can definitely work with. He did always love a challenge.

The amulet vibrates in his palm again.

“Is everything alright?”

He puts his thumb back on the warm copper.

“Never mind the pause; I’m still here. Now, what are our plans for tonight?”

The Magister finishes his glass of wine and sets it aside. He looks at the bottle for a moment too long, but does not reach for it.

This was his first and last glass for tonight. It was certainly good, even though he could barely taste it after the first sip; his mind is elsewhere, try as he might to anchor himself in the present.

For a moment, he thinks that he hears footsteps echoing downstairs, but he dismisses the thought. The sentries will not enter the building - and it couldn’t have been him , either.

His hand, idle without the glass, moves to rest on the grip of his staff.

The Magister knows: when he shows up, no one will hear any footsteps.

The first of the Dalish arrive soon after Valeria leaves.

Two figures at his front gate; two elven women with scarves on their heads, their faces bare, carrying large baskets. Servants; no one would look twice.

Through the study window, Dorian sees the taller of the two set her basket down and stretch; as she does, her hands form the signal gesture that was described to him.

He activates the spell inscribed into the wrought iron, and the gates swing open of their own accord, letting the two women inside.

He comes downstairs just as the front door opens. The first thing to cross the threshold is is one the baskets, which look even more enormous up close; the women haul them in and set them down unceremoniously, the shorter of the two slamming the door shut behind her.

Both of them acknowledge him with a brief glance before beginning to furiously wipe their faces with their scarves, removing the thick layer of makeup that was necessary to hide their vallaslin.

“Would you like some water?” he asks.

The taller - and older - woman takes the scarf away from her face, meeting his eyes in earnest for the first time. Hers are brown and warm, just as he remembers; her hair, also a painfully familiar brown, has more grey streaks than it did the last time he’d seen her.

Four years and six months ago.

His last visit to Wycome before he left for Minrathous; the last time he has seen her son.

“Would you like some water” is not, by any means, an adequate greeting for the situation they’re in, but - even after years of imagining their next conversation - he doesn’t have anything better.

To his own surprise, Dorian realizes that a significant amount of his fear has nothing to do with the impending attempt on his life, and everything to do with meeting her again.

Adria Lavellan smiles - a small, humorous smile; just a quirk of her lips and a slight rise of her eyebrows - and nods.

“Yes, thank you. Both to drink and to wash up.”

Nothing about her tone or demeanor is hostile. She’s friendly, and the attitude she projects suggests that she is genuinely glad to see him again.

Something in his chest tightens and tightens until it hurts. He tries to say something in response, but finds his mind horrifyingly blank, and his tongue heavy.

He silently nods and walks away.

More elves arrive. Most of them come in pairs; some come in a group of three, or alone. All in the guise of servants.

Many of them carry baskets. Inside - armor, weapons and traps.

The sun disappears below the horizon, the sky painted twilight purple in its absence.

When he speaks to Adria again, she has donned a set of ironbark armor - her husband’s finest work, no doubt - and is in the process of stringing a longbow.

It’s strange to see her like this. Every time Dorian has met her in the past, she wore dresses and aprons and seemed to prefer the role of hearthkeeper; here, she is in charge of a party of eleven, armed to the teeth.

He starts by complimenting her armor. She thanks him with the same small smile; still unbelievably non-hostile. She compliments his house in turn.

Be it any other person, Dorian would have interpreted her attitude as cleverly disguised contempt - but this is Adria Lavellan ; he knows her, and he knows the son she raised, and she would not lie to him.

He wants to ask her a question.

How -

No, why -

Does she -

“I’m sorry that I couldn’t write to you,” Adria says all of a sudden. “If the Inquisition was still around, they could have gotten my letter to Minrathous - but without them, I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

She’s throwing him a lifeline, giving him an easy topic for conversation - and, shamefully, he elects to take it.

There is, at least, a question he can ask here.

“…Why would you want to write to me?“

The words come out without his usual flair. Flat. Vulnerable.

Thank the Maker that no one else seems to be listening, for the moment.

She regards him kindly with her warm, brown eyes.

“I lost my parents and my first husband almost at the same time. I remember what it feels like; I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. I’m glad that you held up well.”

“…Well. Yes.” Dorian clears his throat. “I try. I - “

This is the perfect place to say something clever, perhaps some witty remark about his father’s demise, but the words do not come. This woman’s presence is equal parts comforting and terrifying to him, and it causes his brain to stop working.

He must do something about this. Now . He absolutely cannot remain a bumbling fool around - around his - around Neilar’s mother.

Dorian takes a deep breath.

“Why are you so calm?” he asks. “Why - “ his voice quivers - “Why are you not furious with me?”

A slight frown appears on her face as she parses his words.

“Well,” she says after a moment’s pause, “Those are two questions, and I’ll answer both. Why am I so calm: I’m not. I’m worried, and scared, and angry, and many other things - but those feelings are for me, not for the world. Sharing them with the world right now won’t help me or my children. And for the second question, I’m not aware of anything I should be furious about.” She tilts her head to the side slightly and perks up her left ear, which is closest to him. “ Have you done something I should be angry about?”

…Yes? No? He has spent countless sleepless nights trying to answer this exact question, and he still has no idea.

Is he to blame for what happened? Should he have postponed his return to Tevinter? Should he have been more thorough with his questions when he spoke to her son through the amulet that is now being held by the Divine?

Should he have dragged him away from that bloody Well by force before he could ever drink?

“I don’t know,” Dorian says.

Adria’s gaze lingers on him for a moment, inspecting him.

Judging?

Then, she nods and turns her attention back to the bow.

“I don’t blame you for what happened,” she says. “Not any more than I blame him. Everything you two did, you did out of love, and it was right; now we must deal with the consequences. I don’t like those consequences, but I don’t think that you could have chosen to do anything differently. If you could, you would have been different people.”

It’s not forgiveness or absolution, but it is something much more precious: acceptance.

A creature walks through an empty hall.

Despite the dry summer night, beads of condensation shimmer on the edges of its form. Its movements make no sound, save for a faint dripping noise.

The creature has taken nineteen lives so far. Thirteen throats slit open, bodies found in pools of their own blood; three of them Dalish Keepers, one a First. One a Tevene Magister.

Six more bodies found drowned or strangled, floating face-down in a body of water or inexplicably buried in undisturbed soil. All six served what remained of the Inquisition; all six died on duty.

Thirteen assassinations. Six casualties.

In the Magister’s study, the temperature begins to drop.

He was right - there are no footsteps. In fact, there is nothing at all; not even an ominous whisper on the wind, a creaking door or the howling of wolves in the night to herald the intruder’s arrival.

The doorway is empty. Then, Dorian blinks, and it’s not empty anymore.

His only exit out of the study that isn’t a window is blocked by a wraith with glowing eyes the color of veilfire. The dark figure stands unmoving just past the threshold, every detail of it obscured by shadow.

Tonight is the night.

His entire body tenses as fight-or-flight kicks in; he forces himself to relax again, easing back into the chair. He remembers the investigations of previous murders; the target was never struck on sight. There will be a trigger, something that will set off the assault.

Outside, twenty-seven fighters are getting into position.

“You came, then,” Dorian says. His voice does not betray him, thank the Maker; it manages to produce the exact amount of sarcastic aloofness he had hoped for. “And all I needed to do was to get rid of my guards and staff and sit alone in the dark for a couple of hours. Who knew it was that easy?”

The figure steps forward, over the threshold and into the rectangle of moonlight streaming in from behind Dorian’s back. At once, it ceases to be a shadow and becomes a material presence.

A revenant.

His face is pale in the moonlight, the green vallaslin of Ghilan’nain appearing dark grey. Scratches and dirt on every visible part of his skin; grown-out, unkempt hair with leaves and twigs caught in it. Eyes glassy, pupils glowing veilfire green.

When he speaks, his voice is low and rasping, barely familiar - but familiar nonetheless.

A single word.

“Vhenan.”

Fuck. He can’t do this. This is too much - this is wrong - he can’t -

No. It’s too late now. Either he sees this through, or he dies.

“Amatus,” Dorian states dryly. “Long time no see. Next time you decide to become possessed and disappear forever, maybe leave a note? ‘Dear Dorian, just letting you know that I’ll be away for a while. The ancient spirits I let into my brain have finally claimed my soul and I’m going to spend four and a half years murdering people on their behalf. You were right about everything and I should have listened to you. Love, Neilar.’ ”

It feels good, at least. Sure, he’s just rambling to buy a few more minutes for the people outside - but, while he’s at it, he might as well get some things off his chest.

Now that he’s been forced to work through the fear and the guilt at an incredibly fast pace, all that’s left is anger; quite a hefty amount of it, with the name of this glassy-eyed idiot written on it in giant glowing letters.

“Or how about using the amulet? You know - the magical marvel I invented specifically for the purpose of talking to you? It didn’t cross your mind to maybe mention all the sleepwalking and speaking in tongues that was happening? No! It’s all I’m alright, Dorian , and things are fine, Dorian , and I have to spend a month wondering if the amulet is broken before Leliana calls to tell me that you’re gone - ”

A sharp edge against his throat, clutched in ironbark fingers. Appearing without the warning of sound or motion, like Neilar himself.

The others should be about ready by now, shouldn’t they?

Neilar speaks. Ancient elven.

Dorian understands every word; he’s been doing his homework on everything elven and ancient ever since the disappearance.

“The will of Mythal demands your demise.”

The blade presses deeper - fuck - no, not deep enough to end it.

It takes all of his willpower not to start casting. Not yet. This isn’t just about saving his own hide; this is about capturing him for good.

The signal. Any second now. Surely -

“...Hold on, just a second - he’s not peeking, right?” Dagna asks, adjusting buckles and leather straps.

“I can’t - he’s covering my eyes!” Neilar protests.

His eyelashes tickle the inside of Dorian’s palms, as if to prove the point.

“Well, good - keep covering them. It’s all wonky and misaligned and you’re not allowed to see it until it sits right.”

Dorian can relate to her fretting. This particular project was, in many ways, a work of passion, and the necessity to finish it as soon as possible only added to the frantic energy of everyone involved. His own part was relatively small; he chimed in at the design stage and provided some arcane support at the tail end of the process, drawing on his necromantic knowledge of animating limbs.

It looks good, though. It should also work well; they’d checked everything a thousand times over.

Dagna finishes the adjustments and leans back to inspect her work from afar. Satisfied, she nods:

“Alright, let him see it.”

He takes his hands away from Neilar’s eyes and steps aside, making sure that he can see Neilar’s expression as he looks at his new prosthetic.

The look in his eyes is blank, at first, processing what he’s looking at. Then - surprise, curiosity; he leans closer to the artificial arm, inspecting it for details.

“Try holding it up to your face instead,” Dagna suggests.

“But how do I - ”

“Don’t think about it too much! Just do it.”

The arm moves, rising up to eye level and turning, allowing Neilar to look at it from different angles.

Silverite-inlaid ironbark, the metallic parts lovingly engraved with images of vines and halla.

Dorian can see the exact moment when Neilar finds the writing hidden among the designs. His lips move silently as he reads the text.

The same quote in elven, dwarven and Tevene, snaking along the vines:

“Wounded and blinded, I will find my way home.”

A line adapted from the tale of Ghilan’nain, changed ever so slightly to make it into an oath; the same oath Neilar had taken, years ago, upon completing the trial to earn him a place among the clan’s scouts.

Despite the recent revelations from Solas, it seemed appropriate. Dorian doesn’t remember who was the first to float the idea for adding text, but the approving look he received from Taren - Neilar’s father - upon suggesting that particular quote has been firmly burned into his memory.

And yet… This is all fine and good, but the most important question is -

“It’s… perfect.” Neilar sounds almost puzzled, as if liking their gift is a surprise to him. “I didn’t know what it would look like, but now - I can’t imagine it looking any other way.”

Dorian feels something inside of him deflate with relief. Neilar keeps inspecting the prosthetic, turning it this way and that, then starts playing with it, testing how far the fingers can bend and how quickly he can shift from one gesture to another.

It’s not as good as the real thing, it’s a little slower; Dorian knows that for a fact.

Still, right now Neilar doesn’t seem to mind; after messing with the hand some more, he shifts his attention to Dagna and pulls her into a hug, thanking her. Then, it’s Dorian’s turn.

The hug is tight enough to make his ribs hurt.

For the first time in weeks, it feels as if everything will be alright, after all.

A sharp whistle cuts through the silence.

Neilar freezes, both ears perked up. Distracted.

At the sound of the signal, relief floods Dorian's system. He feels the corners of his mouth twist into a smile of their own accord.

“I still love you, for the record,” he says, “But letting you slit my throat is a little too much, don’t you think?”

With a snap of his fingers, the lightning glyph he’d drawn on the floor of the study hours ago detonates.

#dragon age #dragon age inqusition #dorian pavus #dorian x inquisitor #pavellan #inquisitor lavellan #dragon age fanfic #dragon age fanfiction #mild swearing #oc: neilar lavellan #herearedragons writing #IT'S DONE #uh #tw: death mention #tw: grief #tw: blood mention

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pickleking8 · 10 months

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6 - Adoption Isn't All It's Cracked Up To Be - Chapter Six

Hello! Sorry it's been so long, I just didn't feel like writing for a bit, but I got to read a lot of the comments people left me and that gave me a lot of motivation! So thank you. Anyway, this chapter is a lot shorter than the others, but I hope you enjoy it regardless.

Words: 548

Ao3 Link

Previous - Next - Masterpost

TW: discussion/mention of kidnapping, blood (all pretty mild)

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Jazz’s feet thumped against the uneven floorboards as she paced frantically across the hotel room. Much of the space was taken up by the worn bed, and her vision filled abruptly with a decrepit wall every couple of laden steps. She was growing quite familiar with these walls, with their peeling paint and scuffed baseboards and various patterns of decay. She kept pacing.

Eventually, the feeling of something trickling down her thumb brought her to attention, and she pulled her fingers away from her teeth to find her thumb bleeding, the nail rough and jagged from hours of worrying, the rest of her fingers not far behind.

If she was being honest, she felt rather jagged herself. Normally, her thoughts behaved like a brick wall, with her as the bricklayer. Neat, regulated rows of clay stacking upon one another and forming a solid, reliable foundation. Now, though, her thoughts splintered, like a broken mirror. A reflection distorted in the glass, showing a cracked and broken body, adorned with sharp, bloody edges. Creating gaps and shards that scattered everywhere, leaving Jazz to desperately try to put it all back together. It might have been in vain, though, for the biggest hole was missing, and nowhere to be found.

Now, if there were really a mirror, one would assume that the hole would reside over Jazz’s heart, showcasing a spiderweb of harsh edges tinted green spiking out from it and piercing each and every facet of her thoughts. One might also assume that Jazz, though perhaps only in the part of her mind where her secrets were kept, would name that hole Danny.

Did you know that mirrors are green? Jazz did. Jazz hated green. It was everywhere, she noticed it all the time now. She’d always marveled at the slight green glow that Danny seemed to create. She never imagined how bright and how glaring it would be when compared with crimson. Jazz didn’t like green, anymore.

Ok. Deep breaths.

Danny had been gone for six hours, thirty seven minutes, and nearly forty five seconds. Possibly even longer, she had no idea when he had left or been taken.

Fuck, how could she have let this happen? Again? Danny, her sweet, wonderful baby brother, who babbled about stars and carried so much in life, was gone. Taken, probably, once more. Something must be wrong, or he would have come back by now. He would have at least let her know. He would have. (Or maybe he’s already gone, her mind whispered).

Was it her parents? (No, not your parents, not anymore; a quiet reminder) Or the GIW? Or both?

The whispers didn’t stop. They didn’t stop. In fact, they only grew in volume, becoming a torrent of voices that creaked and splintered and broke, jumping from accusation to accusation, pounding at her head and creating a cacophony that she couldn’t escape.

It’s all your fault…

You failed again..

He’s gone again.

He’s been taken again!

You failed again!

Repeating over and over and over, the words built into a hurricane, the fractured pieces of her mind coming together to form a howling storm made of dark clouds and freezing rain, swirling into a single purpose:

To get her brother back.

And next, to make those who took Danny pay.

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Next - Masterpost

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So, that's it! Sorry again that it was so short, but I hope you liked it! If you have any constructive criticism to offer, I would be happy to hear it. I hope to be able to get some more chapters out, but then again school's starting, so we'll see. Thank you for reading!

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Taglist: @tkiesai

#dcxdp #dpxdc #danny phantom #jazz fenton #batman #red hood #dp x dc crossover #my fic #tw kidnapping mention #tw blood mention #all pretty mild #please give me constructive criticism #this one took me a while but i hope you liked it

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this-world-of-beautiful-monsters · 10 months

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The fact that queerphobia is treated as “free speech” and being queer where other people can see is treated as a sex crime to be prosecuted by the fucking national government makes me want to bury myself in a hole and scream until I spit blood.

#mild vent #blood mention #yes this is about #kosa bill #stop kosa #fuck kosa #anti censorship #fuck the supreme court #fuck amerikkka #queerphobia #homophobia #queer #the same people begging the government to raise their kids for them #are the ones who don't want to pay taxes for community support #lgbtqia+#lgbtqia+ pride

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neonpaperlanterns · 2 months

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Promises never made

[A/n: I hurt my own feelings writing this. But I'm having fun though]

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the brief precious seconds before the slim needle pointed claws of his savior pierced through his flesh, before his blood would splatter warm and wet against already stained concrete, Catnap wondered.

He wondered, ‘What if it didn't?’

In his final moments the traitor pondered with his life flashing before his eyes ‘What if I didn't die here?’

‘What if I lived?’

‘What if… What if I found a new savior?’

Catnap was ready to accept his fate. If this is what the Prototype, his God willed then he was helpless but to obey. With open arms he waited, breath stilling in his chest as the soft orange glow haloed around that beckoning hand.

This was right.

This was what was meant to happen.

He had failed and this was his only way to atone.

Yet as he readied himself to accept what must be done a single insignificant rock flew through the air. It felt as if time had slowed. He watched in a daze as the stone made contact with The Prototype. Their hand recoiled, fingers turned to talons as an enraged gurgling cry echoed from above.

Catnap did not know what to do. He did not understand what had just happened. How it could happen.

But as he faltered, unsure, someone else took action.

You, the heretic.

You grabbed him, your grip insistent. Pulling at him as vitriol spills from your cracked lips.

“No!” You shout.

“I won't let you have another one!” You scream.

“He doesn't deserve this!” You defend.

Catnap does not understand and in his stupor he does not resist. It is clumsy and you keep turning back to spew more vile words in the direction of the one he thinks of as God.

You, Poppy’s angel.

With every utterance of disdain there is a whisper of comfort.

“I won't let you die.” You say.

“You’re going to be okay.” You assure

“I won't lose another one.” You pause.

“I won't lose you.” You promise.

You, his angel.

The one who pulled him from death. From a fate he thought he had to accept. The one who said he did not deserve to die, that promised you wouldn't lose him. Catnap follows you.

Everything is different.

He does not understand.

But you promised and right now he makes a promise too.

He won't lose you.

He won't die.

You watch in silent horror as Catnap is lifted into the air. His blood drips down his suspended corpse, its color so vibrant as it mingles with old stains.

A pit opens in your stomach as he finally disappears.

Another one down.

#poppy playtime #reader insert #catnap #hurt no comfort #angst #the prototype #mild mentions of blood #he dies #honestly what a horrific way to go

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jackwhiteprophetic · 9 days

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Uh ohhh bobby nooo your heart!!!! 💗

#911 spoilers #bobby likely lives with mild anemia and weakness bc of his rh null blood type #and any blood transfusion he may need will be a fucking nightmare so let's hope he doesnt need surgery #though i doubt they are sticking to this medical accuracy thing anyway as it was not mentioned when bobby got shot in s4

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fluctuating-fanby · 7 months

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In a Kevcil mood so naturally I have to meme abt it

#wtnv #welcome to night vale #cecil palmer #wtnv kevin #kevcil #cecilin #mild blood #cannibalism mention #vince draws stuff #wtnv comic

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moriiartist · 2 years

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WRONG TURN (AT THE RIGHT TIME)

Masterlist

Taglist

PAIRING: Vampire!Ethoslab x GN!Reader

SUMMARY: It was simple, the arrangement you had with Gem. She would let you study in the library before it opened; you would be gone before her boss came in. So… how did you wind up with a vampire for a history tutor?

WARNINGS: Mild language, death mention, semi-graphic violence, non-consensual touching (you get manhandled a bit, nothing sexual), blood and injury, vampirism

A/N: Etho’s a little spooky in this one... had me feeling some type of way while I was writing him 🥴. This one is a bit longer than some of the other stuff I’ve written, and a bit scarier, but I hope y’all enjoy it anyways!

“Alright, time to pack up. You promised me you would be gone before my boss gets in, and the library opens in an hour.”

You jumped at the sound of a book slamming against the surface of the desk you were sitting at, jerking your head up and away from the paragraph you had been staring at for the past ten minutes. A figure loomed over you like the specter of death, impatiently drumming their fingertips against the flesh of their crossed arms.

They- or rather, she- affixed you with a glare that could melt steel, green eyes flashing behind the thick rims of her glasses. It took a second longer for your sleep-deprived brain to boot up, but it was almost too easy at this point for you to recognize the face of the library’s chief archivist.

Rubbing at your burning eyes with a forefinger and thumb, you puffed a slow breath through your cheeks. After trying to read by the dim light of the desk lamp for God knows how many hours, they stung like hell.

“Sorry, Gem. I must’ve lost track of time.”

The librarian, Gem, snorted but allowed her stern gaze to thaw, auburn hair rippling down her back as she tilted her head. “Are you sure you aren’t pushing yourself too hard? I know you want to finish up your degree, but I’m pretty sure you’ve studied here every day this week.”

You chuckled dryly. Oh, she had no idea.

Your day job took up almost all of the ‘working day’ so to speak, leaving only the darkest hours of the night for you to attend college classes and catch up on homework. However, during those hours, there was nothing you could access beyond what little you could pirate on your shitty laptop and printed course material.

Which is why Gem is the only thing standing between you and straight-up flunking college.

Despite her devout adherence to the laws that governed your local city library, you had convinced her with a mix of bribery, guilt-tripping, and groveling to allow you to visit in the early hours before it opened. You were able to read and complete your assignments in peace, but most importantly: you were able to access legitimate, essential, official resources during the only time you had during the day to study.

You felt the muscles in your jaw twitch as you held your smile, hoping it didn’t look too vacant. Or desperate.

“I’m fine, Gem. Just a bit tired.”

She quirked an eyebrow. “Sorry- have you seen yourself? The bags under your eyes are big enough to carry my groceries.”

You winced.

“Can’t argue with you there.”

If you were being honest, you couldn’t remember the last time you’d gotten more than four hours of sleep in a row- and even that estimate was generous. You pivoted in your seat, making the tactical decision to retreat from Gem’s piercing gaze.

You sighed as you crammed as many books as possible into your backpack, forcing protesting muscles that had long remained stagnant into movement. Whatever didn’t fit you hefted in your arms, making a face halfway between a grimace and a look of abject horror as your back cracked under the weight.

Gem pursed her lips, and somehow you resisted the urge to groan. This was an old argument that the two of you had hashed and re-hashed ever since she’d let you come into the library during closing hours, and you were sick of having to defend yourself.

“You can’t keep burning the candle at both ends. You look like you’re going to keel over at any second.”

“Well,” you laughed airily, the lightness of your voice at odds with the abject exhaustion in your expression. “It’s not like there’s anything I can do. I need to earn my degree, and you know that night classes are the only thing I can afford to take.”

Pausing for a moment, you snorted. “Both literally and figuratively.”

“You’re going to kill yourself at this rate,” Gem sighed, her normally lively countenance as deadpan as she could make it.

“No, I don’t think so. Not if you get to me first.”

A beat of silence.

“... Fair enough.”

It was routine for you to haul your backpack onto your shoulders, Gem helping you with the straps, and wave a harried goodbye to Gem as you slipped out the library’s back door. At her insistence, you promised to text her when you returned to your apartment so she knew you had gotten back safely.

You shivered, clutching your books tighter to your chest as the warmth of the indoors faded, leaving you to the mercy of Autumn’s chilled embrace.

It was no exaggeration that your free hours landed squarely in the dead of night- because although you had been up for hours, the sky was still as dark as pitch. Only the barest hint of starlight shone through the inky blackness, and though logically, you knew it was because of light pollution, some part of you wondered if the entirety of the milky way had been swallowed whole.

While the library was laid deep within the city’s heart, it was directly at the center of the entertainment district. Meaning that, despite the late (or early) hour, the city streets surrounding the library were just as busy during the night as they were during the day. Restaurants, bars, nightclubs, and… other businesses lined the street, the light from their illuminated windows and neon signs shining like rainbows against the pavement.

Across the street, raucous laughter resounded from within a bar. The sound bounced eerily across the pavement and crowded walls of the buildings that rose like silhouettes from the ground. You flinched as you heard the sound of shattering glass, accompanied by loud cheering, wrinkling your nose against the sharp sting of early winter frost and the pungent scent of booze.

You quickened your pace, dodging and weaving through flocks of tourists that ranged from mildly inebriated to flat-out drunk, barely managing to keep yourself balanced under the awkward weight of your backpack. The idea of being caught up in whatever illicit business went down in the cramped alleyways and seedy taverns that garnished the area like sprinkles on a cake was far from appealing- especially with the whole ‘living alone’ thing.

At the next street, you finally made the turn that led you away from the throngs of frat boys and bar-flies into the residential areas that sprouted just a ways off from popular tourist destinations.

Although you had made the journey countless times, it never ceased to startle you just how quickly the general cacophony of shouting and laughter faded away with a few blocks of distance. It was much, much quieter here; the only sounds were the gentle tap-tap-tap of your shoes against the concrete and the occasional rush of a car driving by.

Windows of houses looked more like dark, empty eyes as you passed them, and the further you got from the entertainment district, the easier it was to pretend that you were the only person on earth. A sharp gust of wind suddenly howled through the trees, rattling leaves and raking icy claws across your skin.

You gasped as a shiver snaked its way down your spine, instinctually clutching your books tighter to your chest in an effort to conserve warmth. Cursing softly, you shed through your coat pocket to find your phone, exclaiming in victory as your fingers wrapped around it. Clicking it open, you blinked in surprise once you spotted the time: 5:00 AM.

Huh. That was definitely waayyy later than you had originally expected… and you had to get to work at 8:30. A high-pitched whine rose in the back of your throat.

Say goodbye to any chance you could’ve had at a (barely) decent sleep, because at this rate? It would be a miracle if you could get home in time to shower and eat.

You were so focused on your phone that you almost didn’t process the electric hum that filled the air, the lone streetlight ahead flickering in and out to the beat of your footsteps. Catching the flashing from your periphery, you glanced up with a frown.

Now- you weren’t an electrician, or really anyone skilled in the engineering field, but… you were fairly certain that it shouldn’t be making that loud, electric humming noise. You halted in your steps, tilting your head and squinting your eyes at the malfunctioning lamp. It flickered one more time, weakly, before plunging you into shadow.

If you thought that the night was dark before, surrounded by light and the nightlife, it paled in comparison to the true darkness that descended upon you like a cloak. One moment, you’re perfectly fine, and the next, you can hardly see the shape of your body against the pavement.

Another shiver wracked your body- but it felt different from a chill. Something inside your brain had begun frantically ringing alarm bells, and you could only desperately search for some kind of stressor as the hair on the back of your neck rose to attention.

Shakily, you exhaled, spinning in one, slow circle. There was the faint outline of a parked car, engine silent and sleeping, the houses, the trees- nothing. Nothing that would make your anxiety levels swing from ‘manageable’ to ‘DEFCON one’.

You turned back around, your previously relaxed pace discarded in favor of a light jog. It was all you could do not to fall on your ass as your backpack shifted and bounced with your downstep, and your chest felt tight as panic began to seep in.

What the hell is going on?

Something clattered behind you, and your breath seized in your lungs. The burning was hardly an afterthought because you were sprinting, stumbling and dropping your own books in your haste to get away from something you couldn’t- or wouldn’t- see.

You were so close you could see the gleam of the next streetlight up above. Your inhales were more like sobbing gasps of air, and distantly you felt the dampness of your cheeks as tears sluiced down them.

You were so close.

But it was never like you had the chance to escape, anyway.

A calloused hand wrapped around your wrist, yanking it and the rest of your body back. Hard.

All of the wind was knocked out of you as you slammed into the ground, hands and knees shrieking with agony as the pavement grain shredded the skin. The books within your bag did little to soften the fall, their hard spines digging into your ribs through the material of your bag.

Spots danced in front of your eyes, and you felt like you were moving through molasses as a pair of shiny dress shoes strolled into view. You didn’t want to see their face. Something visceral within you begged you to make yourself as small as possible- not a threat, nothing of interest.

Still, your traitorous gaze drifted upwards, and you felt the blood drain from your face as you stared straight up into a pair of ruby-red eyes.

“My, don’t you smell divine.”

You tried to scream, but it came out more like a choked gasp as your lungs came up empty.

This wasn’t- you had to be hallucinating. This had to be something that your sleep-deprived brain had dreamed up, safe and asleep in your bed.

Vampires weren’t real.

But, as it grinned with razor-sharp fangs, face alight with nothing but hunger, it was impossible to say it was anything else as it dug sharp, talon-like nails into your open wound.

Pain, quick as lightning and ten times more intense sparked through your nervous system, wringing a punched-out gasp from your throat. The periphery of your eyes darkened, and for a moment you genuinely thought that you would pass out from sheer agony as you desperately tried (and failed) to tear its wrist away.

It chuckled, twisting its claws in deeper to draw a proper scream out of you, humming in approval before it pulled them out. You went lax, heaving for breath as it lapped at the sticky blood- your blood- coating its fingers.

Your eyes fluttered open, and you realized that it was watching you. Crouched on the side of the street, inspecting you with a calculating gaze not dissimilar from how a fox inspects a cornered rabbit.

“Oh,” it said, a grin that was entirely too wide creeping across its face. “Yes. You taste even better than I thought you would.”

Feeling your breaths come faster and faster as fresh tears prickled at the corners of your eyes, you pressed your palm to your mouth, only succeeding in smearing the blood that covered it all over your chin.

So this was how you died. Alone, scared, and covered in your own blood, pinned down in the middle of the street by a creature you thought only existed in classical literature and trashy romance novels.

And, to top it all off, you had never even graduated college.

The vampire shifted, and you flinched at the sensation of its talons scraping at the soft flesh of your neck. You knew what happened next if the stories were to be believed, but terror had frozen your limbs as thoroughly as rigor mortis.

You swallowed, squeezing your eyes shut.

And promptly had them fly back open as the vampire shot back in a blur of snarling and snapping limbs, hitting the ground several meters away from you with a loud crack.

Transfixed, you could only watch with a dumbfounded expression as a cloaked figure appeared to teleport in front of you, hissing lowly. The vampire was on its feet before you could blink, its handsome features twisted into an animalistic snarl before it locked gazes with… whatever was blocking its path to you.

If you didn’t feel like you were about to pass out, you would’ve thought how quickly its expression changed from ardor to pure, unadulterated terror was hilarious.

“You,” it breathed, every muscle in its body snapping with tension. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

Sheer survival instinct had kept your focus solely on the vampire that had cornered you, but the fear that radiated it was enough of a surprise that you found yourself glancing over towards whatever was perpetrating it.

One time, after you had gotten off work and had nothing else to do, you decided to watch a documentary series about tropical rainforest animals. For the most part, it was just background noise to help you fall asleep, but you found yourself engrossed when a particular segment about leopards began.

All you could think of, now that you were looking at the cloaked figure, was just how still they were. They didn’t move a muscle, not even where a normal person would’ve begun to cramp after a few seconds. They didn’t even seem to be breathing.

They reminded you of those leopards that you had watched. Especially in the way that those leopards went when they were hunting.

“Who says where I can and can’t be?” they, or rather, he said, masculine voice smooth and calm. “It’s certainly not your job.”

Sensing an opportunity to get the hell out of dodge, you grit your teeth as you shifted onto your hands and knees, slowly pushing yourself up into a crouch. The raw and ragged skin on your knees screamed in protest as it pulled taut, and you had to bite your tongue to stifle your soft sounds of pain.

The vampire’s jaw worked, and even as it drew itself up to its full height, you noted it was much taller than whatever had decided to intervene. (Something was wearing that cloak, but if he was an actual human person, you would eat your hat.)

The cloaked figure titled his head. “If you know what’s good for you, you should leave.”

You froze in place, heart jack-hammering in your ribs. Was he talking to you?

He went on- “Wouldn’t want to break any more rules. The covenant will have your head.”

For a long, tense moment, nothing happened. The wind whistled down the street. In the distance, police sirens wailed.

You didn’t dare move- not when the air itself felt charged, waiting for something to snap.

Then, the vampire growled, lips pulling back from their teeth wolfishly as they reluctantly bowed. Flabbergasted, you watched as it reluctantly melted back into the shadows, the red gleam of its eyes the last thing to fade to black.

The only thing you could hear was your heart thumping in your ears.

After a moment, the cloaked figure’s head turned deliberately towards where your crumpled form was hunched over, and you hastily scrabbled to your feet, Balling your hands up into fists. you trembled, staring him down.

“Are you alright?”

You don’t know what you would do if he decided to attack you, but you weren’t going to take it kneeling- not when you still felt the burn of humiliation for remaining paralyzed by terror. To your continuing horror, he took your silence as an invitation to step forward.

“Stay back,” you bit out, adrenaline buzzing through your veins. “I will not hesitate to punch you in your stupid face.”

Impressively, although you couldn’t make out his face with the shadows that clung to the hood of his cloak, you could see him do a double-take. “... Sorry?”

“You better be,” you muttered, eyes flickering to and fro as you tried to find a good escape route.

To your surprise, he hesitated, murmuring something under his breath that you couldn’t make out. He cleared his throat, shifting on his feet. “I am, if that makes you feel any better. You aren’t supposed to be attacked like this, it’s… uncivilized.”

Gaze snapping back to him, your brows raised incredulously. “Really? You’re not just saying that so that I let my guard down? And then you kill me and steal all my blood?”

“If I wanted to ‘steal all your blood’ I would’ve done it already.”

You deadpanned. “That’s not as comforting as you think it is.”

He took another step, but before you could threaten him again, pulled the hood of his cloak down. By now, your eyes had adjusted to the light (or lack thereof), and you found yourself sucking in a harsh breath.

Although you had guessed, what you saw definitely revealed him to be another vampire. His hair, a close-cropped shock of white, stood out against the darkness of the surrounding street.

You couldn’t describe the way that he was looking at you if you tried. His eyes burned like hot coals, pinned on you with a kind of unyielding focus that made your arms prickle with goosebumps. It both struck you as similar to that other vampire’s regard, a predator watching prey, but it was distinctly different- more like he was cataloging the rise and fall of your breath, the grinding of your shoe heel into the pavement.

A black mask- one of those anime ones that you couldn’t bother to remember the name of- hung around his neck, ready to be pulled up without a second’s notice. It looked well-cared for, despite being a little worn around the edges, and he fiddled with it absently as your gaze swept over him.

The most glaring thing about his appearance was the fact that he was almost flawlessly handsome, skin unblemished, bone structure pristine. The only thing that marred him was the long, thin scar that cut across his left eye, splitting his eyebrow in half.

“Even if you are pretty, I still won’t hesitate to punch you in the nose.”

He barked a laugh, fangs- holy shit his fangs- flashing. For some reason, he seemed pleased at your jab, chest puffing out slightly. “So you think I’m pretty?”

“Do I look like someone that would be attracted to an overgrown mosquito?” you scoffed, eyeing his shrewdly. “And a vain one, at that.”

He paused for a moment, staring at you, and you felt the fear that had temporarily abated come back in full force. One of these days, you were going to take a vow of silence so you could never say anything stupid ever again.

You swallowed, hugging your arms tight to your body as you leaned away. In a blink, he was suddenly, much, much closer, and you swore as you jumped.

“No,” the vampire said abruptly, tilting his head in a predatory manner. A smile split across his face, and a confident gleam arose within his eyes as his hand came up to grab your chin firmly. (Privately, you were relieved to find that he clipped his nails like a normal human being.)

“But you do look like someone who knows something they shouldn’t.”

You thrashed in his grip, eventually stilling with your palms pressed flat to his chest. Although you were pushing as hard as you could, it didn’t seem to affect him.

You laughed, a little bit hysterical. “Oh, so now you’re going to kill me?”

His fingers drummed against the flesh of your cheek. Languidly running his tongue against the swell of his upper lip, he cocked his head to the other side. You winced as you heard the vertebrae in his neck crack.

“What could I give you to keep you quiet?”

You blinked, taken aback by his jarringly serious tone.

“What?”

“What do you want? Money? Favors? What would convince you to keep your mouth shut?” he pressed, eyes narrowing, Distantly, you noted that his eyelashes were as pale as the hair on top of his head. “We’ve got kind of a secret society thing going on, y’anno, and we don’t need you blabbing.”

Confused, you shifted, and his hand came up to squish your cheeks until your lips puckered like a fish’s. You tensed but didn’t attempt to move. “‘Oul’nt you j’st kill ‘m?”

He smirked, ruby red eyes gleaming. “Yes, but it would be a shame. You’re funny.”

You batted his hand away, staring at him. He… seemed sincere, or he could just be a very skilled liar. It was more than likely that both were true, and whatever you did, it would be a gamble.

“... A tutor,” you said after several moments of silence, voice laced with quiet certainty. “That’s what I need. A tutor.”

He stared at you. You stared at him. There was a lot of staring at one another.

“That’s it? ”

You shrugged. “College is hell.”

“Not cash, or fame, or… cash…” the vampire frowned. “Everyone asks for cash.”

“I guess I’m just built different,” you said, as if you weren’t running on less than half of the minimum sleep quota and hubris.

You would be kicking yourself later when you sprung out of bed, wild-eyed as you beheld the healing cuts that littered your knees and palms, but right now? You were absolutely not in the right mindset to be making pacts with a creature of the night.

“Alrighty then,” he said after a moment, letting go of your face in favor of offering you his other hand. “It’s a deal.”

You, with all the bravado and lack of self-awareness that only a college senior could possess, took it.

He grinned, and in a blink, a solid chest bumped into your back. There was no heat to your proximity other than your startled flush, even as the vampire’s cold breath caressed the shell of your ear.

“The name’s Etho. I have a hunch that you and I... we’re going to have a lot of fun together.”

The crack of your fist hitting his face resounded through the street, drawing a startled hiss from the vampire.

Well, he couldn’t say you didn’t warn him.

@blufr0st @itsonlydana @amearla @bapthadapper @redactedsouls @sina-the-idiot @icarusthefoolish @blockyshieldmaiden @lunarheartsposts

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ninjigma · 1 year

Text

QuinFox Week Part 3/7 - First / Previous / Next

Day 3: Knight in Shining Armor + Goodbye Message Track: 'Now - Connor' - Nima Fakhrara (Spotify / YouTube)

Vos's lungs burned.

He was racing down side streets, slipping and sliding around corners in the heavy rain, and trying not to think about Fox going in the opposite direction.

"You have to leave Fox! Get the information back-"

"I am not leaving you-"

"Now Fox!"

He could feel himself getting dizzier, and a shot finally made it past his saber as he rounded a corner. He was forced to jump and run along an alley wall past more of the deadly droids, managing to decapitate two of the four, for what little it will do with the three still tailing him.

"Quinlan-"

"No Fox, I'm sorry. I'm giving you the chance to get back. You have to take it."

"But I-!"

"Goodbye Fox." Voice soft despite his pain, with a weight Quinlan spent most of his life always hiding. "Thanks for being my... my friend. One of the best."

The way the holocron shattered as his lightsaber ignited through it had been gorgeous in and of itself, red shards flickering to dullness around the green blade. He wished he could have kept it but there had been no time for anything more as in an instant the museum had been swarming with droids. Much more than had any right to be there, and the feeling it had been a trap itched at the back of his preoccupied mind.

He hadn’t prepared enough, had gone after the prism on a whim and with no aid or plan. He had rushed the display and in his haste the droids had managed to land a sharp blow across his thigh that left him now struggling with blood loss. He hadn't made it far before they had cornered him again and swung at him with electro staffs glowing and blasters firing with no hesitation. But despite as much pain he suffered escaping and the certainty of death he faced now, he knew he would make the same choices in a heartbeat.

His only regret had been those final words to Fox before he destroyed the mask and the link to the Commander.

That in the end he hadn’t lied, but he still hid the truth.

Quinlan stumbled to a halt at the end of an alley, the roof line too far for him to jump in this state. And that wasn’t his goal now anyhow. It was to die giving Fox enough time to make it off the planet, to get the information that would help the Republic back safely. Specifically to Obi-Wan and the 212th, which may have selfishly been the reason Quinlan had volunteered so easily in the first place. He may have his own issues and reservations about this war and how things seemed to be going for the Jedi in it, but he would take on the droid army all by himself if it meant protecting what little family he felt he truly had.

So as he turned to face the droids hot on his heels a hand fell to the deep wound on his inner thigh and tried to keep a pressure strong enough to allow him one last fight. It was wet, hot, and burned at the touch, but he barely registered it as his saber blazed to life and his heart set itself in stone.

He supposed he had gotten his wish of not having Fox taken away. But as he blocked blasters and watched the droids advance he regretted that he had been too vague about not leaving Fox behind himself. That, as sure as he was in the decision to destroy something that could bring the Sith to greater power, he regretted the pain he had inflicted on Fox, knowing the man well enough that he would agonize over how this all could have gone better, things he could have done to save him as if it hadn’t been Quinlan’s choices every step of the way that brought him here.

As another shot landed on his shoulder and his lightsaber fell, he found one last moment to close his eyes and revise the wish he had made only a few days before.

‘May he find peace, even if I am not there to see it.’

The sound of blaster fire-

-then the snap of metal.

Quinlan's eyes shot open in shock and watched Fox, who had dropped in front of him with a foot landing perfectly on the weak point of the droid's neck seconds after shooting it in the chest. The droids were unprepared and Fox was as precise as ever, taking out the squad in quick and deadly movements. Faced against the last and most recovered droid they exchanged fast hand-to-hand before Fox dropped to a knee and delivered a final shot to the chin of the droid, the heavy thud drowned out by the shuddering of rainfall.

As Fox turned to look at Quinlan, careful and taunt, all the adrenaline and joy rushed out of the Jedi and he dropped fully to the ground.

He was safe. Even as his vision went black and the pain flared, Quinlan knew, with Fox, he was safe.

@foxquinweek

#trigger warning #nothing graphic at all #mentions of blood #fighting droids #injury tw #injury #mild but still #foxquinweek2023 #quinlan vos #clone commander fox #quinfox #foxquin #quinlan x fox #fanart #my art #my writing

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actress4him · 1 year

Text

June of Doom 2023

Previous | Next | Masterlist

Taglist: @painful-pooch

Day 9 - “I should have listened to you.” | Sprain | Defiance | Smoke

Contains: lady whump with male whumper, captivity, restraints, beating, stress position, mild blood, implied starvation, head trauma, hair pulling, death mention, broken ribs, dislocation mention, brief dog and master imagery

There isn’t much to see in the basement. Lainey inspects every concrete block, every crack in the foundation, every plank on the steps, every lock on the door, and finds absolutely nothing useful. It still feels better than just sitting around, though. Not that she’s blaming Isa for sitting, she can’t even help it with that chain around her neck. That thing makes Lainey want to punch something every time she thinks of it. But she also has a feeling Isa wouldn’t be helping her look even if she could get up and move.

It doesn’t take long for the man to return. She’s just come back down the stairs from checking out the door when the locks start to slide open, so she spins around and plants her feet, glaring up at their captor, trying to ignore the way her heart is suddenly threatening to break through her ribcage.

He’s not much to look at, either. Just an unattractive, scraggly bearded man, like someone you might see loitering outside a gas station and walk quickly past on your way inside. For good reason, apparently.

“Have you come to let me go?” she demands as he starts down the stairs. “To let us both go?”

He scowls back at her. “I see you haven’t yet learned your lesson about keeping your mouth shut.”

“You think I’m going to listen to you? Some low-life who gets his kicks from kidnapping and chaining up young women?” He’s getting closer, and part of her wants to back away, but her pride and anger won’t let her. “I bet you’ve never had a girlfriend before, have you? Probably never had any friends at all. Is this the only way you can get anyone to hang around you? Locking them in your basement?”

She sees the swinging fist coming, but can’t get out of its path. It smashes into her face with a force that sends her over backwards, head cracking against the wall as she hits the ground. Her vision cuts out, then comes back swirling and spinning. There’s something bitter and metallic pouring over her lips. It takes far too long for her to realize that it’s blood.

As she sits there, stunned and in pain, the man advances. He grabs a fistful of her hair and yanks her up off the floor, dragging her toward the center of the room. Her feet stumble clumsily after him.

“I told you to shut up. You’ll figure out I mean what I say sooner or later.”

He throws her down, and she just barely keeps her head from smacking concrete again. Her arm isn’t so lucky, unable to move from its restrained position and getting crushed between her body and the floor.

For an instant, she sees Isa, sitting directly in front of the assault. She has her head turned to the side, staring off at some unknown point, face blank.

Then a boot is buried in her stomach. Lainey doubles over, coughing and gasping for air that seems to have vanished. The man doesn’t wait for her to catch her breath, though. He keeps kicking, pounding the toe of his boot into her ribs and back and legs over and over and over again. She curls up as best she can, trying instinctively to protect her organs, but all she can do otherwise is lie there and groan and sob.

It seems to last forever. Part of her thinks she actually might die right then and there. But then the kicks stop. He reaches down and grabs her by her bound wrist, pulling her backwards across the floor. She moans again as her shoulders bear the brunt of the pressure and as every sore part of her is jostled.

He drops her again, and a chain rattles behind her. A moment later her wrists are being pulled upward once more, but this time the chain sounds accompany it, and this time it doesn’t stop. They keep being dragged up toward the ceiling until she’s forced to move, scrambling with leaden limbs to get her feet underneath her and stand. The chain seems to be hooked to the ziptie around her wrists. She can’t straighten her back or lift her head, shoulders wrenched as far backwards as they’ll go and wrists stuck up high.

And that’s how he leaves her. He doesn’t say another word, just walks off, footsteps echoing through the nearly empty room. She cranes her head to the side to see him pick something up off the stairs before disappearing up them.

She’s never been in this much pain in her life. Before now, the worst pain she could remember was a broken arm from her highschool softball days, but between her throbbing head, her burning shoulders, and the fiery pain that shoots through her ribs every time she breathes, this is way worse.

“That was my food.”

She tries to look over at Isa but can’t get her head to lift that high. “Wh-...what?”

Isa’s voice grows a little louder, a bit higher pitched. “He was coming down to bring me food and water, and probably unchain me, and you screwed it all up disrespecting him like I warned you not to.”

Lainey scoffs, hardly believing her ears. “Do you…do you realize…you sound like a dog right now? Waiting for your…master to feed and water and unchain you?” She winces at the increased pain in her ribs that talking creates, trying to shift her position. “And…I’m the one who just got…beaten up so…pardon me if I’m not overly concerned about your food.”

“And whose fault is that?” It comes out practically a growl, the most emotion she’s heard out of her so far. “I told you not to make him mad. I told you it would get you hurt. I’ve been here for five years, remember? I’ve tried it all before. I’ve figured out how to survive. But if you don’t want to listen to me, fine. Refuse to save yourself any pain. Learn everything the hard way, like I did. Just…can you at least leave me out of it?” Her voice wavers at the end, going quiet again. “I haven’t eaten in days, because he was gone to get you. And the two bottles of water he left me ran out hours ago.”

Isa sounds like she’s about to cry, and Lainey finds her own throat tightening in sympathy. She hadn’t meant to rob Isa of her first food in days. She wants to help her, not cause her more trouble. But she’s being an idiot, isn’t she? The woman’s right, she’s managed to survive for five years, and it’s stupid for Lainey not to listen to her advice, no matter how much it makes her skin crawl to think of sucking up to that man.

“I’m sorry.” She tries again to look at her, and manages to catch at least a glimpse of her face. “I should have…I should have listened to you. You’re right, it’s…my own fault that I got hurt. And I didn’t think about…you suffering from it.” She pauses, breathing through the pain and thinking about her response. “I can’t…promise that I’ll do exactly what you want. I’m not good…at holding my tongue. But, uh…I’ll try.”

There’s silence for a long time. It’s a struggle for Lainey not to find some way to fill it, despite her painful position.

“I don’t want you to have to go through everything I have,” Isa murmurs finally. “And I’m…honestly terrified that you’re gonna make things even worse. Keeping on his good side is so tentative. I just want to keep things as…easy as possible. For both of us.”

“Yeah,” Lainey breathes. “I, um…I get it.” She considers her next words carefully before deciding to take the leap and say them. “Hey, do you…still have the water bottles?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you roll one over to me?”

“They’re empty.”

“I know, just…just do it if you can.” She can hear movement and the slight crackle of thin plastic. A few seconds later an empty bottle rolls to a stop several inches from her foot. “Hey, nice shot. Lemme just…” Very carefully, grimacing with each movement, she steps on the heel of first one sneaker, then the other, removing them and kicking them behind her. Then she strategically uses her toes to pull off one sock, too. Isa mutters warnings about dislocating her shoulders here and there, but Lainey is determined to make this work.

Stretching out the bare foot, she drags the water bottle closer. “It’s still got drops of water left in it, so if I focus, I can…” She lays her foot across the bottle and closes her eyes. This is much easier to do with her hands, but the foot will have to do in a pinch like this. It takes almost a full minute of concentration, but eventually the droplets start to grow, dripping down into the bottle. The process gets faster as it goes, until there’s water swirling all through the bottle, filling it.

“There we go.” Satisfied with her work, Lainey takes careful aim and shoves the bottle back in Isa’s direction. “I can’t make you food, but…I can at least do that.”

“Water magic.” The plastic crinkles in Isa’s hand again.

“Yep. I’m…not very skilled at it, but…expanding water that’s already there…isn’t so hard.”

There’s no answer for a moment, but it sounds like Isa is taking a drink. “Thank you,” she says softly when she’s done.

“Yeah,” Lainey replies, equally as soft. “No problem.”

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