#// exsanguination cw

[vampyrbutch]

[bitten-fruit]

Houndtooth | ⇦ Chapter 3 ⇨

Ghost x f!Reader - tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, abduction, bodyguard, forced cooperation, smut

18+ mdni - cw: kidnapping - 3.4k words

𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐞

“I’ll freeze to death.”  

You utter, voice low and tense; your cadence despite your effort is sheepish, as though you’re exerting every effort to reassert yourself as brave and unflinching. A mask to veil the shivering little rabbit you must spend most of your life trying to conceal.   

Ghost isn’t fooled by your disguise, by your attempts to obfuscate your vulnerability – no, he can scent your panic, that frightened wee animal at the centre of you, hidden beneath the baiting curves of your flesh. He might be able to see its reflection glistening in your nervous eyes, once he’s able to rip that sack off your head.  

The thought tempts a vengeful smirk that tugs at his lips. One he wished you could see, if only to witness your quaint bravery be exsanguinated from you at the sight of his amusement. 

Still, you’re not wrong.  

The dry air of the midwinter night must be dipping below the double-digit negatives. A frigid cold that Ghost himself had scarcely noticed on his expedition to your estate – shielded by many layers; woollen fleece under windbreaker under thick, gore-tex parka, face kept warm by his balaclava, fingers protected from frostbite by waterproof gloves. 

It’s a short ride to exfil by snowmobile, less than ten minutes – but, in all likelihood, long enough that the exposure could kill you by the time he hauled you to the helicopter.  

Long enough that it might freeze the mucus of your throat and lungs into crystalline shards, might blacken and petrify your extremities, might have your exposed skin sloughing off in a few days' time.  

Ghost knows he must return you to base alive. But, alive is the only condition that is expected of him. No expectation of unharmed. So, he is left to place bets on whether you’ll survive the journey.  

He could make a sport of it.  

He plays with your possible fates as though they were marbles in the palm of his hand, rolling them between fingers and uncaring if he drops them. 

“You might,” he chides gruffly, finally offering you a response. “It’d be your own fault for wearing a fuckin’ tissue.”  

His glower scrutinises you as he releases his hand from the doorknob, whose rattling must have informed you that he intended to drag you outdoors. He keeps his other gripped around your bicep, wrenchingly tight, he anticipates, hopes, that his grasp might leave bruises on your soft skin. You, slippery vermin, seem liable to flee at any moment, so he justifies it to himself.  

He watches your chest rapidly rise and fall, gratuitously exposed décolletage shimmering with a thin coating of sweat, it glows silky in the moonlight that illuminates you.  

You, standing as still as you can muster, covered only by your peony pink lingerie and a black hood over your head, hands bound with thick black cable ties – look like a scene out of a snuff film.  

Maybe you’ll end up in one. 

He finds himself silently appreciative you don’t have the satisfaction of seeing how long his hedonistic glare lingers on your cleavage; on the tightening of the edges of your lacy cups, cutting into the swell of your breasts with each of your quaking breaths, allowing them to pillow out of the top.  

Still, a small derisive scoff escapes you through the fabric. “I didn’t anticipate an outing.”  

You facetious little shit. Almost makes him laugh. 

Fine.  

With a shrill rip of Velcro, he tears open one of the flaps of a pocket on his tactical vest, plucking out a loudly rustling emergency blanket; a foil shawl folded neatly into a rectangle the size of a playing card, tucked into a plastic pouch.  

You step onto your back foot in an anxious reflex at the noise, little rabbit, maybe you’re expecting the worst. He hopes you are. 

But he’s doing you a favour. He grimaces in revulsion at the acknowledgement of that fact. Resents that you might be thankful for it. Tells himself it’s for the good of the mission – nothing more, nothing less. Reminds himself how much he’d otherwise relish in watching your skin turn indigo, left exposed to be ruined by the fatal ice of your country’s stark winter.  

Unwrapping it promptly, he tosses the thin foil to unfurl it, before floating it behind you. He pulls it over your shoulders, watching you wince at the sensation of it brushing against your bare skin. With rough haste he grabs hold your bound wrists, tugging them upwards and shoving the edges of the foil into your grip. 

“Thanks,” you murmur, a disingenuous show of sarcastic gratitude, as you roll your shoulders to adjust its coverage, holding the emergency cape tightly in your bound hands. The fabric of your hood sucks inward against your nose and mouth as you draw in a lengthy breath.  

“Don’t thank me,” he grunts, as he finally unlocks and pulls open the gargantuan, ostentatious entrance to your mansion; a towering double door, two thick slabs of carved wood. The frigid gale immediately floods into the gaudy foyer, forcing him to squint, its iciness pricking shards at his eyes and threatening to freeze solid the water that lubricates them.  

“Rgh – fuck,” you groan through gritted teeth, faltering bravery quickly giving way to squeaking panic. Your entire body tenses at the sudden gust of ice, toes curling and head twisting away from the blast of ice.  

He spectates amusedly as you immediately pull the thin foil to better cover yourself, admires as you struggle to do so while your wrists are bound.  

He adds, “…only delaying the inevitable.”  

Your negligée billows in the invasive wind, exposing your skin even further to the frost; not to say that otherwise it would do much to protect you from it.  

He takes an impatient grip of the back of your neck, the impact of his palm on your nape loud enough to emit a smack. He burrows his fingers into the fleshy bands of your tendons, driving you ruthlessly you towards the exit. Holds you upright by the neck like trapped game as you stumble over your bare feet.  

“Move.”  

You didn’t expect to be gracious of the sack the dog had secured over your head.  

Your unstable breathing warms your cheeks, the hot vapour of your adrenaline pumping from your lungs is trapped in by the thick black cotton, preventing the membranes of your nostrils freezing solid.  

The vice like grip of your hunter has not faltered, dragging you by the neck down the winding stone steps of your estate – the slabs free of snow by virtue of the heated coils beneath them, a renovation you yourself had requested. Of course, your husband had obliged. 

But your abductor isn’t steering you down your driveway, it seems, as you are instead led off the path.  

A gasping shriek jumps from your throat as your feet touch the layer of powder, snow packing between your toes; the frost immediately burns the soles as though you tread over shattered glass.  

“Where are we going,” you question through a clenched jaw, chattering with the cold, having to push your weak voice out of your seizing diaphragm. 

As you had anticipated, he says nothing. 

Stays dead silent, the peculiar beast.  

You’re frightened of him. Suddenly unconfident in your attempts to read him.  

It’s typically your strongest talent, a perfectly honed skill – reading men.  

Every one of them like a children’s book, predilections and intentions so blatant that they may as well have been scribbled in crayon. They believe wholeheartedly that they are mysterious, too cunning to be understood, so mistaken in their conceit; expecting that you as a mere woman are simply unable to comprehend them. 

Yet you have made a craft of determining what makes each one tick. Disassembling them like the gears and screws of a clock, surveying their quirks and components through your looking glass.  

Once reduced to their basic constituents, their most primordial parts, they are all the same. Always want the same thing. Always boil down to the same creature.  

Dogs. 

You’ve gotten good at baiting them. Leashing them. Taming them.  

This one is guarded. Keeps his teeth bared, keeps you guessing when he might maul you.  

So far, the only quirk of this one that you been able to deduce is that he wants you to be scared of him. Doing his best to terrorise you with his threats while enacting none of them.  

If he wanted to hurt you, or rape you, or kill you, countless opportunities to do so have been presented to him. You’ve been offered up to him so freely you may as well have been gifted to him wrapped in a bow.  

And yet, he hasn’t unwrapped you.  

That’s where your scrutiny has failed you. Like static distorting a radio signal.  

He provides you no tells. Tips no hand.  

He continues to act as though he is yet to impart his worst upon you. Vague about his intentions with you, in spite of his wandering eye. At least that is consistent with what you would expect from any of the dogs you have so far encountered. Acts too good, too moral, too chaste to take you; yet still gropes and licks and fingers and fucks you with his wanton glower. All the same.  

His claws cut deep into the cartilage of your neck as though he might hang you from it, unaffected by your whimpers nor your looming hypothermia. You feel it sinking beneath your skin. Freezes your nerves, turns the blood in your arteries into icy sludge, sends your muscles into irrepressible spasms. Your lungs ache, forced to suck down the very air that will inevitably freeze them solid.  

You gasp as you feel your knees knock against something solid; the dull ring of thick metal. 

His talons release your neck, finally, though you find yourself immediately longing for the warmth of his grip – the nape of your neck prickling with gooseflesh as it’s bitten by the frigid cold. 

Quick to thwart your opportunity at freedom, he takes prompt hold of you, gloved hands shoving past your foil cape and tucking under your arms. You squeak as you are lifted, uncertain how high off the ground you might be, though grateful that your frozen feet are finally free from their bed of snow.  

You’re lowered, then, your feet and ankles quickly parted by whatever frosty metal is now beneath you – then he drops you, and you land on your pelvis with a sore thud, abruptly bestriding whatever vehicle it must be. A snowmobile, you suspect.  

You feel him mount the vehicle behind you, his form hulking even when you can’t see it. You feel his breathing through the fabric on the top of your head. Heaving thighs on either side of you, you’re nestled between them. He even tugs you back with an arm hooked around your stomach, so you’re pressed more firmly against him, prevented from wriggling free. A couple fewer layers of gear and his body heat might even bring you comfort.  

Through his touch alone he seems unbothered by your proximity, by the pressure of your ass against his crotch. Not lascivious, though not disquieted. Steals no grabs, no rogue touches of any of your more intimate parts – though you’re not daft enough to assume he would shy away from it.  

You can feel the fleshy mass behind his trousers despite the thickness of the weatherproof fabric. Formidable even soft.  

Perhaps you could tempt him.  

With just a shimmy, an innocent readjustment of your ass between his legs – you offer just a touch more pressure. You might bump against him while he rides through the snow, might feel that pliable weight turn rigid against your back.  

You admit that he doesn’t seem the type to offer you special treatment if you offered your cunt to him. He’s made it known that he thinks you’re a slut, after all. In your experience, though, it works in your favour most of the time. Where’s the harm in trying?

But you feel the fabric of your sack hood twitch and quiver as his head lowers beside yours, he growls into your ear; 

“That’s not gonna help you.”  

Fine. Whatever. 

Worth a shot. 

It sounded as though he had uttered it through a grin; a very slight, near imperceptible drip of amusement in his malicious tone.  

But, with your hands bound, near naked, and blinded, your survival is dependent on him. Rather, it's entirely up to him.  

So you play it cool.  

“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you sheepishly respond, sweet and naïve, you get back into character. 

He huffs derisively, impatiently, perhaps. You let his arms envelop you as they reach for what must be the handles of the snowmobile in front of you, quickly deafened by the roar of the engine as he tugs on the throttle.  

Your body is abruptly forced backwards, tossed against him like a ragdoll as he suddenly accelerates - your fabric mask now provides you utterly no protection from the icy wind as it breaks through the weave. Your foil cape billows in the gale of his speed, rendering you entirely defenceless against the vicious knives of the cold as he speeds through the snow.   

Dropping your head, curling inwards on instinct, you find yourself nestling deeper into his shrouding form if only to shield yourself from the deathly cold he has purposefully exposed you to.  

After what feels like an agonising hour of having your bare skin dragged over a steel grater, you feel the snowmobile begin to decelerate, its roaring engine growing quieter and eventually grunting to a stop.   

You had thought you might be granted a reprieve from the painful gusting wind once the mobile finally came to a halt; but you’re still in a whirlwind of ice and glass, so disoriented you feel as though you’ve been spun on your heel and then cast out into the barren wilderness to find your own way.  

In the malevolent hurricane you lose your grip on your foil blanket, your only respite, it flies off into the ambiguous void of black forced upon you by your hood.  

But that mechanical thunder is unmistakable – an aircraft you were well acquainted with. A helicopter.  

A transport you frequented in your days of luxury, often to your warmer getaway home further south. To your Petit Trianon, another gift from your husband – one that acted as a clear means of getting rid of you for weeks at a time. Not that you complained. 

The begrudging protection of your hunter is stolen from you as he dismounts, leaving you utterly exposed to the blizzard, shivering with such intensity that your muscles burn with the acid they involuntarily excrete.  

But you’re quickly hauled off the vehicle, gloved grip under your arms once again, picked up with ease as you feel your body get tossed over his shoulder like a sack of flour. His thick arm hooks over your hip, you feel the veil of your babydoll flutter up and expose your bare ass to the icy gale - it humiliates you as if spanking you with its frozen hand.  

You hear the metallic rumble of a rolling door amidst the bellow of the rotating blades. 

“’Bout fuckin’ time.” The irate roar of a new man.  

You bounce on the shoulder in your stomach as you are carried within, listening as the door is slammed shut. After a few steps you are unceremoniously dropped onto a seat, a weak yelp escapes you at the pain of the impact.  

“Jesus fucking Christ, LT.” Yet another. Scottish.  

LT. Lieutenant? Military?  

Blind and defenceless, you stay seated but adjust yourself so that you sit upright, exerting every effort to catch your breath and steady your chattering bones. But despite effort, your body rolls around in its seat as the helicopter presumably begins its wobbly ascent.  

“What?” Your hunter growls.  

“Couldn’t give her a jacket?”  

“Why the fuck would I do that.”  

“It’s negative fifteen out there. Look at her, she’s just about blue.”  

“Mm. Maybe I should’ve given her the chance to pick out her favourite mink coat, eh?”  

You hear a huff of laughter from another man. “You just wanted to keep her in her knickers.” 

“Mh. Might loosen up her husband.”  

A chortle. “Could loosen up anybody.”  

Dogs. 

You stay silent and listen shrewdly.  

“Bravo Six to Gold Eagle Actual – double jackpot. We’re RTB.”  

Military, you are now certain. You can tell by the codeword gibberish without needing to understand it. You wish now that you had watched enough Western war movies to be able to translate it – but they’re all banned in Russia, of course.  

There’s a quiet murmur of a static-ridden voice emerging from a radio, but it is drowned out by the humming of the helicopter. 

“Fuck’d you do to Zakhaev?” Your hunter asks, throaty voice almost taunting. 

Your husband. Was he in the aircraft with you? Could you call for him?  

“Squealed like a pig when he came to. Knocked him out again.” The Scotsman. 

But, in spite of your effort to distinguish them, the unfamiliar voices quickly begin to blur together.  

“Tracks.”  

“Separate them before he wakes up.”  

“Why?” A new voice.  

“Can’t have him knowing that we’ve got her already. We need to surprise him with it.”  

“Kinda fucked up, Cap.”  

“Ts’all in a days work, Sergeant.”  

Captain. Sergeant. British Army? Airforce?  

There’s a few moments of silence, you shuffle disquietly in your seat. Oh, if only you could see what was happening. It was already hard enough to hear them over the roaring of the chopper. Deaf, dumb, and blind. 

“Christ, she’s a looker, though, isn’t she?” The Sergeant.  

A chuckle follows from the Scotsman. “Can’t even see her face, mate.”  

“Don’t need to.”  

“Never know. Could be all botched by filler and botox and shite. All those fuckin’ oligarchs are.”  

“Mm. Nah. I’ve seen the photos.”  

“Take a long hard look at ‘em, did ye?”  

“Definitely hard. Dunno about long.”  

A laugh. “You nasty fucker.”  

Dogs. 

You’re even further discomforted by the fact that your hunter knows you can understand every single word that these men are uttering around you. And, evidently, feels no need to inform his comrades that you know exactly what they are saying about you.  

He wants you to feel uncomfortable.  

He wants you nervous.  

You hear the thud of boots against the metal floor, uncertain of whose nor which direction they are coming from, though they approach you. You shrivel on instinct, curling in on yourself to hide your near-nudity from whichever of the lecherous men is standing before you. 

You jump, squeaking in fright as something heavy is tossed around your shoulders. Fabric. Wool, judging by the thickness and scratchiness of it; you use your bound hands to grab at the edges of it to blanket yourself, finally able to conceal your body from them.  

“Согрейтесь.” Warm yourself up.  

The Captain, if you remember his rumbling cadence correctly. 

“You’re too soft, Cap. She’s a prisoner of war not a fuckin’ damsel.” Your hunter.  

The man who had given you the blanket addresses him. “We need her alive, don’t we? I’m keeping her alive.”  

“Fuck’s sake. She’ll be fine.”  

The charitable one speaks to you again, voice low and close, as though he has bent down intending for only you to hear it.  

“Он ничего тебе не сделал, да?” He didn’t do anything to you, did he? 

“Oh, piss off. Who do you think I am?” Your abductor immediately disputes, having apparently overheard.   

You consider your options. Maybe this captain could take pity on you, if you played your cards right. You can deduce his type through his words and actions already. Nobleman. White knight. It’s a façade, of course. If he’s a captain as the others say, he has probably orchestrated this entire operation.  

Though, inexplicably, you decide honesty is your safest course. You want an ally out of your hunter.  

“Нет, он меня не трогал.” No, he didn’t touch me. 

“Told you.” Your hunter grunts.  

A laboured sigh follows from the captain. “I never know with you, Riley.”  

He scoffs disdainfully.  

Leaves an ugly silence.  

“I’m not an animal.”  

Next chapter ⇨

[mightymizora]

Blood and Bone, Bone and Blood

It was ever fated thus. 3437 words, The Dark Urge/Ketheric Thorm, background implied The Dark Urge/Enver Gortash. CW violence, sex, and a lot of father issues.

Read on Ao3

His letter had said that he would bring her. That after the correspondence, the time he spent in the libraries and archives, the long conversations about what might be possible, that it was time to make it so. That they had been blessed in their endeavours, these Chosen of the Black Hand and the Lord of Murder, and the crown was theirs.

Their Gods blessed them all. It was time to claim their reward for their devotions. 

She is a little rough around the edges, says Lord Gortash in his careful hand. But you’ll like her. She keeps one sharp.

*

The Lord of Bones is a fair master to him. He came to him in the darkness, and he made an offer of one more chance for the light.

Shar was the absence. The nothing in the long night. The darkest part of the shadow, the last ragged squeeze of the exhale. 

Myrkul is the entropy, the judgement. The eternal proof of what is dead can truly never die.

He came to him in the darkness, as his mind still searched for the light.

Come join me, undying, his Lord told him in his awakening mind as the lid of his tomb was pulled from its resting place. Meet the eternal promise. I can give you what you desire.

*

They arrive on a cold evening, two figures emerging from the bleak fog on foot. The horses had turned at the edges of the curse, they would tell him later, and she had ripped them open as a mercy. Their footmen had turned on the verges, and she had torn them limb from limb.

They arrive in his halls, he draped in dyed bearskin, her in a plain red cloak. There are whispers in the hall as she lowers her hood, as his servants take their belongings.

Gortash bows to him.

The Bhaalspawn does not.

“I would remind you,” he warns her as he sits forward on his throne, “That in my halls, you defer to me.”

“I obey only the blood,” she replies, her voice dark and heady with the kill.

*

She haunts the floors of the towers on their first night.

He has no need for sleep anymore, he has rested long enough. Her voice echoes in the darkness, chased by the sound of screaming, echoing across the staircases and winding up into the sky.

He stalks the sound of her. Tracks her. He can only assume this is what she wants as she leaves great trails of blood along the wall, exsanguinated goblins and other such expendable creatures littering the ground as she paints her trail. He does not try to keep his feet light. She wants to be pursued; a game of hide-and-seek.

He dips his hands in the blood she leaves, feeling for the warmth blooming that will show that she is near. He follows her voice as it becomes clearer.

“My blood sings to their blood.”

He finally finds her, stripped naked with great gloves of blood half way up her arms, a mask of red on her face. “I will kill them, General,” she says with a delight in her eyes. “I will kill them, and you will make sure they return, won’t you? Blood and bone.”

She is like a child playing up for attention, her eyes wide in the torchlight, her body shivering in the cold. Punish me, she challenges, or make it right. He does not answer.

*

They speak through the plan from dawn until dusk, the crown on the table between them. It is strangely unimpressive to look at, this great prize, this key to dominion. Gortash lays out great scrolls of parchment, calls for food and wine, and he is happy to let him drown in the sound of his own voice. The plan is simple, really, beneath the theories and designs. His Lord has told him what he needs to know. 

“There are some last things to capture,” says Gortash. “Scribe Yanthus can take them down. We must ensure no part of this remains undocumented. We change the world, my friends.”

He raises his glass, but he is the only one drinking. The Bhaalspawn plays with the stem of her goblet. There is blood still under her fingernails.

“I will dine with General Thorm tonight,” she says finally. “He can tell me the history of this place, while you are working.”

“Manva-“

“Enver.”

Her name is a prayer, a plea on his tongue. His is a warning on hers. A moment’s annoyance, anger even, is replaced with a tight smile.

“Well, there is much to be done,” says Gortash, draining the last of his cup. 

*

They dine in silence in his rooms. He eats nothing. He needs nothing. He watches as she picks at a plate of dried fruits, of stale hardtack, of salted meat. She watches him in silence for almost an hour, her eyes set on him all the while, before she deigns to speak in a careful, measured, dark enquiry. 

“Your Lord spares you from death. Is that your bargain?”

She looks over him as she speaks through a mouthful of fruit that stains her lip.

“No.”

“It interests me. What you are given, what you ask for. Enver wears his ambitions every day.”

“And you?”

“I am the true blood of Bhaal. I ask for nothing. I only take.”

She spits a stone from the fruit onto the plate and looks at him. “I heard stories of the Great General of a hundred years ago. Leading the great Dark Justiciars across this land. Bringing the ever night. You were a champion. You served with glory.”

In a moment, her cup is knocked to the table as she pulls herself atop of it. She walks across and kneels in front of him, her hands on him so quickly he cannot stop them. 

“Is this what is left?”

He is struck by her tenderness, this child of Blood. She runs her hands so softly over his face, the callouses of her fingertips catching on the soft, hanging flesh.

“Is this what is left after the final breath? Is this what is left behind, after the bleeding stops? After the end? ”

“You fool,” he replies, his mouth by her mouth. “Death is no end at all.”

*

In the crypt, the candles burned out in a matter of days. He replaced them as he sat at the end of her grave over and over again. He bought the incense. He bought the offerings. He prayed.

Shar’s reward was just, he believed that. Shar’s reward was everything he had asked for. It was the moment of waking before one’s mind flooded with the grief of loss. It was the brief pause between the inhale and exhale. It was the moment when you had cried all the tears that your body could hold, and stillness fell.

He had no need for sleep, for food, for water. He had no needs at all, and she knew that. She did not come for him, because he did not ask.

He lived-not-lived in the gaps between for as long as he could, but that is the thing with grief. You can carve it away over and over, take the flesh from your body, bleed it away, but it lives inside your very bones.

*

She sits astride him and tears into his chest. The pain is an echo of what it could have been, his Lord’s great mercy, and her delight. Her strong hands crack his ribcage. It feels almost good. Right.

“Your blood smells wrong,” she says as she buries her face in him. “Oh, but your heart, Ketheric? It is so beautiful.”

She moves on him, and his eyes roll and what passes for his breath chokes him.

*

He holds her after, as his flesh knits back together and she watches like an awed child. He did not expect her to stay. It feels wrong to hold her like this, in the bed he shared for twenty years in love.

Melodia fit into his arms so perfectly. She would bury her nose into his neck, under his ear, tuck herself under his arm and his hand would find her waist. She would settle her hand so delicately on his chest as if any pressure would shatter him into pieces. 

“You did this for love, didn’t you?” she asks quietly. How old must she be, this reckoning in woman? Barely thirty, if that. The freckles across her nose remind him of Isobel as a child. Her strong jaw. Her pale eyes. 

“I did. I do.”

“You buried your wife. And then your daughter. And then yourself, in Shar.”

“I serve my Lord.”

“I think you serve yourself.”

Her fingers trace down the mark she left. 

She is not so delicate as her hands reach into him again.  

*

She explores the towers without his consent. She rifles through his books, asks questions of Balthazar. She feeds the gnolls, she watches the torturers in the dungeons, she runs her hands through the knives in the kitchen. 

“I wish to know you, my ally,” she tells him. “If we are to be bound together, I want to know you.”

“You are a blade,” he tells her. “You do not need to be anything more.”

*

“Tell me.”

“No.”

She has crawled into his bed again. This time, she has only let the blood from his neck in but a trickle, to weave her fingers in, to play with his black blood. When he heals, she pulls the flesh apart again gently.

“Do you want it? Is that why you ask?”

As her fingers move, so he moves in her. She sets the pace slow. He will follow.

“I will be the last being on earth,” she says. “If Bhaal wills me to quicken, then I have failed him.”

“I asked what you wanted.”

Her eyes glaze. She looks beyond him, and then into his eyes with a tenderness.

“Tell me of the day you first held her,” she demands, her lips by his wound. “Isobel. Tell me of the day she first saw the sun. Tell me of when you loved.”

*

When he held her he.

When he held her.

This body cannot recall it, not fully.

For when he held her, something changed in the very weaving of his veins.

When he held her he was flooded by the light she bore, the light that she was born with, ever radiant, his girl.

Every part of him that was good and just and right passed through into her. Every part of Melodia that was gentle and sweet and kind passed through into her.

When Melodia died, all that he loved lived in Isobel.

When Isobel.

When she.

There is a story of a man who sold himself part by part, and he tells himself that story. It is easier to tell it than to feel it again and again and again.

*

There is an affection there. They think he does not see it, but he does. 

Gortash holds the door for her as if he were the page of a highborn lady, and she steps through as if she is. He watches her as she moves through the halls of Moonrise, smiles as she smiles with that bloodthirst on her lips.

She swaps the ink pot as he scrawls without being prompted, and smiles as he writes and writes and writes. She reads his pages later as he sleeps. He knows from the smudges she leaves, but never tells.

It will be easy to take control over them, when the time comes. He barely needs to do a thing. He knows what that kind of love is capable of, that seeping in of gentleness in passion. If they survive placing the crown on the brain they will destroy each other over all these moments, with just the lightest touch, and as they turn to bone and ash he will endure.

He will endure.

*

The power of the brain has torn through his mind and dropped him to his knees twice already. The stone on his chest is being deflected. It buries itself into his armour, bores itself into the flesh. He can hear its voice in his mind, its mocking voice ripping through his mind.

Chosen of many, it whispers to him, Loyal only to one. You are brittle, breaking apart.

Gortash is on his knees, his hand above him not in defiance, but in protection.

He will endure. He will not fall before these children.

“She will be the all mother!” Manva cries, tears mingled with blood from her eyes. Her stone sits in a blade that she holds to her own throat in a rhapsody. “Her children will sweep through the world. They will be her children, and she will love them all.”

The crown flies from them and bonds to the brain, and the scream of it almost tears his mind in two.

*

That night they feast and he watches them. They are giddy, delighted with themselves and each other. She fills his cup. He tucks her hair behind her ear and she does not stop him.

“And now, we can take our rewards. The city will be mine, General,” says Gortash, “And tomorrow, we will help you claim yours.”

“And what does the child of Bhaal claim?” he asks her. 

She smiles in return. “Everything I am, I hand to my Father.”

*

It still smells of the herbs, of incense and of moss, of the strange sweetness of the flesh suspended from rot. It is still sacred, a hundred years later, preserved for all time with the strongest wards that he now dispels with a shaking hand. How many nights did he sit vigil here, and how much longer has it sat unmourned?

Manva moves the lid of the sarcophagus with ease, as Gortash holds the torch over the body.

The body.

His daughter.

His Isobel.

“Oh, but she is beautiful, General,” she swoons. Her hands reach down to her face, those vile instruments of violence.

“You do not touch her.”

The power of his own voice chills him, and she laughs at him, this degenerate, this poison.

“I cannot make her more dead, Ketheric. What are you afraid of?”

“Leave us.”

“But-”

“Leave. This is not for you.”

Gortash hands him the torch and takes her away. They leave him here, with the silence. That silence. And the fear.

“Lord,” he offers, falling to his knees one last time. “Grant me…”

He will be a supplicant. He will crawl in the dirt. He will push himself into the ground again, for this chance, and all the Lord of Bones asks for is his soul. His body. He prays for hours, awaits the hand of God to guide him, and it does.

As his hands touch her, her eyes open wide. She chokes on the cloth that sits down her throat and he pulls it from her as she gags. She tears away the bindings on her hands in dread panic, but her eyes, her eyes, they are bright and they are alive.

“Isobel. Oh, my love, my love, you are here with me!”

“Aylin?”

The sound of that woman, no not a woman, that creature’s name on her lips is a poison all over again. It seeps through him as her eyes come to focus on him fully.

Eyes that are full of dread.

“She is dead, Isobel,” he tells her. His voice sounds cold, so cold. “It’s me. I’m here. Oh, my girl, my beautiful, beautiful girl.”

The colour is starting to return to her cheeks. “Daddy, no.”

“We will be together now, my love.”

“What happened?”

Her hands, trembling, reach to his face, but stop before they can touch him. She buries her face in her hands and howls.

He wishes he could cry. Perhaps that would melt away the fear on her face as he picks her up, as he holds her to him, as he pulls her from the grave. She is still as stiff as a corpse against him, until he starts to pull her away.

“No-”

“It’s time to come home, Isobel.”

“No!”

He is pushed from her, hitting the wall in a flood of radiant light as she glows white, running past him on unsteady legs. Selune, moon-goddess, first love of his life, has borne down her blessing and her scorn.

“Isobel!”

He tries to run after, but the light seeps through his black blood and stills him, holds him, and he can only watch as she falls out of his sight once more.

*

He takes Manva to his bed. It is not up for discussion. 

“Perhaps I will kill you,” he tells her. “Raise you as my servant.”

“Perhaps I will starve you of your dead, Ketheric. Still the blades, if Father wills it.”

There is no satisfaction, at least in the physical, that he can take here. All the edges of his body are dulled. All of the great joys and the great pains stifled in service to his God.

But there something akin to joy in watching her discovery of his body. In watching that wonder that crosses her as she finds new ways to pull his flesh apart, as he hisses with an echo of the pain of it. She is delighted. She sparks. There is a beauty in it, a beauty that does not remind him of the sweet touch of his wife in bliss, but of the look of Isobel the first day she saw a songthrush, the first time she ate honey, the first time she realised she could say I love you to her father and make him laugh with joy.

There is a beauty in it.

In making her undone with ease, and wondering if Gortash can give her this. 

*

“I must return to the city to do what I do best,” she says. Gortash is waiting for her, and they will leave for Baldur’s Gate that morn. “The streets will run red with blood. We will have our victories. We will have our roles to play. And then…”

And then. She will try to kill them all. She will try to find the way. He will wait, as always, only now the world is his crypt.

She stops what she is doing, placing her pack on the table as she looks at him. She comes to him, sits in his lap again as she did that first night, and he does not stop her from taking his face in her hands.

“I wish they could rise again, those I will kill,” she says as she holds him close to her. “I wish they could rise to kiss me with such care.”

“If that is what you think care is, child, then I pity you,” he says, as his arms wrap around her one last time.

*

She stands before him again. Less defiant this time. New scars, new blood on her face. New allies, who look at her with that same dogged devotion young Gortash wore, the poor, misguided fools. It is a farce. It is obscene.

But if there is one thing he knows, it is that death is rarely the end.

As her eyes roam over him, he sees something stir in her. Recognition, for a moment, before a wave of uncertainty. Her lips part, her eyes are wide, and yet she says nothing.

“I am surprised to see you again, True Soul,” he says. “You are here to assist, and not to meddle, I trust?” He sits forward, and cannot help but smile. Oh, she is helpless. “I would remind you that while in my halls, you obey me - just as you would any other chosen.”

She does not take his meaning, his inference. Her eyes look to the others in the room. She is seeking confirmation, a hint, a purchase. She will find nothing. They are loyal to him.

“I’m sure you will enjoy seeing my justice enacted. You have to take what pleasure you can, after all, in your diminished state.”

She is pathetic. Her muscles shrunk to nothing, the fire in her a mere flicker. Her head bowed. Her eyes bloodless. 

“You know me?” she asks, but it is barely the hint of a question. She knows.

“Better than you know yourself.”

Blood and bone, bone and blood

It was ever fated thus

And as they mingle in the dirt

So the world returns to dust

[nsfwordwitch]

Kinktober 2023 Day 20

Prompt: Foodplay Pairing: Astarion x Halsin 1144 Words

cw for blood, gore and animal death

🔞Adults Only Blog🔞

The moon is little more than a sliver in the sky over the woods outside Baldur's Gate, the perfect night for Astarion to hunt. For the first time, he doesn't hunt alone. Halsin had offered to join him, and he accepted with the hope that together, the two of them could kill something too treacherous for Astarion on his own. Something more delectable.

They find the wolf on a prowl of its own. They had tracked it, together, Astarion spotting its tracks in the dirt and Halsin sniffing it out with his animal senses. Astarion draws its attention by intentionally rustling the leaves of the trees, and Halsin follows it at a distance in bear form. Astarion waits for the wolf to enter a small clearing, then leaps at it from the brush. He doesn't quite catch it, and it bolts, only to find 600 pounds of bear waiting for it. Halsin roars and takes a swipe at the wolf, inciting a yelp and forcing it back.

Astarion jumps on it, getting his arms around its neck. He throws a forearm across its windpipe and holds on. The wolf thrashes, trying to throw him, but before long it loses energy and goes limp underneath him.

He looks at Halsin, still in wild shape, and nods at him. "Well done," he says, before going for the kill.

He buries his face in the fur of the wolf's neck and sinks his teeth into its flesh. He draws out the blood, filling his mouth, reveling in it streaming down his throat. The blood sprays out of the beast as its heart beats its last, overflowing his mouth and running down his face to his chest.

He gorges himself, delighted and entranced by the blood of a fellow predator. Nothing like the blood of a person, but more than that of a prey animal. A sense of the natural order disturbed. It's delicious.

When he's drained it dry, he reels back. He leans against a tree, giddiness rising in him. He watches as Halsin falls over the carcass and eats his fill, too. He starts with the throat, tearing it out where Astarion drained it. Astarion watches in horror and wonder as he rips apart the wolf's torso, digging into its flesh with his powerful jaws.

Halsin pulls back from the carcass and transforms back into a man. His breaths come heavy, extension and excitement in his face. Astarion is watching him closely. "I hope it satisfied,” he says, “despite its state of exsanguination."

"My hunger, yes, but I have other desires yet unsated."

Halsin is staring at him, and Astarion's pulse quickens when he realizes that other desire is not unwanted. But Halsin will have to ask.

Halsin approaches him, and Astarion wonders at what a sight he must be. He can feel the wolf's blood dripping down from his chin to his chest. Halsin reaches toward his face, then stops.

"May I have a taste?" he asks, voice heavy.

Astarion studies him. "You may."

Halsin grasps his jaw and leans down to Astarion, his wide tongue lapping up the blood on his cheek and chin. Astarion shivers and grabs Halsin's wrist, holding it in place. When Halsin's tongue almost reaches the edge of his lips, he stops. Astarion waits.

Halsin releases his chin and backs away. "I apologize, Astarion. I fear I–I have overstepped."

"Halsin." Astarion draws two fingers through the still-wet blood on his chest and offers them, dripping, to Halsin. "Will you come have a taste?"

"Yes," Halsin says, and Astarion's fingertips part his lips. Halsin's breathing is heavy around his fingers, and he takes them deep as he can, not breaking eye contact. Astarion pulls Halsin's head toward him, leading him down to his neck. "You may," he breathes.

Halsin draws his tongue up the length of Astarion's neck, making him release some very undignified noises. He clutches to Halsin's body, melting into his arms. When Halsin's mouth reaches his, he kisses him back hungrily, thrilling at the iron of the blood on his tongue. He senses Halsin's reluctance to move on, unsure what he might object to. Astarion has no patience for it.

He takes Halsin's face in his hands, staring him down. "Don't hold back."

Halsin's gaze moves between his eyes and his lips. "You're sure?"

"I've seen you with Weft. I know you'll stop if I tell you to." A sly smile crosses his lips. "I don't plan to, however."

Halsin growls, lust written across his face, and lays Astarion down in the grass. He kisses him while his hands are busy untying Astarion's trousers. He strips Astarion's lower half slowly, revealing his legs one slow inch at a time. He slips under Astarion's legs as he crawls back up, bringing his face to his erection. Astarion wipes some blood on his thumb and draws a line up the top side of his shaft. Halsin grins, and takes Astarion into his mouth.

Astarion sighs and lets his head fall back. Halsin is as good with his mouth as he suspected; even Weft's technique has improved since sleeping with him. Halsin's tongue presses into his cock and he moans. He bucks into his mouth, and moans again when Halsin takes him in deeper. "Wait," he says, and Halsin releases his cock immediately. "I want to fuck you."

"Of course, Halsin says. "I mean, as you wish."

Astarion's lips quirk in a smile. "Then undress for me."

Halsin hurries out of his clothes, and straddles Astarion, who lines the head of his cock up with his hole. He teases it, and Halsin grunts in frustration. Astarion grins at him.

"Ever so eager," he teases.

"How could I not be?" Halsin says, his voice strained. He hovers just above Astarion's cock. "With you, beneath me?"

"Then fall."

Halsin drops his hips and Astarion slides into him. Astarion huffs out a breath and thrusts up into him, making Halsin's voice catch. They move against each other, Astarion reaching deep into him, drawing out sounds that make his insides burn.

"Don't stop," he tells Halsin, and Halsin nods, riding him harder. Astarion comes with a gasp, and grips Halsin's thighs. "Don't stop." He holds out his palm and presses Halsin's cock into his own belly.

"Yes, that's–" Halsin says. He keeps riding, Astarion's hand stroking him as he does. Astarion feels him tighten around his cock, and then Halsin cries out and shoots his come onto his own stomach, reaching as far as his chest.

He eases off of Astarion, collapsing beside him. They look at each other, and Astarion feels…shy? How strange.

"Looks like we both need to clean up, now," Halsin says.

"Yes, unfortunately. If only there was a third person here." He pauses, looking at the stars. "Gods Weft is going to be insufferable about this."

Halsin laughs. "I'm afraid so."

[sariel-heavensborne]

FFXIV Write // Steer

(CW: Allusions to violence; blood)

Sariel clutched the leveplate retrieved from the Quicksand's job-offering counter in his palm. Another job, another opportunity for useless currency to add onto the hoard--and more importantly, an opportunity to feed. It had been a twelvemoon (as the locals sayeth) since his arrival in the realm of Eorzea, and beyond the odd aether-siphoning of winged porcines, it had been business as usual for him.

Supposedly. Hath it been, so?

Had it? This niggling thought in the back of his mind every time he ripped out yet another throat, propagated Light with the exsanguination of wicked sin. He found himself listening to the screams every so often. To no avail, ultimately, as 'twould surely not change his course in the end... but listening nonetheless.

Such thoughts never occurred to him in the past. Not seven moons prior when he finally slew and feasted on the flesh of his supposed "caretaker" who trusted that he could return to "normal", the naive fool. Why now? What had that damned treatment by way of ridiculous, flying gluttony incarnate done to him?

Sariel looked down upon the levelplate that he had clutched so tightly, its corners having sunk deeply into pale flesh to the point of his golden lifeblood coalescing upon it. A mural in the style of stained glass was depicted upon it. Each one bore the likeness of a saint committing their greatest deed, now apparently correlating to the slaying of some beast or fool. This one depicted a lalafell--or dwarf, by Sariel's insistence--grasping a pair of rats by the ears.

Sariel tucked the levelplate into his side-satchel, allowing the small amount of slow-moving golden blood to trickle down the length of his hand. There art rats to be caught, and so shall it be. 'Tis not the first time I've heard of men referred to as such. Thus, now outside the city gates and away from prying eyes, did wings erupt from Sariel's back--flecked in shimmering golden blood, outstretched, and prepared for flight.

It would be the last time the sin eater willingly hunted the flesh of man.

[hunter-sylvester]

I have these two interpretations for the first few lines of Machinery of Torment that I quite enjoy. One more-so than the other.

Mother leaves me bleeding Exsanguinates my dreaming Father, father, deaf to children’s call

I'll focus most on the very first line, and start with the interpretation that I think is probably closer to the intended one. Which is the one I favor less.

CW: Discussion of child abuse & self harm.

You can place the emphasis on her leaving, with the bleeding being more symbolic for the pain he feels around her abandoning him. Maybe she even left when he was going through something particularly difficult for another reason (he was 13, could be anything) Therein leaving when he most needed her.

The third line is almost definitely intended to underline Alan being an inattentive/neglectful father. His mother left, leaving him hurt. And his father isn't doing much to help, he basically ignores him.

Again, I'd say that is sort-of the obvious interpretation of the lines and probably close to the intended one.

Now, the 2nd interpretation is definitely not what they intended. But I like it. (This will make a lot of sense if you've read Does it get better?) I enjoy reading the leaves me to be less about her literally leaving his life and read it more like 'being left' reads in a phrase such as I was left stunned. Either in the sense that she literally abused him to the point of drawing blood or that the stress and abuse she subjects him to is one of the things that contributes to him self harming. And then that being exacerbated by her also literally leaving because being abused by a parent is complicated.

This still plays well with an ever so slightly different feeling to the third line. Still playing into Alan being inattentive and neglectful in general but also specifically being 'deaf' to the abuse Hunter was subjected to by his mom. He was supposed to be there to save him, he was supposed to hear his call for help, but he was deaf to it.

So that's one of the reasons I have to support my 'Hunter's mom was abusive' headcanon. Which I know isn't for everybody, but I'm an angsty fucker.

[nursegracecreates]

͢F͢ʟ͢ᴜ͢ғ͢ғ͢ ͢A͢ʟ͢ᴘ͢ʜ͢ᴀ͢ʙ͢ᴇ͢ᴛ͢ ͢H͢ᴇ͢ʟ͢ᴇ͢ɴ͢ ͢O͢ᴛ͢ɪ͢s͢ ͢E͢ᴅ͢ɪ͢ᴛ͢ɪ͢ᴏ͢ɴ͢

Cw: GNreader (like one line where it alludes to Reader being female); tw: mentions of murder, blood and gore, dead bodies, exsanguination, alcohol use, mutilation

A/N: tumblr ate the end of this post, so I just fixed it! Sorry about that guys 💖

⋇𝓐ctivities (What does Helen like to do with his SO?)

Helen enjoys doing quiet activities with Reader

Reading together, working on their various projects at the same time curled up together, listening to music and talking

Likes to watch Reader cook but he's absolutely hopeless at actually cooking

Helen also enjoys walks with Reader, during which he collects flowers for and weaves a flower crown for them

During these walks, Helen likes to talk about deep things like philosophy, life's mysteries, etc

He also likes to have painting sessions where Reader poses for him

When Helen and his darling are just wasting/passing time, doing nothing at home, Helen likes to draw on Reader's skin

Helen covers Reader's skin with intricate designs that can take hours

They're just the perfect canvas to Helen

⋇𝓑eauty (What does Helen admire about his SO? What does he think is beautiful about them?)

Helen loves Reader's eyes

They're the windows to the soul, after all

With just a glance,

Helen can see everything he needs to know in Reader's eyes

Their mood, their comfort level, if they're hurting mentally or physically, if they forgot to eat their last meal, if they need a drink, you name it, Helen sees it

Helen also thinks that Reader carries themselves beautifully

Their poise, their confidence, the level of class they radiate

They all make up a stunning aura

In Helen's opinion as a professional Reader simp, the sum of all of Reader's flaws is what makes them beautiful

No one looks like them. No one

He's got an extremely limited edition, the master cut

⋇𝓒omfort (How would Helen help his SO when they're sick or having mental health problems?)

Helen gets kind of frantic if Reader is unwell in any way

He can't help it

His parents were helicopter parents, it's the only way he knows how to handle the situation

So he waits on Reader hand and foot if they're sick

He's a little better when it comes to mental health stuff

He'll find a good time to sit down and talk to Reader about what's going on

If they say they need space, that's fine.

Helen, above all people can understand the need for space

But Helen learned a lot during his stay in juvenile psychiatric care

And he always offers to help Reader figure things out if they want

In the meantime, Helen will be patient and respectful to Readers needs

⋇𝓓reams (How does Helen picture his future with his SO?)

Helen isn't really much of a planner

He doesn't put much thought into the future

At least not the distant future

As long as he and Reader are happy, free, and healthy,

That's all Helen really cares about

⋇𝓔qual (Is Helen the dominant one in his relationship? Or is he more passive?)

Helen prefers to take the dominant role in his relationship with Reader

Nothing crazy, Reader's opinion totally impacts Helen's

So it's not like he calls all of the shots

It's just

Helen was raised in a traditional environment, where the man is the head of the household

So it's just his natural way of thinking

But really, things are more of a partnership

⋇𝓕ight (Would Helen forgive his SO easily? How is Helen during a fight?)

Helen would probably be the creep closest to being able to work through almost any problem

His years in therapy have made it so he can process things and figure out how to fix a problem relatively quickly

However, Helen wouldn't be able to work through the big three: cheating, betrayal, or an absentee relationship

Helen is a mirror when it comes to effort

Someone puts effort into building rapport with Helen, and Helen reciprocates in kind

If Reader didn't have basic respect or consideration for him?

Well why would he put the effort into having respect or consideration for them?

⋇𝓖ratitude (How grateful is Helen in general? Is he aware of what his SO does for him?)

Helen feels like Reader is his biggest supporter when it comes to his art

They even come to his showings, even though they have to put stuff in their nose to help with the smell

Because of this, Helen is so grateful that he sometimes cries from the happiness and love he feels for Reader

⋇𝓗onesty (Does Helen have secrets that he hides from his SO? Or does he share everything?)

It's not that Helen lies to Reader

They know what Helen has done and continues to do in pursuit of his art

But he might... omit a few details

Not that he thinks Reader would leave him if they found out he regularly falls asleep amongst the bodies he uses in his art (he showers religiously when he gets home, don't worry)

Or that once, he accidentally drank a huge gulping drink of a cup of blood that he had forgotten about on the table next to where he was working. And that it wasn't horrible, in fact would have been good if it had been warm

Helen supposes if Reader were to ask him about these things directly, he would be honest with them

But until that day,

Helen thinks it's best to keep some things to himself

⋇𝓘nspiration (Did Helen's SO change him somehow? Or is it the other way around?)

Reader is Helen's muse

He draws all his inspiration from Reader

If anything Helen's relationship has done two things:

Reader inspires Helen to put his art pieces in more intimate settings/positionings

And Helen's art has pretty much made it necessary for Reader to develop a much stronger psyche

Helen's showings are not for the faint of heart and/or weak of stomach

It's bloody, it's gory. It's all outhouse smells laced with the scent of raw hamburger that's been left out in the heat for too long 🤢

Helen keeps a little pot of vapor rub with him for Reader's nose, just in case they want to tag along

⋇𝓙ealousy (Does Helen get jealous easily? How does he deal with it?)

Helen doesn't really see a need to get jealous

The way he sees it, Reader could have chosen anyone they wanted to

But they chose him

That's got to count for something

It would bother Helen more if Reader were an artist as well

And they chose someone besides him to be their muse

Helen just wouldn't be able to reconcile it in his head

Helen knows he's good looking and would be a good candidate for drawings

And Reader says they love Helen and think he's gorgeous, stunning, sexy, and various other positive adjectives.

So why is someone else Reader's muse? 😤

⋇𝓚iss (Is Helen a good kisser? What was Helen's first kiss with his SO like?)

Helen is a hesitant kisser at first

He's not experienced at all

A virgin and never been kissed when Reader found him

Of course, he didn't let Reader know these things until after their first kiss.

He'd never been on a date until he asked Reader on one after they randomly met and struck up a great conversation

The date wasn't even a romantic one to Helen, at first. He had never had any interest in sex and relationships, why would he now

But after a nice dinner and a light concert, after Helen had driven Reader home

Helen wasn't ready to say goodbye just yet. So he walked Reader to their door

Once there, Helen felt an urge he'd never felt before

He wanted to kiss Reader. But at the same time, he'd never kissed anyone before

He was mentally freaking out as his eyes locked with Reader's and he seemed to be leaning in without realizing it, his head tilting slightly to the right, eyes closing

Helen's lips barely brushed Reader's and he felt a spark that made him jump a little.

He opened his eyes in surprise and Reader smiled up at him from where they stood, so close

Then Helen kissed Reader again, staying longer this time.

And like before, things happened on their own, like Helen's body just knew what to do

His lips moved against Reader's as his hands found their hips and pulled them against his body. Their arms draped over his shoulders and Helen could feel Reader's fingers playing with his hair at the back of his neck.

Once Helen feels a little more confident and in control, i.e: after a few moments of Reader taking the lead because Helen hadn't thought ahead past getting his lips against Reader's

He deepens the kiss, and then quickly realizes that was a mistake, as things are... growing below the waist

So Helen has to reluctantly end the kiss and say his goodnights to Reader

Hands stuffed deep in his hoodie pockets, pulling his hoodie down as he slouches so it doesn't get pulled taught against... things.

He couldn't resist stealing one last peck before shuffling away

Once Helen got back in his car, though, he texted Reader immediately, his embarrassment fading and exhilaration over his first kiss setting in

⋇𝓛ove Confession (How did Helen confess his love to his SO?)

Helen's love confession takes a little while to happen

He wants to be sure it's really love and not a rush of hormones.

Once Helen is sure

He makes a to-do about it, the big, romantic gesture

Please keep in mind Helen has no dating experience

So he's going to be doing things he sees in media

Probably picks somewhere like the top of a Ferris Wheel

It's all very sweet and romantic

And Reader can tell that Helen means it and has put a lot of thought into it

And of course they say they love him too! Helen is basically The Model Boyfriend, so adorable, sweet and thoughtful

When Helen hears those words: I love you too, Helen

His heart does a backflip

And if he knew how, he'd probably do one too

He almost smothers Reader in kisses

Muttering promises like: I'll never hurt you, Reader. You have my word of honor; You're my everything, my muse; I just can't believe I'm so lucky; and the repeated: I love you so much. I never want to let you go followed by a tightening of the hug he has Reader in

⋇𝓜arriage (Does Helen want to get married? How would he propose? What would marriage be like?)

I can actually see Helen proposing after an intimate moment

Like when Reader comes back from cleaning up, Helen's just laying there, still naked, with the ring box 🎁

This is of course after Helen and Reader have been living together for a while, we're talking years, not months

Helen wanted to make sure he and Reader could actually cohabitate in peace

And of course they couldn't be happier living together

So Helen decides to pop the question on the anniversary of the first time Helen told Reader he loved them.

He talks with his mom, who gets all teary

But she proudly gives Helen his great grandmother's engagement ring, silver sapphire ring in Victorian style

This way it can also be Reader's "something borrowed" and "something blue"

Marriage with Helen would be domestic bliss

Though Helen isn't ready to discuss the possibility of kids yet

⋇𝓝icknames (What nicknames does Helen call his SO?)

Darling, love, lover, muse, dove, honey, gorgeous, beloved, angel

And also, you know, their name

Helen also likes giving his SO genderbent nicknames. Examples: Michelle to Mitch/Mitchell, John to Johnette to Nette, Charlotte to Charles to Charlie/Chuck, etc (Grace becomes Charis)

⋇𝓞n Cloud Nine (What is Helen like when he's in love? Is it obvious for others to notice? How does Helen express his feelings?)

Because Helen is so private with his emotions and thoughts

It's actually pretty hard to tell if he's in love or not

He always shows the same, pleasantly placid expression, unless he just flat out doesn't like the person

Then he just won't acknowledge them at all

If Reader and Helen are seperated, that is

When they're together, they both act very lovesick, and they're almost always together

Gazing longingly into each other's eyes, hand holding, cheek kisses

Helen is also the perfect gentleman

Opening door, pulling and pushing chairs...

He's even done the laying his coat in a puddle so Reader's shoes didn't get dirty, though he would much rather just walk around it and save his coat for of Reader gets cold

⋇𝓟DA (Is Helen a fan of PDA? Is he shy to kiss, etc in public, or no?)

Helen shows the proper amount of affection in public

He thinks it's rude when couples are all over each other, making out, etc in public

Not because no one wants to see all that

But because he thinks it's disrespectful to put your partner on display like that

Don't get Helen wrong, he's so goddamn proud of Reader

But to show this, he's going to show his love supportively like holding their hand, literally backing them up (standing slightly behind Reader when they need to look strong), adoring gazes, quick kisses on the cheek/ pecks on the lips, and if he's feeling frisky, occasionally a butt slap as they walk away

⋇𝓠uirk (Some random ability of Helen's that's beneficial to his relationship with his SO)

Helen draws Reader quite a bit

But the drawings to pay attention to are in Helen's private journal

Helen knows Reader takes peeks to see how he's doing mentally (he's not exactly the most expressive or forthcoming with his problems)

So, knowing Reader sees what's in his journal

Helen draws out things he wants to do to Reader and vice versa

The drawings really help the couple out

Because if Reader is looking for a way to really wow Helen

All every have to do is consult Helen's journal

⋇𝓡omance (How romantic is Helen? What does Helen do to make his SO happy?)

Watch out for Helen when he's in full romance mode

This man pulls out all the stops to make sure Reader feels thoroughly romanced

As mentioned before, Helen can't cook. So the home cooked meal angle is out

However Helen will spend a good amount of money wining and dining Reader, either with carry out at home, or with a fancy restaurant meal

After that, Helen gives Reader the choice of going to catch a movie or a show followed by a romantic evening in, or just starting the romantic evening in part early

Reader normally always goes for the second option

Once home, Helen runs a hot bath and puts on music

He grabs some glasses and wine, and then joins Reader in the tub for some relaxation

Both Reader and Helen emerge squeaky clean and then Helen gives Reader a muscle rub

Give Helen one back to have a babbling puddle of a man simping loudly from the floor

On the day to day, Helen just tries to make sure Reader feels loved; little compliments, creative pet names, appreciative looks and sounds, etc

⋇𝓢upport (Is Helen supportive of his SO? Does he believe in them?)

Helen is supportive of Reader

And he knows they can achieve whatever they want

He believes in them and is cheering for them

Helen does what he can to help Reader achieve their goals, offering encouragement and feedback, along with constructive criticism, but only if Reader asks for it

If Reader's enthusiasm seems to be slacking in something, Helen is there, reminding Reader why they're so passionate about that thing

Sometimes Helen just has to give Reader that little boost

⋇𝓣hrill (Does Helen need to try new things to spice up his love life? Or does he prefer a certain routine?)

Helen is pretty happy with what he has

But since Reader is the only relationship he's had,

He's always open to suggestions on how to keep things exciting

Helen gets advice from media (TV, movies, magazines, books)

And from his acquaintances through work

Ideas for date nights and romance

⋇𝓤nderstanding (How well does Helen know his SO? Is he empathetic?)

Helen makes it a point to know and understand Reader as much as possible

If he's perplexed by something Reader does

He's going to be asking questions until he understands

Helen knows he's had issues with being empathetic in the past

He's just... never really connected with people

But when Helen found Reader and was introduced to love and all of its associates

Helen found that Reader is the only person he connects to emotionally

⋇𝓥alue (How important is Helen's relationship to him? What is its worth in comparison to other things in his life?)

This follows up on the subject above

Because Reader is the only person Reader connects with on an emotional level

Helen's relationship with Reader is very important to him

One could even argue that it's the most important thing to him, even over his art

This is because there's a marked difference between Helen's work pre-Reader and Helen's work now

It's very hard to put into words, but Helen's work before was just... lacking

It was missing something that wasn't even noticeable until now

Reader completes Helen

His art suffers if Helen is arguing with Reader or something

The spark in it starts to dim and it becomes more uniform, as if Helen is just going through the motions

Then Helen and Reader reconcile and his art is back to its usual visual stunningness

⋇𝓦ild Card (A random fluff headcanon about Helen)

Helen makes people go "awwwww" all the time if he's with his SO in public

Cashiers and employees everywhere comment on how Helen looks at his SO

He looks at them as if they're some mystical creature that has captured him in their thrall

Like they hung the moon and breathed life into him that morning

⋇𝓧oxo (Is Helen very affectionate? Does he like to kiss, cuddle, etc?)

Helen is very affectionate with Reader

But it took a long time for him to become that way

Helen is most likely a true gray asexual, only feeling sexual attraction to Reader, and Reader alone

Everyone else might as well be Barbie and Ken dolls as far as Helen is concerned

Helen used to only show affection if Reader initiated it, because Helen wasn't sure what a normal amount of affection was

But he eventually grew to be comfortable enough to shower Reader in hug, kisses, cuddles, and more if he's in the mood, whenever he wants

⋇𝓨earning (How does Helen cope when he's away from his SO?)

Helen copes with Reader's absence by throwing himself into his work completely

He finds it makes the time between when Reader leaves and when they return, or vice versa, pass by a lot quicker

Though if crime scene investigators knew who Helen was and about his life,

They would see that Helen's kills are much more uniform when Helen is separated from Reader

And his showings seem less... passionate

⋇𝓩eal (Is Helen willing to go to great lengths for his relationship?)

If Helen's art started harming his relationship with Reader

Or it put his relationship or Reader in jeopardy?

Helen would quit using the media that he currently uses

It would be hard for him

But he would find something to fill the void, even if he has to use animal blood and carcasses

[iamnmbr3]

Hi! Do you have any all time favorite Loki fics you would recommend?

Omg there are way too many good Loki fics to put all my favorites here! I can give you a couple really good ones that come to mind tho. And there's tons more in my fic rec tag.

The Sinking Feeling of Anticipation by JaggedCliffs (words: 8,624 | rating: G | Gen)

When Æsir come of age, they receive a gift from their parents, one meant to aid them in their adult lives. When a prince of Asgard comes of age, their gifts are not just for themselves, but for the realm.

Loki watched Thor receive Mjolnir at his coming of age ceremony – one of the greatest weapons in the realms, for one of its greatest warriors. Now, it's Loki's turn, and he knows Odin will grant him something just as magnificent.

Won't he?

Ichor in Violet by tirsynni (words: 14,574 | rating: T | Gen)

When Thor learns that Loki can travel to other realms without Heimdall seeing, of course he convinces Loki to take them both to Jotunheim to hunt Frost Giants. There an accident unravels centuries of lies and threatens to unravel Loki, too.

Exsanguination by Lise (words: 8,610 | rating: T | Gen)

exsanguination /ex·san·gui·na·tion/ v.intr. To be drained of blood. (And all the rest.)

Chaos War by astolat (words: 34,203 | rating: E | Thorki)

It was never easy to find Loki when he wanted to hide, but he wasn't doing a particularly good job of it at the moment. Probably he didn't think anyone from Asgard would be wasting their time hunting for him while the shining ones churned their way steadily through all the realm.

Loyalty at Any Price by seidrade (words: 22,663 | rating: E | Thorki)

“This whole time, I’ve been searching the Nine Realms— alone— for answers to questions I barely know how to ask. I thought Heimdall at his watch, our father upon the throne, and most grievously… I thought you lost to me forever.” Thor’s resurgence of anger gives way to something like despair. He can’t tell whether he wants to pummel Loki into one giant bruise, or hold him and weep like a child.

When Thor returns to Asgard and exposes Loki’s deception, his demands for answers and Loki’s reluctance to give them soon bubble over into a cathartic confrontation.

If I let you catch me by Lunik (words: 6,361 | rating: T | Norse mythology setting | Norse mythology canonical character death | Some unrequited Thor/Loki undertones)

So it goes like this -- Loki angers the gods, and then he runs. There is only one man in all the realms who can catch him with the wind at his heels. Naturally, he and Thor are the best of friends.

That Sheds His Blood With Me by Kadorienne (words: 12,541 | rating: G | Gen)

"Because you are my brother," Thor told him.

(Politics and family on Asgard. A brotherly love story.)

Some Kind of Monster: Being a Tale of the Captivity of Thor Odinson After the War with Jotunheim by illwynd (words: 16,001 | rating: E | Thorki | CW: Dark Themes)

Thor, prince of Asgard, is captured during the second war with Jotunheim, and he is sent to Laufey's youngest son to be broken.

Born to be Kings by Kadorienne (words: 66,618 | rating: T | Thorki)

When the princes of Asgard made their ill-fated jaunt to Jotunheim, Odin arrived to fetch them before the frost giant grabbed Loki's arm. Odin was able to carry out his plan to make Loki his puppet king of Jotunheim. But how long will Loki remain an obedient puppet?

drown my woes in a lake of fire by Lise (words: 15,386 | rating: T | Past Frostmaster | CW: Dark Themes)

Loki is back with Thor and (nominally) free of the Grandmaster. This does not mean all the problems are resolved.

No Return by illwynd (words: 1,331 | rating: G | Gen | CW: Major Character Death)

Thor deals with the aftermath of loss and choices, when half the universe is gone.

And it's played on a table? by Lunik (words: 1,431 | rating: T | Gen)

There is no flyting in this game of "Table Tennis".

The Spaces Between by Lise (words: 10,866 | rating: T | Gen)

There's a theory that goes that there's a universe created for every possible choice you make in life. Loki's made a lot of choices. He could make a lot more.

Or, the one where Loki wanders through AUs of his life and it starts fucking with his head.

[gintrinsic-writing]

Imagine how terrifying it would be for Hyrule if he suddenly found himself unable to run or protect himself from the monsters. No one to help him. :3

I love that you ended that scary idea with a casual ":3", very bold. CW blood, violence.

-

It started with a paper cut. A single, unambitious bead of blood.

As he stumbled into an abandoned cabin, Link distantly marveled at how much terror could be found in crude banality. It was better than focusing on that wretched drumbeat—on the hunting song that had chased him for the better part of two days now. Every rhythmic, booming vibration settled under his skin like a fever, at odds with the frantic beating of his own heart.

Link could hear the shuffling and snarling of a dozen monsters outside the cabin. He knew it was only a matter of minutes before more arrived. Exhausted, he braced himself on his right leg and leaned back against the door. His vision blurred, but it was easy to see the way his hands shook, the ulcerated blisters against the palm of his sword hand. His blade was coated in thick, viscous lines of monster blood, and Link realized that somewhere along the way—through all the hacking and slashing and fleeing—he had lost count of the number of monsters he had slain.

It didn’t matter. He had no food, no water, and no magic left.

He was alone, and the hunt was coming to an end.

A horn blared from outside the door, long and piercing. One of the moblins roared, and its fervor was matched by a cacophony of guttural cries.

Link closed his eyes briefly and whispered a short prayer to whomever might be listening. Looking down at his left leg, where bone was visible through a tear in his pants, he grimly knew there’d be no answer. His fate was sealed.

The hunting song picked up in intensity, causing Link to grit his teeth. He wondered why they didn’t simply force the door open, then he smelled smoke and understood.

They planned to burn him out.

Link laughed mirthlessly, despair settling like a veil as his vision slowly tunneled. Wisps of smoke curled against the roof of the cabin, and the back wall began to pop with unseen fire. He waited for the first tongue of flame, waited until fresh sweat dripped down his forehead, until heat stung his skin. And Link knew, then, that he didn’t deserve to be called the Hero of Courage, because fear was too deeply rooted in his heart.

A brave man would let the fire take him. A brave man would rather burn than allow his blood to be used in a ceremony for evil.

Link turned toward the door, shoulders slumped but gaze level, and resigned himself to cowardice. He opened the door and faced damnation with his sword.

It was quick, of course. He managed to maim a few monsters, kill another, but between one breath and the next, Link was disarmed and thrown to the ground. He thrashed under eager claws, but one of the bokoblins purposely stomped on his broken leg, and Link was so overwhelmed by pain that his entire worldview narrowed down to black spots and a horrible, wordless keen he only belatedly realized was his own scream. Moments later, his arms and legs were bound, and he was reduced to frightened, agonized gasping.

The ritual was a short affair, aesthetic sacrificed for practicality. Link’s clothes were ripped from his body, and bright, watery blood was streaked like paint across his skin. The symbols glowed as they were completed, seeping into him with an unnatural chill. Behind him, as if to provide sensory dissonance, the cabin was swallowed by flames.

A large bowl was set in front of Link, its wide rim flecked with gold. He knew, with terrifying certainty, that he was about to be exsanguinated. A single drop of his blood plopped into the bowl, and for a split second, every mark upon his skin sizzled as if to brand him. He might have fled the fire, but it seemed he would burn all the same.

A wizzrobe approached with a short, curved knife, giggling sadistically. Link’s head was tugged back by his hair, and he bared his teeth as he screamed—voicing every ounce of his defiance and fury and gut-wrenching fear. He stared up at the hazy sky, alone and defeated, and waited to feel his throat split open.

The drums stopped. The air grew electrified. A portal suddenly appeared on the other side of the bowl, and from its depths appeared eight well-armed Hylians.

And Link, battered and broken, spent of everything but the simple, desperate desire to live, wondered if salvation was, in fact, real.

[no-whump-on-main]

Untitled (for now) Vampire Whump

Soooo I binge read @whumping-every-day ‘s Ash and Callum series this morning (It’s INCREDIBLE, by the way, go read it now) and got mega inspired to write some vamp whump of my own, though with very different dynamics than in the Ash and Callum series. Also partially inspired by @whumped-cream ‘s prompt about a similar scenario :) (sorry for the tags y’all I just wanna properly credit)

ANYWAYS HERE WE GO PLEASE LEAVE FEEDBACK IT MAKES MY HEART SING

TW/CWs: some mild imagined gore/body horror, pet whump, long term captivity, dehumanization, vampire whumper/human whumpee, possible minor whump? Whumpee is described as young but her actual age is not known.

     There is a girl in the basement of the old wooden mansion down Buist street.

     The residence teeters on the outskirts of the miniscule town it was built in many decades ago, resting so far away from the rest of town that it is visited by no one but impish teenagers who dare each other to get close enough to pound their aching fists on the heavy black door, then turn and sprint back, completely unknowing of the horrors inside.

     Younger children make up songs about the foul creature rumored to own the estate, singing hymns in high-pitched voices to each other about the great evil. Rumor had it that the evil man inside lurked among them, perfectly blended into their society. He worked with them, prayed with them, lodged with them, and was, in every way, a part of them.

     The adults of the village grew out of believing the rumors about a monster who lurked among them as they aged. They moved on, found occupations, married, and had children of their own, who became the next generation to preach the tale of the vampire down Buist street, of the vile creature who cruelly drained human bodies for his own pleasure, then flew off into the night and locked himself in his lavish home until the desire to feed struck him again.

     That was where all the generations of townspeople had gotten him wrong. No, he did not feed off of strangers in the nighttime only to flee and leave his victims dead and drained.

     He preferred living, breathing sources of fresh blood. The basement of his wooded home contained a cell, dedicated to the upkeep of his servants. That was what he called them; the captives he took were but servants to him, warm, beings to feed him whenever he so desired. He never kept more than one at a time, and had never had a servant last much longer than one or two cycles of the full moon before their weak, fleshy bodies gave in to exsanguination. Oh, what pitiful things. The man who kept the servants (if one could even call him a man anymore, given that he’d sacrificed his humanity as he became nothing but a sadistic bringer of suffering so very long ago) almost pitied them. Not for the pain that he inflicted, but for the fact that they had to exist in such useless vessels. The only true purpose of a human body was to serve something stronger. It was an honor for a being so useless to find purpose by becoming a servant to someone greater.

     The vampire did not often make exceptions to his standards of keeping his servants. He had standards for a reason, after all. This meant that what he had now was a rare, beautiful thing.

     He had kept the girl in the basement through the passing of nearly two winters. With proper yet minimal care and caution to never feed too much in one sitting, he had managed to preserve her frail body and keep her blood pure, warm, and plentiful for nearly two years. Now, why he’d done this was still a mystery to himself. He could’ve gone through more than twenty servants by now, tasted the different unique notes of their blood, watched them all submit in front of his eyes, and yet, even with the knowledge of what he could’ve had, he was still more than content with his little pet. He had never found himself so infatuated with a useless human being before that fateful day nearly two years ago when he had spied the traveling merchant girl with nothing but a pack, a rack of spices, a pouch for coins, and a mare tied to a post in the grass nearby. There was something about the girl’s natural, unspoken charm that instantly drew him into obsession with her that day.

     He’d struck up a conversation with the girl and bought out nearly half of her wares, despite having no use for the human pleasure of assorted foreign spices. After a long exchange, it was all too easy to lure her back to his estate with the promise of a meal and a bed for the night; after all, she was a weary young thing who did not yet know the danger of following a strange man home, no matter how kind his appearance was. He doubted she’d been travelling along dirt roads any longer than a week.

     The girl had put up a strong fight at first. She was fiery, and the vampire admired that. Her fighting spirit proved to him just what a perfect human she was. She was not so weak like the others. For weeks, every time he came to feed on her blood she fought like a wild animal, biting and scratching and keening up until the very moment his fangs slid into her neck, forcing her into being still and silent as to avoid tearing her carotid artery.

     That initial fight, the aching rage deep in her very soul made her so much more gorgeous to see battered, muzzled, and completely submissive in the bounds of a metal cage built with the intention of containing a feral dog, not a broken human girl. 

     It took months, but the vampire had made her the perfect servant. The perfect little toy. And after so much work, he was never going to let her perish in the chilled waste of his basement underground.

     He called her Annalise. She did not know why. That wasn’t her name. But that foreign name, the one that did not belong to her, became so much easier to accept as her own as she was slowly beaten into perfect submission over many months, so fiercely that she could no longer recall what her name had been before. Or who her family had been, or what she had done to support them. She did not recall her favorite things, or what she liked to eat.

     She knew only her cell and Master. She knew that she was Annalise and she was perfectly behaved for Master. Every waking moment of her life was dedicated to him. Serving him. She belonged to him. Startlingly, she did not remember a time before the basement. There was only Master. He was all she knew.

     The cell she was kept in was cold and dark. She had not once felt the warm mercy of sunlight on her skin in a longer span of time than she could remember. She had not even been granted the gentle light and warmth of a fire. There were no windows in the basement; the only light she ever saw came from an oil lamp Master brought with him when he came to eat, then took away when he returned to his unknown abyss of a home upstairs. The commodity of warmth was similarly limited. Master brought her a thin linen blanket as a reward when he was pleased with her, but she could never quite decipher what exactly pleased him. His kindness, to her, seemed to come in random bursts of his own volition, but they were never underappreciated. Annalise was always so very grateful for the shreds of mercy he showed her, cowering at his feet like she was praying to her god every time he showed her even the simplest kindness. 

     Sometimes it would be a hot, filling meal, in stark contrast to the bowl of cold porridge and glass of water she was normally brought every morning. Other times it was warmth; the blanket, her favorite source, but also sometimes fresh changes of clothes, nightgowns that were made of thicker material than the usual thin cotton, and even jackets to layer over her usual clothing. Rewards did not come often, and never lasted long, but they were always blissful. She cherished what she was given until the very moment Master instructed her to give it back.

     Despite this, her favorite reward of all was not a physical item. Her favorite reward came  when she heard master’s footsteps tap tap tap down the concrete basement stairs, in the particularly heavy, tired-sounding manner that she knew meant he was going to feed. It came when he opened the creaking metal door to her cell, swiftly allowed himself in, but did not instruct her to crawl to him, kneel, and bare her pretty neck. 

     It was when he would hold her as he ate. It was a rare occurrence, but Annalise lived for it. He would scoop her into his long arms and cradle her like a child, sometimes whispering to her sweetly before gently brushing her matted hair over her shoulder, then tilting her neck and piercing her carotid. Feeling his fangs sliding into the pale, tender skin of her neck hurt every time, but when she was being held so gently, it was almost possible to forget the pain. To just focus on Master, and on him and his kindness only. The pain was so much more bearable when she was cradled in loving arms rather than kneeling on the stone floor, her knees in agony as emaciation had left the bones so very close to the surface of her skin, meaning they were constantly grinding into the ground. 

     His feeding never took long, only a few minutes. And typically, he would immediately leave, but when he held her, he’d always linger after finishing, tenderly wiping the excess blood away from the new puncture wound in her neck that would soon begin to scar before beginning to rock her, singing sweetly in a language she did not recognize until she fell asleep. That’s how she knew that he loved her. He would not be so kind if he didn’t.

     Most of her days simply consisted of sleep, as there was very little else to do but rest, and she was often too exhausted to do anything else. Constant shivering took a very heavy toll on her muscles, and even when she was granted warmth from Master, her shaking never really did stop. Her body had just simply never gotten used to the biting cold of the basement. At least Master never seemed to mind. He had never instructed her to stop shaking, nor had he ever seemed bothered by the cold himself when he came downstairs.

     The month now was January. For the girl, this meant spring would come soon, and the basement would be just ever so slightly warmer, something she was infinitely grateful for. She craved warmth more than anything. For the vampire, though, January meant something much more special.

     It meant that it was nearly the second anniversary of the day he had brought his special servant home. And because this girl was so very special to him, she deserved a very special celebration.

     The vampire thought it was high time his Annalise was introduced to his friends. He had a bustling social life, and yet, not one of his peers had ever met the girl. It wasn’t  terribly unusual for vampires not to meet each others’ servants, given their typically short lifetimes, and the fact that vampires did not meddle with anyone else’s pet unless they were invited to, in which case, they could easily become a pack of cruel, wild hyenas. The vampire knew of this cruelty, which was part of the reason he had never told a soul about the girl, but now, after so much time, and with how perfectly behaved she was, he was sure a few select friends could never spoil a thing about his beloved servant. He was overjoyed, ecstatic, even, to finally be showing her off. Not only would he be able to show her around the upstairs, he could use the opportunity to test her obedience, see just how far her devotion went.

     In a pattern now familiar to Annalise, he padded down the stairs to announce to her his spectacular plans. He had decided not to inform her until the day of, not wanting to get the pet riled up, but now, it was time. In mere hours, his friends would arrive to see the girl he had promised them all to be so breathtaking.

     And he had to get her ready.

[s-udarshana]

austringer

[cw: self-harm, blood]

It’s been a while since I’ve gotten you like this, big man. You and me and a closed room and nothing more than a thin fingernail between us. It’s not as if I hadn’t tried - but to do so on an airship, even its darkest corners, it wouldn’t work or end too well. Wouldn’t understand. I certainly wouldn’t have the patience to try and explain what my own kin don’t hear.

Nothing more than a thin fingernail between us - a will, a way, and a bit of aether to see it slice proper. The right bicep, this time - one of....thirty now, I think, drawn forth for audience. I’m here to pay your eternal price - that crimson tithe. The slice, the cut, exsanguination. The wound is not deep, but you know it is there - and that is enough. It should be enough. I’ll make it enough.

Tell me, he who keeps the path, tell me and show me -- what has taken root inside of me. I bring you this tithe, a web of crimson, splayed before you as I always show - that is enough. It should be enough. I’ll make it enough. Tell me and show me -- what has embedded itself into my soul, what is it that follows me, haunts me as the Hearer suggested. Tell me. Show me. For what reason do you let the stench of war permeate my dreams?

Another scratch - a ford in the stream. I can’t feel it wrap itself around my tongue as a sigh comes forth, but I know it’s there. This haze, a lingering reminder - I’m beginning to think you don’t know the answer. Summoned forth to hear me as I heed you, night after night after night - you see what it’s done to me. Shadows around the eyes deeper than that of the seventh fucking chakra -- what is it you’re trying to show to me? Why won’t you tell me?

Quus sen vitar. It’s always the same, every single night. I don’t even need to have the dream anymore, it’s how bad it’s gotten to be remembered. Quus sen vitar, quus sen vitar, quus sen vitar - I know what it means, and I know what the words are, and that thought scares me more than anything else I have come to fear of you, because I know not if it is a message from you or from what ungodly thing has slipped through the cracks.

Another. I have paid your blood price. I have suffered, for you, more than any of the rest of my kin - your ilk. I pay, day after day after day, I work tirelessly, endlessly, eternally, to bring what peace I can to my flock, and yet you think my just reward some shade I can’t feel taking my speak? Quus sen vitar my arse - I have never been anything but one of you. I will not accept your doubt. Not anymore.

I have to keep trying. 

What is this you’ve hidden in it? Was it even you that drew it forth? Or was it me, seeking the path you brought me to?

Another test. Another cause. Another trial to suffer for. Were it only I could find a way to speak of how you have shaped my will in a light that hides your cowardice. I am beginning to think you enjoy this - the competition. I will not bend to you. I’m so close. I’m so close.

A breath. Frozen stone all around me - breath is frosted, I’m still here and yet I’m still sweating, until I look down and come to realize that it is not merely sweat, but the formation of the web - streams interwoven, trickling down my arm upon the stone, gravity taking its price of observation. Wonder how many sought such an audience right here, like this, to be so close to the heavens and yet hearing not a thing.

I have to keep trying.

[vampyrbutch]

[bitten-fruit]

Houndtooth | Chapter 1 ⇨

Ghost x f!Reader - tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, abduction, bodyguard, forced cooperation, smut

You're a diamond in the rough, the prized possession of your Russian oligarch husband. You cover your eyes and ears about where his money comes from, but you know it involves blood.

Until you're abducted, imprisoned, and interrogated by an assassin in a skull mask. Forced to cooperate or face the mouth of an uncaring gun - you turn to espionage under duress from SAS operatives, motivated by the faint possibility of being given the chance to finally go home.

Ghost hates you. He hates the beast you rile in him. He hates that he craves you.

18+ mdni - cw: below the cut - 2.2k words

Hello loves, a brief intermission from me (quick I promise) - I thought it would be fun to cross-post my Ao3 fic Houndtooth on tumblr. It is still in progress!

Needless to say, this fic comes with some major content warnings: implied SA (not by Ghost), drug addiction, waterboarding, and heavy physical violence.

Reader insert goes by her alias, Mia, a name she invented to protect herself in her previous profession.

𝐈. 𝐍𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐚𝐫

​If I cannot be feared, I must be loved.

There’s something special about you. 

Something sickly. 

Your body, your lips, your eyes. Bait like dripping entrails in a loose twine net; dragging bloody along the wooded, overgrown path of your life, and luring ravenous carnivores to your trail around every bend. 

It’s something you’ve grown accustomed to, expectant of – that lecherous scrutiny, from any man you have ever met, or ever might. Used to the huffing snouts that suck in the vapour of your beguiling skin, tonguing it like they might ever get to take a bite. 

Offering mouthfuls of yourself is the only way you have been able to keep them at bay. Appeasing when necessary. Rebuffing only when you can be certain that your extermination will not be the consequence. 

Sometimes they gnaw at you anyway. Sometimes their canines sink rapaciously into your soft flesh, popping through your skin like it’s the velvety hide of a peach. They drink the sweet pink syrup until you’re bled dry, careful to spit out the cyanide core once they've finished. 

Until that poisonous pit, coated in the stringy viscera that those teeth had missed, was all that was left of you. 

So, when your husband found you, dressed as the hound-bait character you played along the redlight strip, you were allured by the promise that he might plant you again. Maybe, with his exorbitant riches and clandestine occupation, he might water you and fertilise your soil, he might let your pit sprout into a sapling. Maybe, your branches might blossom again. 

When he expatriated you to Russia, his snow-blown motherland, you imagined yourself a Tsarina; jejunely clinging to his arm like you might fly away with him, carried to an undefiled paradise as though he were your archangel and you his rapture. 

That was the last time you loved him. 

One step off that jet, the first leap with your exuberant paw; there was no paradise, no utopia waiting for you. Landing hard on icy cement, your husband was quick to stifle your lament. Offered you oxycodone like pebbles of dogfood in the palm of his hand, swearing you an unending supply – his remuneration for your services, whose nature you were not yet privy to. 

But those opioids were your wage. 

They were your shackles, too. 

Even if you managed to outrun your paralysing addiction to them, it didn’t take you long to be tackled and smothered by your intemperate dependence on your husband himself. 

On his status, on his money, on his reputation. 

Without, you would have been long used and discarded, tossed hollow and floppy like freshly flayed doeskin; exsanguinated by the very men he colludes with, the very creatures that slither into your home, that sit at your table and speak puzzles in their Cyrillic tongues. 

The very beasts who your husband endeavours to entertain and indulge with your presence at his side – a glittering trophy, or a ripe fruit, juicy and plump. He holds you in greedy hands and brandishes the shine of your skin, he polishes you with a firm palm on your ass, he boasts his possession of you with a hot tongue on your cheek. 

The prize they can never win, that’s what you are. The meal they can never devour. Only his teeth have the privilege of gorging on your supple flesh. 

With your English passport long stolen from you, you are left with no option but to be grateful for that fact – that your husband does not whore you out to his compatriots, does not sell your body for some other man to graze on or to pick at, like you used to do yourself. 

That is one of the few reprieves he offers you. 

Protection. 

Maybe, if you had never met him, you would have eventually crawled out of the chasm that your previous life had sunk to. If you had never met him, you might have found a way to break free from your dependence on those poppies. If you had never met him, you might have found worth for yourself beyond the coins hungry men would offer you in exchange for a taste of you. 

But any hope you may have had in those days is a distant, futile memory. A bittersweet daydream you sometimes venture to. 

Frozen in your sordid reality, you’ve no option but to indulge him. 

To oblige him, whatever he wants from you, you play the role he carved out just for you to fill. You massage his neck after a long day. You listen to his broken English as he does his best to explain what had happened at work, in as little detail as possible, in an effort to shield you from the truth of his profession. You swallow his cock when he asks you to. You pretend to let him satiate you all the same, a professional actor you are – you sing those moans for him, when he licks you, when he fucks you, when he pledges to impregnate you. 

He doesn’t know you’ve got a copper coil in your womb. You tell him there’s something wrong with his come, he doesn’t believe you. He sends you a doctor, and with his money, you pay them to lie. 

That’s the other perquisite, one you can’t belittle. 

His money. 

His mountains, mountains, mountains of money. 

None of it tangible, no real cash, no paper stacks tucked away in places any brave burglars might be able to find it. All of it digital, little numbers, binary code hidden behind so many layers of encryption it’s a wonder it can be counted at all. 

But there’s never a need to count it. All you know is that it is unending. 

He lets you spend it how you like, and there’s no amount of expenditure that could ever put a dent in his wealth large enough for him to notice. 

Still, the prince, he imprisons you in his castle. You can throw invisible money at whatever your bored and inebriated heart might desire, any priceless art, any extortionate car, any lavish designer shoes – and it means nothing. It fills no void. There’s nobody to show it off to. 

It appeased you, at first, after your stint of homelessness, then your weeks living in a dim red brothel, until he found you. When he offered you such a nauseating amount of money as payment for your salacious dance, that you felt your knees buckle beneath you at the sight of it. When he took you shopping and bought new lingerie to decorate you with, when he carted you giddy to his private jet. 

All too good to be true. 

And it was. 

Too late now, anyway. This is the hand you’ve been dealt; you play your cards as best you can. Close to your chest. Who knows when you’ll fold. 

You lean over the marble vanity, the harsh, downward lighting of the gaudy ensuite carves out the divots and lumps of your face that are typically imperceptible. 

You used to think you were beautiful. That’s what everyone told you. 

But watching your husband’s cold semen trickle down your décolletage, saturating and staining the invaluable lace and silk chiffon of your rosy babydoll, drying flaky on your skin – you can only see lipstick on a pig. An ugly little creature, destined for the slaughter. Your belly waiting to be made into crackling, your ass into bacon. It won’t be long now. 

You sense that you are beginning to overstay your welcome. What had once been pliancy had now turned stiff and sharp. Any sweetness you once felt for the man who swept you off your feet has since coagulated into bitter milk, too lumpy to swallow, so instead, you spit. 

The contempt inside your husband has been bubbling, fermenting. You can see it, and feel it, and taste it. He made it known to you especially tonight, fucking you with the brutality of a rabid animal, clutching and clawing, tugging and throwing, biting and beating. Painting you with his come to humiliate you, to degrade you, to remind you what you are, and always will be. He got some of it in your eye. 

There’s a bruise on your collarbone. It’s not the first he’s given you. It won’t be the last. 

You wipe away the crusting fluid with an opulent towel, dampened with warm water; lush white cotton turning creamy and black as it cleans away the come and mascara. You use it to dab clean your negligee. It’s your favourite one.  

Clink.

Your ears perk. 

Clash. 

Frozen on your feet, your head darts to face the door to the ensuite - heavy and ornate, it sits ajar. Last you checked, your husband was asleep, snoring like a fucking engine. The silence that follows the peculiar noise is what unsettles you most. 

Maybe it was him reaching for the pills on his nightstand, or readjusting the eiderdown duvet he sleeps under. But you’d expect a grunt, at least, some huffs of complaint as he was forced to do something for himself for once. 

Instead, quiet. 

You know that your husband keeps guns around the estate. Both figuratively, in the forms of armed and well-paid sentries that roam the grounds and stand guard by the doors. And, literally. A pistol in the kitchen, a shotgun in his cupboard, an assault rifle under the coffee table. 

And, you remember, a Beretta under the sink. 

With quivering and cautious fingers, you reach for the brass handle of the drawer. 

“Милый?” Sweetie?

You utter it softly, hesitantly, sweetly. He once told you your accent sounds native when you pamper him with pet names. English is your first language, Russian now your second. He doesn’t know how much of it you can understand. More than he believes. 

But there is no answer from him. Not a word, nor a groan, nor a snore. 

“Все ли в порядке?” Is everything alright?

Your careful fingertips dive into the drawer, momentarily peeking down to find the black metal. A pant of relief jumps from your throat when your fingers find it, that cold handle; you take it in the palm of your hand, it moulds to your grip like it was made for you. 

He showed you once how to load it. 

You remember. 

You clutch the slide with a harsh grip, tugging it back, click-snap. 

The safety is off. You’re not that stupid. 

“Дорогой?” Sweetheart?

Calls turn to pleas. 

You know vaguely the line of work in which your husband is a kingpin. You know it most likely involves bloodshed. 

And, so, you guess it involves fucking people over. That it incites vengeance. That it creates martyrs. 

Normally, the guards help you sleep, their thudding boots and murmuring chatter keeping the retribution at bay. 

Why is it so quiet? 

Thud.

Creak.

Now you resent yourself for calling for him. You’ve made your position obvious. You’ve handed yourself on a platter. 

Perhaps you can sneak to the hallway. 

Or, perhaps you can simply check to see if it’s your husband, skulking around your bedroom and choosing to silently ignore you out of spite. 

So on your bare toes, you glide along the glossy tiled floor, pit pat, pit pat. Feline fingers clutch the edge of the door. You gently draw it open, ever so slowly, the golden hinges moaning quietly at their awakening. 

You hold your weapon by your side. You keep your finger off the trigger. God knows what you’d do if you shot your husband by accident. You might be better off just turning the gun on yourself, in that case, rather than be left to the dogs. You know what their teeth would do to you. 

The bedroom is dark. 

The silvery glow of the moon is the only source of light, bar the dim orange now emerging from the open ensuite door. Your kittenish shadow stretches out before you onto the velvety carpeted floor, your shape carved out even through the sheer fabric of your negligée. 

“Не двигайся, черт возьми.” Don’t fucking move.

Your breath lodges in your throat, wedged in your trachea like you had swallowed a jagged rock. 

Not your husband. 

No, that voice is far too deep, too grumbling, too threatening. 

So who? 

“Кто ты, черт возьми?” Who the fuck are you?

You hiss it, a growl, though only the kind a snarling little chihuahua might spit out when touched by an overbearing hand. 

Hidden from the moonlight, the figure prowls through the shadow. Towering, imperious, that silhouette renders you frigid - you swallow as much oxygen as your stiff diaphragm will allow you. Not much. 

Four red beads of light stretch in a line where his eyes should be, reminiscent of a hunting spider; high enough off the ground that it might be crawling up the walls, hanging from its silk, ready to ensnare you. No, that’s just how tall the beast is as it stalks you. 

The glint of the moon reflects off the glistening barrel of his gun. Gun feels like an understatement. It’s immense, black. Machine more fitting. Pointed at you. Coaxing. Warning. He gives it a shake. 

“Брось этот крошечный пистолет, шлюха.” Drop that little gun of yours, slut.

The more he talks, the more you doubt. His accent is weak. Not a Russian. 

“Чего ты хочешь, мудак? Деньги?” What do you want, asshole? Money?

He scoffs. Arrogant. Scornful. 

“I don’t want your fuckin’ blood money, you evil little bitch.” 

English. 

Explains the accent. 

But, you’re left with more questions. One, what the fuck? 

“Drop the gun. Or I might get your blood on that pretty dress.” 

You hesitate. He pounces. 

“Сейчас!” Now!

Next chapter ⇨

[escapetoeorzea]

Prompt 3: Lost

CW: graphic violence, blood, injury

“So… She lost.”

Sofhina’s forearms hit the floor, a mouthful of blood following a moment later. The floor swims in her gaze, shifting and dark and completely out of focus, even at this small distance. Of course, the lack of control over her vision is the least of her worries in that very moment. 

“I thought she was supposed to be some beast. That she wasn’t going to lose.”

Each and every word is like a nail being driven into her skull. She can’t quite understand why, not at first. Bloodied fingers trace the path of the sound, from where it reverberates along her horn, to where it joins with her scales, then from scale to smooth flesh- <i>there</i>. The bastard had hit her so hard the scales at her horn were damn near ripped from her head.

“I had money on her.”

Cutaneous disjunction. That was what the chiurgeon had called it last time. It would heal, she’d said. Would this so easily? With all this blood she can feel pulsing from the wound?

“Maybe she thought she was supposed to take a fall.”

How could he have hit her so hard? Each blow was like being smacked in the head by a hammer. He couldn’t have had brass knuckles - no, she would have noticed that. And Hoga had said that would be disqualified. She was sure he would be disqualified if-

She discovers, suddenly, that one of her ribs is broken. It’s not something that is paid particular mind, nothing of true import or pertinence in that moment. It’s simply information, another tick in the muddy list of injuries forming in her brain in that moment. 

The far more pertinent information, however, is how she discovers that her rib is broken. The man’s - not the one who had beat her first, off now to enjoy his winnings, no this is her handler - foot comes away, a blur of tattooed flesh beneath his robe retreating from where it had planted itself in Sofhina’s side. Somewhere she can hear pained breathing. It’s probably her own. 

“You weren’t supposed to take a fall, you stupid bitch!”

Rib fracture. A boring name. There would be some number associated with it, of course, but still a boring name. It was more fun to say in Hingan, but only marginally. The rest of what her body is covered with, now that is a more interesting term. Contusion. 

“Do you even speak Hingan, savage? Answer me!”

“Didn’t… Mean…” It’s hard to form words around the blood. 

There must be a name for that too. Internal bleeding. The Xaela wonders if it’s a fun name. 

Cutaneous disjunction.

Contusion.

It’s such a different language and yet it seems normal enough on her tongue in such a short time. Maybe it’s the fascination with the mouth sounds. So different than-

Another blow, this time as the man’s heel connects with the back of her skull, sending her forehead to connect with hard stone below. What little of her face hadn’t been coated in blood now smears red with what she’d coated the floor with. 

Exsanguination.

Words were pretty, here. Given form as much as function, crafted to convey more than simply communicate. Not like back home. 

The pressure under his foot grows greater. Perhaps her head will pop like a melon. Maybe it will all finally be over. “You better not lose again. Got it?” He smells like ale. It’s the only thing Sofhina can smell except blood.

The pressure finally abates. Her head remains undetonated. “Go get fixed up. You fight again in a week. And you’d better not lose.”

Was that still home? No. She couldn’t go back there. Not now, not ever. Is this home?

No. She isn’t home here either. She’s something else entirely.  

[ginger-and-mint]

Sleepy stuffing scenario? Or a villain/hero stuffing scenario?

So I started out aiming for “sleepy” but then “hero/villain” themes mixed into my head in weird ways and in the end, I had… this? I am absolutely positive this is not what you had in mind for either of these prompts… but here it is anyway! *jazz hands*

Featuring Theo the Recurring Vampire and his very patient boyfriend Darren. Previous stuff with Theo: [x] [x] [x]

CW: general vampiric blood drinking, nausea, mentions of weight gain (not in a fetishized way), good old-fashioned vampire angst??

“Theo! Wake up!”

Theo jolted awake with a hiccup and a groan. “Ughhhh. Why?” He wiped a bit of blood from his lips and glanced blearily around the moonlit pasture, as though he’d forgotten what they were doing there.

Darren crouched down beside his boyfriend and gave him an encouraging pat on the back. “You’ve still got three sheep left to go, love, come on.”

“Ohh, do I have to? I’m so tired and I’m already so full….”

“You’ve still got room.” Darren poked Theo’s belly, which was big and bulging but still not quite as tight as he knew the vampire could get it. “You have to get your fill now. It’s got to tide you over until next weekend, remember!”

Theo groaned. “All right, fine. Can you bring the next one to me? I don’t wanna move.”

“Getting spoiled, are we?”

“Hey, you try standing up with belly this full and tell me how easy it is!”

“Point taken.” Darren ruffled Theo’s hair affectionately as he got up to fetch one of the woolly lumps slumbering nearby.

Nearly two months had passed since they’d started Theo’s livestock diet. They’d since learned a lot of lessons—one of them being that if Theo snuck up on each animal he wanted and gave them quick nibbles, his anesthetic venom would knock them out. Then they could be picked up and drained like juice boxes. And Theo did drain them like juice boxes.

It was certainly interesting, driving your boyfriend an hour out of the city once a week to watch him gorge himself on animal blood in the dead of the night. Theo had guiltily offered to make the trip alone several times, but even he had to admit that he was pretty useless after he’d fed and needed Darren’s help.

Besides, Darren sort of liked watching.

He deposited the next sheep into Theo’s lap. “Order up! One mutton chop, extra rare.”

Theo buried his nose in the sheep’s wool and took a deep inhale of its scent. “Mmm, thanks Darr,” he purred before biting down.

Darren watched him with a fond smile. It was terrifying but also strangely cute, the way Theo drank with singular predatory focus, one hand on his swollen tummy.

It was also good to see him eat after so many weeks of helplessly watching him starve. Theo looked so much healthier these days. He’d put on weight, regaining everything he’d lost and then some. Privately, Darren thought he was actually getting a bit pudgy, although he never would’ve injured Theo’s vain streak by saying that aloud. It wasn’t a bad look on him—certainly better than that gaunt, wasted look he’d had before.

A snore jolted Darren out of his thoughts, and he realized that Theo had fallen asleep with his cheek pillowed in wool, blood dripping from his open mouth.

“Theo!” Darren shook his shoulder. “C’mon, you’ve got to finish!”

“—Hmm? Oh. Ugh….”

“Have you been getting enough sleep lately?”

“I dunno. It is the middle of the night.” Theo burped and pressed a hand against his stomach. He let out a deep sigh before reluctantly biting back down.

Darren’s brow creased with concern. Something was wrong. Usually, Theo relished every drop, even when he was near to bursting—glutting himself with euphoric abandon and then lying back to luxuriate in his fullness like a sated lion. Now, he sat stiff and stony-faced, finishing off the sheep with reluctant, painful-looking swallows.

He let the drained carcass drop with a groan. “Darren—honestly, I don’t feel very good. Can we just go home?”

“Oh! What part of you doesn’t feel good?”

“I guess my—my stomach is sort of upset.” Theo rubbed a hand over his belly. It sloshed audibly, bloated but not quite tight with blood. “I’ve had enough, I can’t drink any more. I just want to go home.”

“All right.” Darren felt in his pocket for the car keys. “You have to take care of the sheep first, though.”

“They’ll be fine. They’ll wake up in a bit.”

“No, I mean the dead ones, love.”

They had learned the importance of savaging the carcasses early on, after an unfortunate segment on the evening news about the mysterious dead cows that a farmer had found in his fields, exsanguinated but otherwise unharmed. Since then, Theo had made sure the scene could be mistaken for a wild animal attack.

“Oh—right.” Theo glanced down at the sheep beside him. He swallowed hard, like the thought of biting back into flesh was making him feel sick. Then he spoke in a thin voice, “This pasture is pretty far out. A coyote or something will probably get the bodies before the farmer finds them.”

“Let’s just go then, if you’re feeling that bad.” Darren crouched beside Theo and slung an arm around his waist. Theo winced and hiccuped as Darren’s hand brushed his swollen belly, and again when he was hauled to his feet.

Their borrowed Toyota wasn’t far away. Darren let Theo lean heavily on him as they crossed the dark field. Theo often had trouble walking after a big meal, but something was different tonight. He was unsteadier than usual, breathing harsh and uneven.

Suddenly, Theo stiffened and stopped short.

Darren didn’t even have time to ask what was wrong before Theo’s fangs were sinking into his shoulder.

Darren sometimes let Theo take a bit of blood from him, but that was always slow and controlled and intimate, a careful prick of Theo’s teeth on the soft skin at the crook of Darren’s elbow. This was Theo in animal mode—plunging deep and drinking to drain.

“Theo! Stop!” Darren gasped, trying to pull away, but Theo’s jaws only clenched harder. So Darren grabbed him by the hair, wrenched his fangs out, and gave him a rough shove that sent him sprawling onto the grass.

“What the hell?” Darren shouted. “What the hell was that?!”

Theo rolled into a crouch, teeth bared and dripping—and for one petrifying moment, Darren was certain he was about to die.

But then Theo blinked and shook his head. His eyes went wide.

“Holy shit,” he murmured.

Then he retched.

“No, no—keep it down.” Darren dropped to his knees beside him. “You need it, love. You need what’s in you.”

Theo panted weakly and pressed his lips together, eyes squeezing shut.

“Keep it down. There you go. Good job.” Darren wanted to hug him, but was afraid to get close. “Are you… are you okay?”

“I’m so fucking sorry,” Theo croaked. “I don’t know—I don’t know why I did that….”

Darren touched his injured shoulder. His fingers came away damp and sticky. “We can talk about it later.”

“You’re hurt, Darr, you’re really—”

“It’s all right. You didn’t get much.” Darren pressed a hand tight over the wound. “You look awful, Theo. You look like you’re gonna pass out.”

“I guess I’m kinda, uh… I feel dizzy. And too hot….”

“Maybe you’ve caught the flu.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” Theo crossed his arms over his stomach. “Ugh, I ate too much.”

“Let me clean myself up and then we can go, okay?”

Darren got the first aid kit out of the back of the Toyota. He gave the twin punctures in his shoulder a thorough cleaning and then taped a gauze pad tightly over. His shirt was stained with blood, so he wrapped it up in a spare plastic bag and left it in the trunk, zipping his coat up over his bare chest.

Theo was waiting for him the front of the car, slumped against the window. He sat up straight as Darren climbed into the driver’s seat.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked, eyes wide with anxiety. “I really didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I know you didn’t.” Darren smiled, even though inside he was starting to feel the shock of what had happened. “We can talk tomorrow. Let’s just go home and get some sleep.”

They didn’t speak much during the drive. The car was silent except for the cough of the old engine and the periodic rumbling from Theo’s stomach.

“Still feeling sick?” Darren asked after a particularly loud gurgle.

“I’m just… really full….” Theo was half-asleep in his seat. “Kinda got a stomachache.”

“Poor thing. Maybe you’re lamb-tose intolerant?”

Normally, Theo would’ve groaned at the corny joke. Theo always groaned at Darren’s corny jokes.

But tonight, he just said, “Eating sheep didn’t do this to me last month.”

“No, it didn’t.” Darren bit his lip and turned his attention back to the road.

It was nearly three in the morning by the time they pulled up at Theo’s apartment complex. Four flights of stairs later, Darren deposited his feeble boyfriend and his overnight bag on the couch. He kept some things at Theo’s place, but always brought a bag with him on these weekends because a fresh change of clothes was generally necessary after night of blood and animal dung.

“Right,” he said. “You want the bathroom first or should I go?”

Theo was staring straight ahead. He coughed and spoke in a strained voice.

“Darr… I can smell your blood.”

The words hung in the air. Darren felt a chill down to his bones.

“Thought you were full up on sheep, love,” he said quietly.

“I am. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Can you—can you sleep at your place tonight? I really don’t want to hurt you again.”

The chill transformed into sick dread. “Theo, you’re not well, you shouldn’t be alone. I could sleep on your couch.”

“I’ll still be able to smell you.” Theo wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I might get up in the night and—and—who knows? I just want you to be safe….” His lips twisted strangely, and Darren knew his tongue worrying at his fangs, like it often did when he was stressed. In the silence, he heard the two words Theo had left off the end of his sentence: from me.

“Okay,” he relented. “But promise you’ll call me if you need me?”

“Mmhm. Of course.” Theo finally met Darren’s gaze and smiled tentatively. “Sorry to make you drive home at this hour. You’re the best and I love you.”

“It’s fine. I love you too.” Darren met his boyfriend’s smile with an equally shaky one. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

Darren blasted the radio all the way home, hoping it would drown out his thoughts. It didn’t. As soon as he had the car in park, he was fumbling for his phone, opening his messages.

Home now, he typed. You sure you’re okay? You seemed so ill earlier, I hate leaving you alone.

He sat in the darkness and stared at the empty screen for about a minute before sighing and unbuckling his seatbelt. No use being paranoid. Theo had probably fallen asleep, like he’d been on the verge of doing all night.

Darren’s bedroom felt dark and lonely. He tried not to think about it as he stripped down to his underwear and then went to brush his teeth. In the bathroom mirror, he caught sight of the gauze on his shoulder—already soaked through with blood—and gritted his teeth. Vampire wounds were designed to bleed. He should probably redo the bandaging.

A sudden noise echoed off the tile as his phone buzzed against the counter. Darren swiped it up and read the message from Theo:

I’ll be fine. Stop worrying you dork.

- - -

Theo rolled over and pressed his pillow over his head, trying to keep the sound of his own heartbeat out of his ears. His stomach churned, threatening again to reject the unwanted stuff it was so very full of. He groaned and wrapped an arm around it.

Even through the pillow, he could hear it making noises. They were not low gurgles of digestion but sharp, painful growls.

Theo had been a vampire long enough to know that his body didn’t always make sense. As sick and bloated as he felt, he knew the cramps in his heavy, swollen stomach for what they really were.

Hunger pangs.

Please note that I’m not taking any new requests for the moment. Thanks for reading!

[purkinje-effect]

WIP Wednesday

A little snippet from Anatomy 89, "Something Borrowed, Something Blue," in reassurance that I am still making steady progress. CWs for the discussion of methods to draw blood, and implied chem use. Under a read more bc the description has a possibility of being graphic in a SH way.

Sticks murmurs, counting on his fingers.

"Wait, you dullard. Your math is bad. Only three every eight weeks? That's not once a week."

'Choly pushes down pesky worries and lets his gentle, glassy gaze impart reassurance.

"Good. You follow me, then. Let me continue explaining. Like I said, I've thought about this extensively already. I don't have an autoclave or phlebotomy equipment. There's that fridge where you've been keeping the RadRoach meat, but without perfectly sterile implements, the blood must be processed immediately after drawing it. And without a cannula, we'll have to use a knife."

Sticks has been eyeing his arms in thought, but stops because 'Choly is watching.

"If you're trying to spook me out of sticking to my request, it's not working."

"I'm trying to provide you with everything I can so you can decide for yourself whether you're actually okay with this arrangement. I want your input, too. Your thoughts. That's all. Now, to get an entire pint of blood at once, with a knife, the cut must be somewhat deep. Some arteries will be safer for this than others. This is another reason I can't reliably self-draw. Without proper phlebotomy implements, I could exsanguinate."

"How am I any different? Tch! If you can't Stimpak yourself, I couldn't Stimpak myself either!"

A smile quivers on 'Choly's face, small at first, but widening to tense the corners of his mouth and crease his cheeks. He leans to hold Sticks by the jaw with a tender touch.

"You're a ghoul." ...