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honeycollectswhump · 3 months

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Things End | People Change – Healing

to the surprise of literally no one, i've been insane about vincent again... enjoy the result of that: a continuation of this!! i guess this is a slight spoiler for @whumpcloud's story? but rather for the vibe than specific plot points

CW: implied / undertones of past sa, references to past torture and starvation

There it is again. The thing, the wobbly metal plate Vincent has come to think of as a weird mirror. It’s the best he’ll get anyway, even though he likes to steal glances at the way modern mirrors are shaped and designed so very differently than what he grew up with. He is denied any grace of a reflection though, another trade for immortality and power he thought so simple. And yet…

Sometimes when he sees Clary’s reflection, her posture held high and proud, just like she should be, Vincent’s mind drifts, wishing for a similar soul that would allow him to see himself as he is. Unlike before though, he doesn’t dwell on it. The knowledge simply is, passing briefly through him, but barely leaving an impact.

Now, he’s in front of his almost-mirror, that twists and turns his shape and everything around him, that Cai got rid of again after what happened the first and last time Vincent had it in his room. The dent –a reminder of what happened– is still visible, distorting the reflections even more. It surprises him that Cai didn’t throw it away and instead just disposed of it in this room, that holds so many memories but mostly also old possessions they can’t seem to bring themselves to get rid of.

Today, the twins have decided to declutter and Vincent is more than delighted to help. Maybe his vampiric strength couldn’t protect him, but now it can help with the mundane chores that come with everyday life, and maybe that's worth something more too.

Which is how he ended up here, once again face to face with his own warped reflection, and he can’t help but stare. He looks…different?

Logically, Vincent knows he shouldn’t look the same as he did after years of starvation and torture, that he prefers to bury in some dark corner of his mind. But without a reliable method of visualising himself, and too afraid of appearing eternally, cursedly bloodstained, he never dwelled too long on how his body might look, never even debated asking Clary or Cai. It was for the better that way.

He’s not bloodsoaked though, his hands are not stained with ash sticking to him like goo, the scars where he ripped his own skin off in an attempt to cleanse himself of the reminder are long gone.

Instead, as he steps forward to take a closer look, he finds that his face seems softer. Gone are the hard edges carved by malnutrition, the sunken-in eyes setting shadows over what remains of Henry. His now rounded jawline is a stark contrast to what it used to be, and together with his slightly plump cheeks, feign a picture of youth. Against all odds and the passing of centuries, he feels like twenty-two again, when he was still unburdened with immortality and foolishly wishing for a change.

His hair is changed too, though he consciously worked towards that. He knows from the way it feels, his curls finally getting defined, the length cut regularly. It takes work, but it feels nice, so nice to finally have something only he can control.

Suddenly, a stray thought overcomes him, and Vincent sheepishly looks around for any onlookers, even though his vampiric hearing already tells him that the twins are busy in the living room. Hesitantly, almost afraid of what he will see, Vincent lifts his jumper up.

Maybe he should feel embarrassed at such a childish action, but right now his curiosity overwhelms any sort of shame.

He chose the jumper by himself too, just like he decides how his hair looks, even though Clary said it makes him look like a grandfather, said that he is finally acting his age. Before, he would have scrambled to rip the fabric off of his body in a desperate attempt to please her again, but now he knows that she is joking. It feels good to know.

His skin is more lifelike, a blush shining through the paleness that makes him look like a dead man. It’s not just that though. Where once protruding ribs used to sit, he can’t even see his bones now, not even a hint when he stretches. It’s a hard-earned layer of fat, chubbiness he’d never take for granted

All of it is both a gift and a symbol, showing the care of feeding him every single day even when it comes at a cost to the twins. He can’t even remember the last time someone showed him such consideration, and it must have been back with Henry, two lifetimes ago, but now that thought doesn’t fill him with the same sadness anymore that it did before.

He is not just grieving something of the past. Care was given once before and it will be given again, no matter how unlikely that still feels to him. Every moment he spends with Clary shows him that. Despite it all, life became good again.

It feels almost easy to believe, that his flesh and skin are ignorant of what happened, that the memory went past them like a light breeze, leaving no mark. Like seeking a thrill, Vincent looks for the imprints he once saw, collaring his neck, tainting his heart and hips. He–

He can find none.

Like a piece of paper left blank, he feels oddly empty. Even without seeing them, he had grown accustomed to expecting them there. The knowledge painting a clear picture spoken in dark, hand-shaped prints holding onto him forever. Something even death could never erase, and yet… And yet he finds himself devoid of such things, finds himself almost—

He cannot finish that thought, cannot think further, not yet.

The curiosity that had taken hold of him made room for a wondrous disbelieve. Vincent looks closer, he finally does, expecting to see contradictions to the fickle hope bubbling in his chest like a new heart.

Another person stares back.

Not the timid boy, with his eternally lowered gaze for reasons he couldn’t understand, hunching his back to make himself as unassuming as possible, always, next to everyone else. Born soft and squishy just to force himself into a rigid form, fitting in with expectations he could never hold, his spine bending under the weight. That never changed, not even after becoming a vampire, especially not with Lyfelde. One head held up high, the other forcefully pushed down.

That’s not who he sees, though. Instead, he sees a young man, standing straight, only bending through the warbling mirror. There is a shine in his Henry-green eyes, and for a moment Vincent thinks that if someone were to look in his face, they’d notice his eyes first and the scar second. Maybe, the scar wouldn’t catch their attention at all.

He can’t remember the last time was allowed to look this soft, the last time he allowed it himself. It goes beyond his rounded cheeks that bring back an air of innocent youth, beyond the comfy sweaters with the good texture. It’s the smile that comes to him easier, the glimmer it brings to his eyes, the silly laugh at stupid things he isn’t afraid to hide. It’s the piles of books, old and new, about linguistics, and the evenings where Clary listens to his rambles. It’s that somehow, before this moment, he had never noticed it all like this, never noticed the meaning beyond the thankfulness that occasionally overwhelms him.

It’s that all of this has never been touched by Lyfelde.

Maybe some of his impact will never leave Vincent, like the honour of creating the last scar his body could ever remember. Maybe he will never be who he was before Lyfelde. But, and the thought makes him feel almost giddy, he is not who he was with Lyfelde anymore either. A metamorphosis maybe, two- or threefold, a life categorised by before’s and after’s but never always’.

Vincent hopes –victoriously–, that if Lyfelde saw him today, with all of his joy, and love, and caring friends that are starting to feel like family, he would be unrecognisable to him.

#I CANT STOP THINKING ABOUT HIM #its a curse at this point. ill never be free #he has charmed me with his autistic looser swag and his big wet eyes <3 #things end | people change #honey's writing #other people's ocs #vampire whump #vampire whumpee #multiple caretakers #whumpee and caretaker #recovery #recovering whumpee #referenced past sa #past torture mention #past starvation #vampire whumper #comfort #past trauma

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tar-dar · 7 months

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Misam | Goretober Day 1&2: Shatter and Rot/Decay

#gore #goretober 2023 #rot #decay #tw sa implied #tw sa vent #tw #gore art #tardar art #cw: gore #vent art #traumacore #personal art #art challenge #oc #trauma oc #vent sona

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sadnessisavegetable · 10 months

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Mutual Understanding

"Well if your weight hadn't yanked my prosthetic off, you wouldn't have been thrown like that! You know I can tell when you do stuff on purpose, Ghirahim!" Bear scolded.

"Well, maybe you shouldn't have lost your arm!" Ghirahim shouted.

Bear turned back with a speed and fury Ghirahim had never seen out of him before. Ghirahim flinched back.

"It wasn't my choice." Bear spoke quietly.

"I'm sorry, I-I shouldn't have said that. I know that I shouldn't have said that. Please, please don't hurt me." Ghirahim begged, backing away slowly as his arms trembled.

Bear didn't move.

Ghirahim stared back at him with fear and trauma flashing through his eyes, reliving some of his worst memories.

And Bear stood still.

Bear softening the expression on his face to be open and understanding, getting down to his knees, making sure that his hands were empty. He was making himself small, less threatening. It was a difficult feat despite Bear's diminutive stature, because Bear had been hardened by the world around him and worked as a mercenary assassin.

Ghirahim eventually collapsed to his own knees, tears starting to form in those dark, dark eyes. Ghirahim, the Spirit of the Demon Sword, forged by Demise Himself on Death Mountain when the world was new, was fragile from past scars.

And they knew it deep in their souls.

Bear had gone through trauma in a similar way, but there were gaps in his memory, blots on his mind to stop his own understanding of what he had endured. Bear was...an abomination by the standards of most cultures in Hyrule, he had blood of Termina, of the Ikaan people. But he also had Twili blood and some amounts of Gerudo-Hylian while being a man who was once a woman. And that made him low enough to be a slave in some peoples' eyes.

Bear was missing limbs from being abused physically and sexually.

Ghirahim had the memories of something similar that he relived every time someone moved wrong.

Bear started to sing, the low Twilit language rumbling through his small body. He sang a lullaby about healing, the song originally from Termina, and the words wove a spell that rested on Ghirahim like a warm blanket. Ghirahim started to calm down and come back to reality.

"I won't touch you unless you direct me to, Ghirahim." Bear told his sword so gently. Ghirahim almost cried harder, out of relief, at the understanding of how love should be, at the simple declaration of respect.

"You can touch me, hold me if you want. As long as you don't touch skin on anything except my hands and maybe my face." Ghirahim gave the permission and Bear approached on his knees, never making himself bigger. He couldn't risk frightening Ghirahim again.

"I only want to gently hold your hands and tell you it is alright. We will work this through slowly, you and I together. I need to heal too." Bear reassured Ghirahim while he held his hands reverently, his light eyes captivated by Ghirahim's feelings genuinely showing, plain and easy to see as the day.

Ghirahim could see the heat pits that Bear used mainly for hunting and the gently glowing Ikaan sunspots that were working away to make energy for Bear, and he could see just how focused Bear's eyes actually looked compared to the other Twili people he'd seen. Bear's natural features mingled in such a way that he was an oddity, but he was still so beautiful.

Bear could now see the cracks that enveloped parts of Ghirahim, all filled in a shade of bronze with white lacing through. He could see the uncertainty held in the quiver of Ghirahim's brow, and the subtle reminders that he and Fi were alike but so very different. His form, crafted expertly by a god of madness and destruction, made to hold him...was ruined by Ghirahim's own missing self-esteem.

"You're beautiful." Bear murmured to Ghirahim finally as he made eye contact with the sword spirit. "Beautiful and tragic, and I would never had the gall to harm that."

Ghirahim almost smiled at that. Bear was doing his best to be kind when he usually didn't need to.

"You're beautiful too. You are so perfectly chaotic in form, yet so peaceful in that chaos. It's inspiring and I would not hurt you either because you are different from everyone I've ever been touched by or used by." Ghirahim whispered, his voice so quiet, as though he was trying to stop the gods from hearing him.

Bear did smile at that, sharp fangs with slight serration peering from behind his lips as he did. This smile wasn't menacing or cruel or even a threat.

This smile was one of trust and adoration.

Bear never showed his teeth in their natural state to anyone, he typically wore a glamour to hide just how sharp they were because of the response he would usually get from people.

But he trusted Ghirahim. And Ghirahim trusted Bear.

So Bear smiled openly. And Ghirahim thought about showing him his truest form.

"Don't freak out. But...this is the form I take to...y'know, be a little vain. But I want to show you my true form." Ghirahim told Bear softly, hesitantly.

"You don't have to, if you don't want to. All in good time, as I tend to say. I just hate using magic energy, it makes me exhausted, and I give less of a shit about showing teeth." Bear shrugged, gently pushing Ghirahim's hair back to see his other eye.

Ghirahim smiled and nodded.

#tl;dr: Ghirahim and Bear begin to understand each other after bickering for months on end prior #and Bear decides he's gonna drag Ghirahim kicking and screaming through healing processes #also Demise was a bit of an ass to Ghirahim #my writing #ghirahim #my oc #tloz au #tw mentions of sa #tw mentions of abuse #trauma

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mynameispluto · 2 months

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hazbin hotel fan oc x'33

#tw sa #tw abuse #disclaimer this is literally my trauma they are a super self indulgent comfort oc :'33 #art #artwork #digital art #artists on tumblr #my art #artist #original art #illustration #digitalart #furry #hazbin hotel #fan art #fan oc

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lepicera · 2 months

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affirmations! 😝

the last slide is difficult to read. it says "trauma is only an 'excuse' when you're normal, and nice, and normal. if people like you, you have trauma," etc

i'm not going to claim that this is a fully formed idea or argument, because it isnt lol

#art #my art #digital art #artists on tumblr #drawing #cc by nc sa #eye contact #trauma #doodle #oc purple

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bluecoolr · 1 year

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Creeping Death

"Now what will you do on the day of punishment, and in the devastation which will come from afar? To whom will you flee for help?" - Isaiah 10:3

Episode 1: Bright Eyes

Warnings: Starts with fluff, fic does a 180 real quick, interrogation violence, Reinhart exploits Darrell's trauma and mental illness, rape mentions

A/N: I know I originally said that Darrell was kicked out of the Marines at 20. I'm changing it to 23. Red belongs to @cries-in-latino and Skulk belongs to @probably-a-plant-thing.

Morning arrived cold and dewy. The season was turning, touching fingers with Winter. There was warmth enough in the cabin, despite the nearly extinguished stove fire. Love heats the skin, nestles under it like a layer of fire, and affords lovers warmth through nights of closeness.

Darrell lay with Damon curled up against his chest. He'd carried him to the bedroom the night before, just after sleep overtook him. He'd cleaned him up as best he could and pulled the comforter over him. He would have helped him into some sleepwear, but he didn't want to wake him up.

He lightly brushed Red's skin, going even lighter as he traced the marks he had made. He felt guilt stirr within him. If he'd hurt him, it wasn't his intention.

"That tickles."

Darrell returned the smile Red gave him. He leaned over and placed a kiss on his forehead.

"Good mornin'."

Red groaned as he stretched. "Mornin', hon."

There was a muffled thud from outside. Darrell raised his head off the pillow. "Gumdrop? That you, darlin'?"

Skulk came running into the room. Seeing the two in bed, he dove right between them. He tucked both Red and Darrell's heads to his neck, peppering their temples with smooches. He reached under the comforter to squeeze Darrell's pec. He'd been waiting to do that. Ever since Darrell sent that cheeky mirror selfie.

Darrell lifted Skulk's mask. "Where've ya been?" he asked.

"Around," was Skulk's disyllabic response.

"Missed ya," Darrell told him, before leaning in to kiss him.

Skulk moved on to shower Red with similar attention. He pulled away after declaring he had to go to the bathroom. "Go on, Gummy. You know where everything is," said Red.

Red let out a surprised oof as Darrell rolled on top of him. He couldn't help a laugh. "Want me that bad, Blue? First thing in the morning?"

A cheeky grin lit up Darrell's face. "Yessir, I do," he replied, kissing down Red's bare chest. Then, further - all the way to the skin above his navel. "Ain't nothin' sweeter to wake up to."

Red kneaded Darrell's biceps, chuckling as he continued to kiss every bit of exposed skin he could reach. Quite leisurely, he found his way back up and kissed Red full on the mouth.

"I think we should wait for Skulk this time."

It was as they were smiling against each other's lips that they heard it.

Damon Herring!

Red propped himself up on his elbows, frowning at the door. The person outside was impatiently pounding their fist on the wood, rattling the door in its frame.

"Put some clothes on," Red urgently told Darrell.

They untangled themselves from the sheets, and gathered clothing from bags and closets.

Darrell tucked himself into his drawers and pulled on his pants. Red was still dressing, so he went over to answer the door before whoever it was knocked it clean off its hinges.

Darrell opened the door and suddenly he was 22 again and trembling. But the man wasn't Vicker. Not exactly. The man at the door was a good inch taller than him. Broad-shouldered, silver-haired, with piercing ice-blue eyes. He was dressed with military sharpness, but with noticeable vanity. He seemed upset to be there.

"Darrell Hosea Todd?" His voice was snappish, firm, deep.

Darrell dipped his head in a curt but wary nod. He spied the brass badge stuck on the man's belt.

"Turn around."

Darrell did as he was told, crossing his wrists behind his back.

"What the fuck is this?" Red demanded just as Darrell felt the cold sting of the cuffs.

"Damon Herring?"

The frown on Red's face deepened."Who's askin'?"

"Detective Lesley Reinhart, NOPD."

Reinhart squared up to Red. "You're both under arrest for kidnapping Brody Morgan and Carter Green," he declared.

"Just do what they tell you, hon. It's ok. Don't fight," Darrell said, stopping an explosive outburst from Red. He nundged a pair of Timbs at Red's direction. They were both still barefoot.

Reinhart shoved Darrell out the door. Someone caught him as he stumbled and his stomach clenched.

Wide-eyed, he looked into those eyes. Those eyes that sometimes broke through the surface of his sluggish memory, buoyed by curiosity and, at times, hatred. Staring right at them now felt like looking into the barrel of a gun. He knew what those lips tasted like once, held those hands that were suddenly steadying him again.

Seeing the way his mouth opened in a comically dumbstruck way, Darrell was sure he recognized him too. Because it was him.

Angel!

He snapped out of whatever train of thought he was riding on.

"Put him in the car!" Reinhart snapped. He hauled Red forward but roughly pulled him back. "Anybody else in here?" he said in his ear.

"No," Red lied.

Skulk had not emerged, and if Darrell knew him he would have heard the noise and escaped through the bathroom window.

Unconvinced, Reinhart grumbled and ordered Angel to check the house.

Darrell and Red sat in the back of a police car, wincing at the pain in their wrists. Darrell gave Red an encouraging smile. "It's ok. Everythin's gonna be alright."

—

Darrell sat on a metal chair in a dimly lit interrogation room in the Sheriff's Station. Hunched over and cuffed to a rail, he forced the urge to bounce his leg and tap his finger on the tabletop. They'd know, and the last thing he wanted was to expose any cracks in his composure.

He could feel himself sweat despite the cold.

Everything around him was polished and gray.

His heart raced against the steady ticking of the clock on the wall. He'd been there close to fifteen minutes now. They were watching him. There, behind the mirror. Like an animal in an enclosure.

He glanced at the dark glass. There was only his face there, blanched and haggard.

I can't go back in, he thought. I can't get locked up again. I can't do it. Not again.

We won't.

Back when he first heard it, he dismissed it as the voice in the back of his head - the one he thought in. Very quickly, however, he realized that it wasn't at all like that. It began to talk back at him. It - he - started to have his own opinions, his own personality. He was arrogant, stubborn. Worst of all, he demanded blood.

Creeping Death, his battalion called him.

"I am the reaper," he once whispered during a gunfight.

Darrell didn't have a name for him - that blond, bright-eyed bloodfiend.

Shut up, Darrell snapped at him. It's your fault we're here in the first place. You just had to do something, huh? You and your goddamn superiority complex. Stupid Jarhead hoo rah mentality-

Hey!

Darrell raised his eyes, looked in the direction where he thought the voice came from; The mirror. That was his face, but those twinkling eyes - a conniving man's bright eyes.

You don't get to talk like you don't fuckin' like it. You love it. You know it.

Darrell bowed his head, feeling Bright Eyes' stare boring holes into him.

Too bad you're too much of a fuckin' pussy to do it on impulse. Where's your magic 8 ball now?

Quiet, Darrell hissed.

God, you're so fuckin' pathetic.

Darrell gave him a sidelong glance. And what, you think you're such a hero?

Bright Eyes had the nerve to scoff. I'm a fuckin' god.

Darrell felt sick to his stomach.

And if you hadn't gotten yourself punked, I would've had a Medal of Honor by now. You stopped at Purple Hearts.

He shook his head. Stop.

You stop. I've had enough of you and your whining.

Darrell's lip trembled. There was no way to shut the voice out, not when it was in his own head.

I always have to get us out of trouble. I fought tooth and nail. I did a hundred pushups when you could only do ten. I jumped when you wouldn't. I saved our skin so many times you've got the medals to show for it. It was always an easy choice, but you just had to moan and piss about it every time. You're an embarrassment.

Darrell wiped sweat off his face on his sleeve.

So, shut the fuck up and let me do the talking.

The door opened and in flounced Reinhart and Angel, bearing mugs of steaming coffee.

"Well, Mr. Todd," Reinhart began loftily, "I must say, I'm impressed."

He tossed a folder on the table and sat across from Darrell. Angel stood leaning by the far wall.

"We pulled your records from the Marine Corps," he continued, opening the folder. "Says here you served in the Persian Gulf War. Is that right?"

When he spoke, his voice did not falter. "That's correct, sir."

"I was in 'Nam myself. Where'd you train?"

"South Carolina."

Reinhart nodded patronizingly. "Quite the list of accolades, and for such a brief career. You held the rank of Corporal. Your commanding officer commended your valor and marksmanship. Then at 23, you were declared unfit for service on grounds of mental illness."

His brow furrowed in mock bewilderment. Darrell clenched his jaw.

"Just out of curiosity, son, what the hell happened?"

They got Red. They got him, man.

Shhh… Focus.

"Around that time, there was dissension between my commanding officer and I."

"On account of what, Mr. Todd? Did he get too handsy in the shower room?"

Darrell was stunned. Bright Eyes lulled his anger to sleep. Stand easy. He's trying to get a rise out of you.

Reinhart was reading his file with an air of disinterest. "You filed a complaint with a SARC, claiming Commander Vicker sexually assaulted you. Everything's all muddled from there."

Angel stood in attention.

"Says here you recanted and were put through counseling. You were detained and were to be put on trial for attempted murder. Charges were dropped. No further investigations were made."

He snapped the folder close and leaned in until their noses were almost touching.

"See there's no use lying to me," Reinhart growled. "I'd appreciate your honesty from here on out."

Insulated as he was by that other man, Darrell glowered back.

—

In the next room, Red was groaning from the blows from the two officers interrogating him. "Argh, Fuck, man! Y'all tryna kill me?!" he groaned.

They hauled him back into the chair.

"I'm gonna ask you again, Herring. What happened to Brody Morgan?"

Red coughed. It was sort of funny. Things really could take a turn. You could have the best night of your life followed by the worst morning after. It was so funny he actually started laughing.

"I'm not gonna say again, Herring!"

Red huffed like an angry beast and snarled, "If that's what you wanna hear, then I did it!"

The officers were stunned. Connors, who was playing bad cop, gestured to the tape recorder. "Let me hear you say it!"

"I did it!" Red repeated.

"Tell me what happened," Connors roared.

"Alright!" Red yelled. He shook his head. "At about 5…5:30 or so to 11:30 that Friday night…"

His composure cracked and he began to wheeze. "I was bangin' that pretty little wife o' yours."

He threw his head back at the look of bewilderment on Connors' face. It just made him laugh harder. Just as another slap rattled him, he hoped Darrell was doing alright.

—

"Are you on any medication, Mr. Todd?"

"Dishonorable discharge disqualifies me from all VA benefits, Detective. If you were in 'Nam, you'd know that."

Reinhart didn't like that. "Are you prone to violent outbursts?" he persisted.

Bright Eyes had had enough. "I'm entitled to a lawyer. I refuse to answer any more questions until I have one."

"Where were you on the night Brody Morgan and Carter Green disappeared?"

Darrell winced. "You think I had anything to do with that?"

"You're the last person they saw," Reinhart pointed out.

"You know for certain?" Darrell inquired.

Reinhart slammed his hand palm-first on the table, ignoring Angel's weak warble. "What I know for certain is, based on the background check we ran and the CCTV footage we have, you're the only nut within a 5-mile radius with the skills and motive to harm Brody and his friend!"

The door was flung open by the Sheriff himself. "Reinhart! This is ridiculous! What gave you the idea-"

"Stand down, Sheriff! We have reasonable grounds to believe that this man is behind the disappearance of Brody Morgan and his friend." Reinhart bore down on him, but the Sheriff was hard as nails.

He scolded Reinhart like a misbehaving child. "Damn you, Reinhart! Outside!"

And to Darrell's surprise, Reinhart complied.

—

"You're a menace. You bring these kids down here without a warrant-"

Reinhart tried to brush it off, to brush Sheriff Burke off like lint off his jacket. "Sheriff," he said, "I told you, we have reason to believe-"

"On what grounds?!" Burke snapped. "Conjecture? Coincidence? Jesus Christ, last week you were ready to hall Stuttering Dan Williams in!"

Reinhart balled his hand into a fist. "This is different, Burke," he said through gritted teeth. "With Todd's military skills, he's a deadly weapon. He's not subject to the same laws as common civilians."

The two older men's staredown was broken when Angel piped up. "Vets with his experiences, 9 times out of 10, fit the profile of an unpredictable aggressor," he added.

"Oh, does it?" The question was laced with sarcasm. "With all due respect, Detective Hernandez, by your 9th birthday I was already putting away rapist, sadists, and murderers, so don't tell me jackshit about profiling criminals."

The detectives shifted their weight from one foot to the other, grasping at straws.

"That man is a war hero," declared Burke, "to whom unfortunate circumstances have occurred. Since he came to this town, he's stopped a total of 5 armed robberies by himself. The fire department rejected his application, because of the damn discharge they nailed to his back."

"All the same, the rape, the attempted murder of his commanding officer-"

Burke pulled a face and scoffed. "Oh fuck you, Reinhart. The more sensational the story, the better huh? If you cared more about finding these boys instead of making a name for yourself before the media lost interest, you'd be getting better results. What's the matter? Arthur Morgan gave you a deadline?"

Reinhart stammered, "Damon Herring-"

"A couple battery charges, most occured when he was drunk. He's a troublemaker with a temper. He was working when the boys went missing. His alibi checks out. Did you at least get that far with Todd?"

The detectives fell silent. The men watched Darrell from the other side of the two-way mirror.

It was Sheriff Burke's turn to take a crack at it. He went into the interrogation room and set a cup of coffee in front of Darrell. Speaking to him like a stern but understanding father would to a child, he asked Darrell what he knew about the incident and where he had been the past few days.

Darrell gave him his account: Brody and Carter stopped at the gas station for gas, which he gave. They bought snacks and left, but not before physically assaulting Dan. That was the last time he saw them. Later that night, he set off south to visit a friend.

"I asked my boss to let me off early that night. Ask Melvin, he'll vouch for me," he said.

Sheriff Burke was scribbling on a small notebook. "Could you tell me the name o' this friend o' yours?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. Gunther Roof. G-U-N-T-H-E-R."

Burke nodded. Darrell gave him Gunther's address and phone number.

Behind the glass, Reinhart narrowed his eyes. He snapped his fingers and told Angel, "See if it checks out."

"He was an buddy o' mine. We were in the same squad."

"Alright, son. We'll give him a call. Nothing personal, just procedure, see."

Burke left to place the call. After three rings, Gunther picked up, corroborating Darrell's statement. Satisfied, Burke thanked the veteran for his cooperation and his service, and hung up. Several miles away, Bo hung up, opened the back of the throwaway phone, and snapped the SIM card like Darrell instructed beforehand.

Meanwhile, Burke arranged for Darrell and Red to be released at once.

"Wait, you're letting them go?" Angel asked.

"Lack of evidence, Hernandez," replied Burke.

Darrell stood in the lobby rubbing his wrists. Red stepped out of the break room, holding an ice pack to his face. The sight of him made Darrell tear up.

Red passed Connors in the hall. He fearlessly brandished his knuckles, threatening to backhand the much larger policeman. "Let me catch you on the street without that badge! I'll smack the shit out of you, ya fuckin' punk!"

"Fuckin' faggot," Connors clapped back.

They barely had time to register what happend next. Darrell grabbed Connors by the collar and drove him back against the wall. He hit the bulletin board so hard, he dented the cork and sent it clattering to the floor.

Darrell reeled back, but before he could land a punch, Burke pulled him away. "Not here, Todd! That's enough. Walk on home, boy," he said. "Come on. I'll give you a lift."

"This ain't over!" Darrell yelled at the door.

Once in the car, the Sheriff watched the couple in the back seat. "I'm sorry, you two. That was unwarranted. I'll make sure Connors get disciplinary action for that," he said.

Through the rearview mirror, Bright Eyes stared back.

A/N: I know it gets long I'm sorry 😅 But it's mostly dialogue so...

Tagging some moots that might like to see this! (If you want me to remove you please feel free to tell me <3) @rottent33th @slaasherslut @the-pinstriped-hood @kalid-raven @vincent-sinclair-deserved-better @angxlslasher

Edit: @allthingsblood I was so sleepy I missed to tag you </3

#darrell todd #oc fiction #slasher oc #original character #damon red herring #red x blue #skulk #black n red n blue #plum #friends oc #angels of ambrose au #slasher-verse #bluecoolr.txt #bo sinclair #creeping death #tw violence #tw mentions of sa #tw mentions of trauma #tw mental illness

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fangsandfeels · 4 months

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Since I gave Calliper such a disaster of a childhood and social life, coming up with Guardians for her was quite a chore.

I literally had to ask myself: "If I was a tone-deaf mind flayer, digging through the memories of a half-drow with huge self-esteem issues, slavery trauma, deep mistrust for drow, and a general feeling of inadequacy because of her origin...what image should I come up with to gain her trust?"

Option # 1. Personal high elf hero with a shining tadpole

Since Calliper hates drow, who is the opposite of drow? High elves, of course. Graceful and benevolent beings, sun-kissed folk attuned to Fey and wonderful magic, such a stark contrast with spiders, webs, and darkness of the Underdark. Oh, but they are so untouchable, aren't they? So distant. What are the chances of meeting one? Of having such an elf treat her like someone equal, worthy of respect, deserving mentoring and protection? Wouldn't it be wonderful? Doesn't Calliper secretly seek to be accepted at least by someone of her kin, especially those so viciously hated by drow? Wouldn't she trust such a guardian, who came to her when she needed him the most, with her life?

(Spoiler: not really. Calliper has met a few High Elves in her life, and all she got was raised eyebrows, side eyes, and mixed looks of pity. To her, they truly were something distant - while she didn't explicitly hate them, she always felt there was no point in connecting with them. They would never understand. So, while the presence of a handsome and mysterious elven knight, straight from heroic tales, would have been a huge relief in her condition, and it felt nice to be acknowledged and cared for, Calliper has never exactly dreamt about such a hero - and at that point, she gave up trying to impress non-drow Tel`Quessir, so she would treat his offers with suspicion)

Option # 2. "I'm just like you!...No, seriously, I'm literally the male version of you"

Yes, no drow allowed in Calliper's headspace...but what about a fellow half-blood? Finally, someone, who looks like her, who had been through same shit as her and who understands her fears, and concerns - and is there to protect her because he know her struggles and wants to make it better. Together, they can make it through this nightmare. She doesn't have to be alone. She doesn't have to be afraid. Now, open your mind to this tadople, Calliper. Don't worry, you're not alone anymore. He will take care of you.

(This version works better with tugging at Calliper's strings. Her need for belonging at least somewhere shows. While the odds of two half-drows finding each other in ther weirdest of circumstances are sus, just too good to be true, the prospect of finding a kindred soul may have Calliper acting unwise. On the other hand, the experience with her patron taught her that she better not act unwise in her dreams and visions -- it didn't take much for her to accidentally attach herself to the forces beyond her and everyone else's comprehension. She doesn't want to repeat that. Also, if he is half-drow like her, doesn't he know how dangerous tadpoles are? Why would he want her to insert more of these things into her brain?)

Option # 3. "Mother knows best"

The Emperor's cruelest and the most fucked up way to get Calliper's trust and attention -- take a dive into her most vulnerable memories and hopes, and carve them into an avatar for himself. Because even though Calliper tries not to reflect on the obstacles of her birth, she never really stopped asking herself "What if...?". What if her mother never ended up a slave in the Underdark, never went through all of this? What if she, Calliper, was a normal girl, a welcome child, born in a loving union, somewhere under the sun? What if she was born in the world where her mother wanted her?

How would she look like? How would she sound like? How hugging her would feel like? How would it feel to have someone caring and supportive, proud of her and there for her?...

She doesn't even remember the face of the woman who was her mother. Only fragments, none of them happy or pleasant. She knows that she had to be human and that she hated her. And Calliper didn't blame her. She could care less about what happened to her biological father (hopefully, he met his brutal death, got eaten alive, and shat out by a bulette). Still, the thought of having all these powers and being unable to find and wrestle just one more person from the darkness of the Underdark and take her home kept her awake at night more than once.

And then, there it is...an oddly familiar face. A protective touch. A kind smile. Calm, motherly demeanor. Calliper has never met this woman before, yet she radiates comfort and safety. How natural would it feel to trust her? To follow her advice? To hug her as she hides her pain and exhaustion from constantly shielding them from harm?

(I hate myself for coming up with this idea. This is so fucking unfair. It's manipulation at its vilest, and it would have worked. It would have convinced Calliper to consume another tadpole at least once. And, of course, she would be ruined after learning about the deception. Fucking devastated. She'll put two and two together, realize what the Emperor did and have a mental breakdown.)

#bg3 oc: calliper #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #designing dream guardians turned into uncanny mr.incredible meme #i'd want to say that the emperor isn't THAT ruthless but somehow i imagine he'd totally go with option three #to him morality is relevant and trauma is just brain reaction #brains can be tweaked #results are only things that matter #cw: abuse #cw: sa mention #i made my choice but i still feel i'll redo it if i don't feel like this is the way the story should go

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sweetmage · 1 year

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⚠️Trigger Warning: Vaguely Implied/Referenced Past SA (undescribed)

▫️Tags: Trauma, Angst, Strained Friendships, Arguments

▫️Characters: Ser Roderick Gilmore, Edan Cousland, Arl Rendon Howe (referenced)

▫️Word Count: 914

▫️Summary: Sinking deeper into the all-consuming spiral of vengeance, Edan Cousland desired nothing more than to see Howe pay for the pain he and his men inflicted on the people of castle Cousland, including his dearest friend Roderick. However, in his quest to keep the flames of his rage alive, sometimes the very person he hoped to help and avenge becomes collateral.

⭐Read On AO3! (Or under the cut!)

"You know, you make that face a lot," Edan remarked as he approached Roderick near the campfire, his eyes tracing the hard set lines between his furrowed brow, the sharp, downward slope of his thin-pressed lips.

Roderick snapped to attention as though suddenly awoken from a trance. "And what face would that be?"

"Like you've just tasted sour meat or something," Edan responded, plopping down beside him on the strewn-out blanket, stretching his legs and leaning back on his hands. "I take it something's on your mind?"

He shrugged. "You could say that."

"And would you say?" Edan asked, gazing at him while he stared vacantly off into the distance. "Care to discuss?"

"Not particularly, no."

"Hm, well alright then... In that case, I think I have an inkling. Rest assured my friend, your suffering will not go unavenged. When the time is right, we will face that slimy bastard together and—"

Sighing forcefully, Roderick waved off his valiant speech. "Right, right... Howe, I get it. In due time, my Lord, in due time."

Edan fell silent, watching him for a moment in the firelight. He looked positively miserable, dark circles under those hollow, rheumy eyes of his, all pale skin and sunken cheeks.

"Everything alright, my Lord?" Roderick spoke after an uncomfortably long silence. "You look like you want to ask me something."

"Oh, how observant! As a matter of fact, there was something I was wondering about..."

Roderick didn't turn, but his eyes drifted in Edan's direction, urging him to continue.

"I heard you didn't sleep soundly last night. That is, I heard it. You sounded very distressed, I almost thought to tear my way into your tent to check on you but I feared frightening you more.” He scratched at the back of his head, gathering himself for a moment before he dared to continue. “It was hard to make out all of it, but you spoke of a few things… some things you haven’t yet told me." Edan leaned forward slightly, his expression grim. "Would you care to tell me any further details? Might that help ease your troubles?"

Roderick shook himself free of another memory, face contorted into something unreadable. "I've spoken as much of my ordeal as I am able to."

"And yet there's still so much I don't know," Edan continued, voice softening ever-so-slightly. "I cannot imagine what could be worse than what you've already imparted upon me."

"For your own sake, I'd recommend you don't try. There are cruelties in this world no man should know, even in their imagination. You should be thankful for that, my Lord."

He waved away the sentiment with a flick of his hand. "I don't need to be spared. You lived it and you're still standing, I think I could handle a simple recounting of the events."

Roderick's posture stiffened as if pulled taut by a string while his expression fell sullen. He turned away from Edan completely, glaring into the surrounding darkness, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Through gritted teeth, he replied, "I don't see what you could possibly gain from knowing the ins and outs of how they humiliated and defiled me. Must I recount every detail of my torment?"

"Defiled?" He asked, unnerved by his choice of words and what they unfortunately confirmed. "So what I overheard while you were dreaming... Rory, I'm so sorry..."

"Are you really?" he bit back. "This was what you wanted to hear, was it not? Has that information satisfied you?"

"No!" Edan was so tremendously appalled that he could hardly get the word out. "How could I ever be satisfied knowing my dearest friend has faced something so dreadful, so inhumane... I'm sickened if anything." And enraged beyond that. Another tally against Howe, another reason he wished to see him shredded to ribbons, knowing even an ounce of the pain he had inflicted on the poor people of castle Cousland, on his beloved family, on Rory...

"Huh, that’s funny," Roderick retorted, lips curled into a sneer. "For someone so disgusted you sure seek it out like a maid in the market seeks gossip. I think there are more pressing matters ahead of us like, oh I don't know, the darkspawn? Perhaps you should focus on that instead."

Wincing at Roderick's icy tone, Edan took a deep breath before continuing. "Alright then, perhaps I've pushed too far."

"Perhaps you have," he agreed curtly.

"And... I'm sorry," Edan spoke softly, though he quickly added, "But can you really blame me? The thought that you, you of all people , suffered such great horrors at the hands of that... that monster .... it boils my blood. The more I learn about what Howe and his wretched men did to you, the more I wish to see them suffer. To make those sick, sorry bastards pay for what they've done. And they will pay." He was lost in his own head now, bringing his fist down into his open palm as he swore to his ideals. Roderick went quiet again, staring off into the distant forest with a pained expression. "If you'll excuse me," he said, his voice just above a whisper. "I think I need to be alone for a while." Rising swiftly to his feet, he shambled off towards his tent without a single look back.

Edan could only watch as he left, confused and concerned at his abrupt departure, but more certain now than he'd ever been about what he must do.

#tw: sa mention #dragon age #dragon age origins #ser gilmore #cousland #ser gilmore npc #oc: edan #jun fics #idk if it comes up in the mod at all but I realized you can keep pushing Rory to discuss his trauma even when he's not ready #of course I choose them simply to get the lore but I often have Edan swear to get revenge for him afterwards #and he's just like “please never make me talk about this again :')”#so far he's never gotten truly angry or shut him down over it but idk I think he should and has the right so here we are

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