#30k fanfic

[ktsphere]

The responses to this tweet have killed me dead

[katt1281]

it's been a hot second since ive been so obsessed with an OC/Canon ship. your honour theyre in lovee

[sanyu-thewitch05]

I certainly didn’t see this being on my 2023 bingo card.

Edit: Ya’ll this meme above isn’t accurate anymore since other messages from the group came out. I made this meme when the first initial message came out.

The meme down below is more correct as to what’s probably happening with Ao3. Also wanted to say that despite the name of group, the people behind it are probably Russians.

Edit: July 11th, So Ao3 is back! Though the donation link is being attacked now. There’s also a second account on Twitter trying to impersonate Ao3.

[lucylucius]

i'm late but congrats to all reylo writers to 30k fics on ao3!! 🌟

[the-raven-lady]

(Not) The Savior You Long For [Part 1]

[Masterlist] [My Ko-Fi]

Pairing: Night Lord (OC: Elias Rushorik) x serf!Reader [fem]

Song Inspiration: Fear Inoculum - TOOL [YouTube] [Spotify] “Enumerate all that I'm to do / Calculating steps away from you / My own mitosis / Growing through delusion from mania / Exhale, expel / Recast my tale / Weave my allegorical elegy.”

Warnings: Violence, explicit and detailed blood and gore, disgusting and disturbing imagery, terror and dread, fear of death, all of the warnings you should expect hearing the words ‘Night Lord’ bestie this is the “I love murder” legion.

Word Count: 2.8k

Author’s Note: The long awaited Night Lord claiming + womb tattoo series. This part is primarily exposition and setting the scene. Also new dividers? Raven Lady's getting fancy.

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]

Tag List: @egrets-not-regrets @sleepyfan-blog @kit-williams @bleedingichorhearts @bispecsual

@lemon-russ @moodymisty @dedios-of-the-word @pickpocketing-your-gender

The slosh of brown water on the floor splashes away from your washcloth, and you overextend your shoulder trying to catch it before it runs too far. Hissing at the sudden spasm, you sit back on your heels, rolling it out to soothe the ache. You’ve been on your hands and knees for what feels like far too long now, and your joints are starting to protest. It seems the other serf helping you isn’t faring much better. A glance in her direction reveals her sitting like a child, knees bent and feet flat on the floor, using the full weight of her body to scrub between the seams of the floor panels. You shake your head and return to pushing around the rusty water, struggling to remove the grime from the floor. 

The act was pointless. Everyone knew that it wouldn’t be another week before the armory would be so rancid with dried bodily fluids that a cleanup crew would have to scrub it down again, but you knew better than to make a comment on it.

The racket of raucous laughter nearby shoots ice through your veins. You and the other serf instinctually freeze at the sound, and it doesn’t even cross your mind to check on her before abandoning your post, scrambling off of the wet floor in a flash to hide behind a large crate. The cold metal at your back would shield you from view, you know, but the hammering in your chest and shuddering of your breath would be beacons for a bored astartes. Silently, you will yourself to calm down at any cost, holding your breath for so long your lungs begin to burn from the effort.

Their heavy footfalls eventually fade into the distance, off to another area of the ship. Still, you remain in place for another few minutes until you’re as certain as you’ll ever be that they’re gone. You dare not risk yourself getting caught by a group of Night Lords, if experience has taught you anything.

You’ve become jaded to the rags of tanned hide displayed proudly on their armor and the grotesque corpse art that lines the walls of Nightfall. The smell doesn’t even get to you anymore, having been surrounded by abundant death and decay for so long. Everything reeks of it. Even if you did take the time to think on the dreadful feelings that stir when you see them, your body wouldn’t be able to afford losing any more meals with how sparingly you’ve been fed.

What has never left you are the screams. The gush of blood pouring from a weeping laceration. The crack of breaking bones. Desperate cries from the poor targets of the Night Lord’s insatiable appetite for ‘entertainment’, sobs and begs for their lives— No, no, no, please! I’ll do anything, please, just let me go–!— eventually turning into pleas to be put out of their misery, shown mercy, as their captors only laugh and croon. No mercy flowed through them; they were never quick with their kills. It was all a sadistic game to feed off of the tears and terror for as long as they could. The Night Lords wouldn’t stop their fun until their playthings had been bled dry– literally or figuratively.

You peek out from around the crate, surveying the dim armory. Empty. 

The serf you had been working with was missing as well, likely sequestered off somewhere for safety. The utter silence of the room causes your gut to tremble with anxiety. It was a dangerous game to be alone: lone serfs were prime prey, and you by no means wanted to make yourself an easy target. 

With no small amount of horror, you realize it’s outside of your power to do anything about it. Your lungs deflate, and you give yourself a false reassurance before returning to your station on the floor, taking up the soiled wash rag and wringing it out into the water bucket. Pieces of slimy rehydrated skin pass over your fingers. You return to your efforts with the intent to finish as quickly as possible. The desire to flee to your cot is all-encompassing, driving you to redouble your efforts and get the job done just passably enough that you won’t be killed for it. 

A thought stops you, though. Where had your companion gone? It’s not that you particularly cared for her safety (you didn’t know her and caring is a luxury you could not afford), but to be gone without a trace was peculiar. You don’t remember hearing her footsteps, but you had also been preoccupied with yourself at the time.

You look around the empty room for anything out of place. Nothing appears to have moved since you last checked. Her brush and bucket are still on the floor, right where she had left them. You had seen her put them down there, right?

…Hadn’t you?

You dismiss the thought. She was probably still hiding somewhere, and for that, you couldn’t fault her. There was no loyalty amongst serfs of the Eighth, just an understanding that it was safer together than apart. Wanting to determine how much longer you would be here, you observe the areas the other serf had already worked.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The surfaces of the floors, storage units, and walls were visibly much cleaner than the rest, but she had done a horrible job wiping things down as she went. The steady dripping of a poorly dried surface unpleasantly fills your ears, slowly becoming the only thing you can focus on. You frown. It was amazing how you could begin to miss the ever-present dull thrum of the ship’s electrical systems when it was covered by something even slightly more annoying. 

Drip. Drip. Drip.

You shake your head and get back to working around the floor grate at the center of the room. Its placement makes it convenient to push the disgusting wash water into. As expected, the seams around the drain are compacted with hair and dried flesh, and you have to soak the mass to begin to scrape it free. The spongy texture is a nightmare to work with, but it wouldn’t be such a chore if you had some help.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Annoyed, you decide you’ve had enough of it. Water sloshes in the bucket when you wrench your washcloth to go wipe down whatever it is she had left unfinished, rising up to your feet. With some luck, you’d figure out where she had run off to. It wouldn’t come as a surprise if she had abandoned you altogether, leaving you to finish the task and fend for yourself.

A cursory glance over the bench, lockers, and racks reveals nothing out of the ordinary. They were passably clean and– perplexingly– completely dry. You ran a hand along them to be certain and, surely enough, it came away much the same. Odd. You were certain that you would find something. Continuing your search leaves more questions than answers.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Checking around a wall of storage cabinets, you carefully inspect each of the gaps for signs of water or some other liquid that could be leaking. You find nothing. 

At the end of the lockers, a shadow dances in the dim candlelight. Fear grips you for just a moment as you focus in on it, but it is much too small to be an astartes. At the realization, the chill in your blood is replaced with a simmer of frustration, and you stomp down the hall towards the figure.

Your eyes lock with the other serf’s. “Are you just hiding to–?”

You stop. It appears she had been too preoccupied with hanging from a bracket on the wall to come to your aid. The side of her neck is torn open with loose strips of muscle and connective tissue fanning over her shoulder. A glistening metal finial of Nostraman design pokes ornately through her spine and sternum, partially coagulated blood pooling at the tip.

Drip. 

Drip. 

Drip.

“About time,” a voice spits.

You’re suddenly dragged by the back of your robes, hoisted up into the air by an unseen force. The scream that leaves you tears at your vocal cords, but it’s choked off by the fabric of your neckline biting into your throat. Thrashing your head from side to side, you catch sight of a colorless face cackling, bloodied lips curled into a grin. You desperately kick your legs in an attempt to free yourself.

“Feisty little pet, aren’t we?” he asks. The Night Lord turns you around easily as you struggle, splitting red as he talks. “Good. Your friend was far more boring.”

You rake at the fabric around your neck, trying to alleviate the pressure preventing oxygen from getting to your head. The action only makes him laugh harder. “Oh, how precious. Poor little serf can’t breathe?” He tilts his head as he taunts you, and a cruel glint crosses his eye.

“How about I help with that?”

A half turn and your back slams against the wall, knocking the wind out of your lungs. Your gasp of pain ignites a malicious glee within your captor, a row of bloodied yellow teeth peeking from behind his lips. At least like this, pinned to the wall, you have the ability to catch your breath, ragged and shallow. Each rough huff eases the ache in your diaphragm.

A hand roughly snaps your head forward, forcing you to focus on the face at your front. He suffocates you with his presence, leaning in far too close. “You know,” he starts, “I had been just about ready to walk in there and drag you out myself.” Despite the melodic quality of his voice, you only feel discomfort at the astartes’s words as he uningenuously laments. “I could only stare at my masterpiece for so long.” 

Briefly, your eyes linger on the silhouetted corpse of the other chapter serf. You hadn’t even heard her scream. Hadn’t heard the attack. Hadn’t heard the bones crack when she was unceremoniously mounted on the wall. You had managed to miss every detail.

…Or your captor had been skilled enough to mask them. You shiver.

He follows your gaze, scoffing when it lands on the body. “Your buddy is as pretty as she is stupid, trying to run all the way back to the hole you serfs call home.” The image of the other serf running down the hallway and getting caught as you did passes through your mind, and you grimace at the thought of whatever game she may have suffered through to end up where she is. The sing-song cadence of his voice draws your attention back to the Night Lord in front of you, “You humans fall so easily to your emotions. Not the brightest of you lot I’ve had, but certainly the best bait.”

Bait. The word is sour in the air.  

“So unwilling to have fun–” 

She had just been bait. 

“–but you’re eager to play, aren’t you?”

You were the game.

Your blood runs cold, eyes widening as you process everything you had missed or ignored up until now. Black blurs the edges of your vision. “Oh, don’t be like that,” the Night Lord shakes his head, but you know better than to believe it. This is exactly what he wanted. “We can be great friends—” 

Self-preservation takes a hold of you. Your adrenalized brain screams to overcome, persist. In an act of desperation, your hands shoot out before you, and you manage to jab your fingers into his dark eyes and claw. The astartes snarls, ducking away and dragging you with him off of the wall as he stumbles back. With a shake of his head, he regains his senses. He growls.

“You stupid bitch!”

The Night Lord tosses you like a ragdoll, uncaring of how your head impacts the nearby bench before hitting the floor. The world spins around you. “I’ll gut you like a pig for that, you impudent rat!” he roars, ceramite boots stomping closer. His eyes are wild, red around his enlarged pupils from where you’ve managed to burst blood vessels. Uncoordinated, you scramble backwards on the floor, staring up at the approaching astartes in terror. 

This is it. This is where you die: surrounded by filth, hyperventilating on the floor as a pissed off Night Lord tortures you within an inch of your life until you perish from the stress. All for one measly act of courage. Your back hits a wall as he rounds the bench, and you find yourself unable to watch any longer as fate unfolds before you. You curl up in a ball, turning away and protecting your head with your arms, then wait for the inevitable killing strike.

And wait.

…And wait.

But the blow never comes– no white-hot stab of pain, no sting of a kick to the ribs, no blunt ache of broken bones– just a sickeningly sodden crunch of flesh and bone. A wet spray paints your back. Your tattered robes easily soak up the warm liquid, causing you to flinch from the sudden moisture. Even through the rush of confusion and fear, it doesn’t take you long to realize what it is. The scent is unmistakable.

Your heartbeat pounds in your ears as you struggle to catch up with your surroundings. By all means, you should be dead: the newest addition to a Night Lord’s skin cloak, or at the very least in excruciating pain. But you aren’t. 

Tentatively, trembling, you withdraw your head from the cage of your arms, turning just enough to peer behind you. You gasp at the grisly sight. 

Crimson rivulets of blood drip down over massive navy blue gauntlets. A single enucleated eye dangles from the gore between its digits. The terminator, more mountain than man, holds the unmoving body of your persecutor up by what remains of his cranium and neck. It is little more than ribbons of meat now.

Bile rises in your throat. You struggle to force it back down. 

Bolted armor caked in blood– both dried and fresh, sunken deep into the recesses of the ceramite plating– gives off an aura of wrought iron and decay. The metallic tang permeates the air around him, hanging heavy in the poorly ventilated armory. His scarred skin looks sickly pale. Greasy. Dehydrated. Aside from deep black eyes that watch you as a predator observes prey, the most prominent feature on his face is a wicked scar: a tear in his upper lip that exposes maxilla and sharp teeth alike. The shock of black hair on his head still has the impression of his helmet on it.

Without so much as a sound, he had come up from behind and grabbed the smaller Night Lord by the face, yanking them back into the crux of his chestplate and pauldron with enough force to shatter the hardened skull of an astartes. 

The massive marine throws the limp corpse of his former brother aside. The impact of metal on metal causes your ears to ring as a thousand pounds of lifeless ceramite strikes the wall, immediately followed by a disgusting wet slop of pulverized brain matter spilling onto the floor. If you had been on the Nightfall for any less time, you would have screamed. The shock almost prevents you from registering that you’re being spoken to.

“Get up.”

The terminator’s voice is that of rolling thunder and coarse gravel, resonating deep within your chest and leaving your heart fluttering with trepidation. His words had been spoken no louder than conversational, and yet they had you shooting up to your feet as if they had been shouted. Your wobbly legs nearly give out beneath you from how quickly you rise from the floor, croaking a shaky, “Yes, my lord.”

He removes his helmet from where it is magnetized to his belt with a click, placing it down on the bench you had been cowering behind. The tusks on it are as long as your forearm and nearly as thick. A faint decal of a skull is painted around the red lenses, chipped and fading but almost cartoonishly cute in contrast to the rags of flesh and weathered bones decorating the rest of his armor. 

The new Night Lord doesn’t seem to find it nearly as amusing as you do. He pushes the helmet in your direction, and you clamber to catch it before it hits the ground, not wanting to incur his wrath by dropping it so soon after he had just saved your life. The metal is heavy in your arms, tusks dangerously close to puncturing your throat.

“Clean it,” he barks. 

You grab your wash rag from the floor and shake it out. You do not have to be told twice.

[Part 2]

[whorety-k]

Hi everybody!! I'm not dead, I'm just super busy with college! Don't do 8 units of summer courses if you value your social life <3

Please enjoy this random fic drop that I have no explanation for other than I like the pain.

Pairing: Roboute Guilliman (40k) and gn perpetual!Reader

Song Inspiration: Never Know (Unplugged) - Bad Omens [YouTube] [Spotify] “When I go out into the world / I just don’t like what I see / You could call this paradise / but it looks just like hell to me / Lying in between the memories choking me / and I don’t know which way to go / But I’m okay to never know.”

Warnings: Angst, mentions of loss, this piece is bitter and angry and emotionally charged because Raven Lady was in their feels, you + Guilliman have a not-so-secret secret relationship but you’re officially known as Advisor to the Lord Regent, oh and you died at Calth once! yippee!

Word Count: 1.4k

Tag List: @egrets-not-regrets @sleepyfan-blog @kit-williams @bleedingichorhearts

The Fortress of Hera was always cold at night, and the chill bit into your skin. It did the advisor of the Lord Regent no favors to be wearing such light robes during Macragge’s coldest season, but the sting of the cold was the least of your concerns. Quiet footsteps carry you down the darkened halls to the only place you seemed to find any solace within the temple anymore. 

Perhaps solace was too strong a term. It was more the only place to freely vent your frustrations without a prying eye to judge you for it. Ten thousand years had seen little change to the great structure the Primarch of the Ultramarines had created during the Great Crusade, but the finely-crafted halls that you had once called home no longer held any familiarity.

The visage of the Emperor of Mankind carved into fine white marble stares down at you in the dark like a deific sentinel. How grand his chiseled image is: a mountain of a man sat upon an ornate throne of gilded gold, one hand holding a flaming sword, posed like salvation itself. The thought makes you scoff, shaking your aching head at the ridiculous notion. Such blatant disrespect would have you branded a heretic outside of the fortress, but within these silver-steel walls, you had no qualms making your opinions known. 

“Your last hope. Your last tool. Is that all we will ever be to you?” you sullenly ask the god before you. No, not a god–, you remind yourself, a fool. A damned fool of a deadbeat father who reaped what he had sewn, at the cost of an entire civilization. A man so obsessed with his secrets and the greater plan that he turned his own sons away from him. Was he even a man anymore? What humanity could possibly be left in something so callous?

Your eyebrow twitches as you fight the way your throat constricts, eyes brimming with bitter tears. The Heresy had been over ten millennia ago according to Imperial records, but the emotions surrounding it were still raw within your chest. For you, it had been one hundred years since your body had been torn apart by bombardment cannons at Calth. It had been one hundred years since you lost contact with those that you had called family. It had been one hundred years since the love of your life had his legion nearly decimated and been forced to rebuild the entirety of the Imperium of Man from scratch. 

It had been one hundred years since everything they had ever known was flipped upside down.

“What a grand civilization we’ve become,” you continue tacitly, scornful, “And with no one that fought for it left to see it. How merciful.” Your gaze wanders out towards the open balcony, fixating on the dull sky. The stars of Macragge looked the same as they did all of those years ago, and for a fleeting moment, you could almost convince yourself that nothing had changed. Nausea blooms in your gut. “They would be disgusted with the rotting corpse of an empire we call the Imperium.”

The marble god regards you with steadfast vigil. Its proud expression persists unchanged, silence uninterrupted. It frustrates you to no end.

Your face screws into a disgusted grimace, lip drawn back in an ugly snarl. “I do not miss you. I do not long for you,” you hiss, “Oh, great Emperor, I have to help your son pick up the pieces so gracelessly left behind.” Venomous words settle like lead in the air of the dim sanctuary. You clench your fists. “Why should I mourn you?”

The face of polished white remains stoic. Your eyes bore into the ancient stone, inspecting it for any reaction. It does not give.

You scoff once more, offended by its wordlessness. The gritting of your teeth exacerbates the headache thrumming in your skull. Ridiculous, you chide. So worked up in the presence of an unyielding god, heartbeat deafening in your ears as your blood pressure rises, and it gives you nothing. You sulk in the quietude under the carving’s watchful gaze.

“...I miss the Sigilite,” your pathetic voice eventually concedes in the silence, “Malcador had his issues, and we did not always get along, but at least he made attempts to guide the children you so thoughtlessly abandoned.” The welling tears begin to fall. Your frustrations paint your cheeks, glittery trails turning frigid in the chill of the fortress. “If someone had told me a century ago that I would be in his place, I would have called them a loon.” Grim laughter racks your body, and you turn your head back up to look at the stone likeness of the Emperor, “Advisor to the Lord Regent of the Imperium? Foolish. Preposterous, even.” The linen of your robes bunches as your arms encircle your midsection. It brings shallow comfort. 

“Tell me, my lord, who it is that is supposed to advise the advisor?” you inquire of the so-called deity, “Who supports me when I must make decisions?” The Emperor responds with perpetuated silence. Your head falls, voice weak, “...you have taken them all from me.” 

The connections you had made in other legions had all been lost to you early in the Heresy. Even if you could have attempted to reach out to them, having been put in stasis after being torn asunder at Calth and being completely separated from anything with the potential of tainted by chaos by Guilliman slaughtered any chances at reconnection. Memories of those you had loved still haunted your dreams, gifting you many sleepless nights. 

It had been ten millennia.

Now you stand alone in the dark, before a magnificent depiction of the root cause of all of your problems, howling your frustrations at him as if somehow, some way, he could hear you. It made you no better than Curze, and that thought left a bitter taste in your mouth.

You unwrap an arm from your middle to wipe away the freezing tears. “Perhaps I am the fool, thrust into a realm so far beyond me. Floundering like a fish out of water.” Soft footfalls echo through the chamber as you approach the statue and sit at its feet, leaning your miniscule body against the opulent statue. The cool marble bites at your cheek. You allow your eyes to flutter shut, and a false serenity befalls the chamber.

“I am all Roboute has left of the old Imperium. That’s a dreadful pressure to place on human shoulders, you know.” You speak as if scolding a child, a playful cadence in your voice. Your hand taps against the stony sabaton you rest upon, “But I suppose I am grateful he doesn’t have to do it alone, even if it means that I have to.” You shift to rest your back against the idol, placing your chin on bent knees that have long since gone numb from the cold. Against the visage of someone so beloved and beloathed, you feel the tension you’ve been carrying for weeks begin to melt away. You don’t catch the way your eyes begin to grow heavy, nor do you find yourself able to resist the siren call of sleep when it eventually comes.

Guilliman can no longer bring himself to be surprised when two of his sons report his advisor missing from their quarters the following morning. He dismisses the frantic marines idly and steps away from his holotable, closing the current simulation with a flash of green light. As expected, your unconscious form lies curled up at the foot of his father’s statue in one of the former worship halls of the evicted Ecclesiarchy. The primarch gives a weary sigh and kneels down, scooping your exhausted form off of the floor and carefully cradling you in the crux of his ceramite-covered arm. 

Upon standing, Roboute’s eyes meet his fathers, and he regards the marble silhouette with conflicted emotions. It troubled him greatly to find you here as often as he did, but Guilliman can seldom think on it when a line of vox chatter drags him out of his trance. Instead, he shakes his head and swiftly starts towards the command hall to return to his post.

He’ll question your odd behavior when there are less pressing matters to attend to.

[luxaofhesperides]

Ghostlights as college roommates and maybe some identity shenanigans thrown in would be so fun! Maybe dannys doing a little vigilante work on the side as well to up the secret identity mayhem

Danny would like to say his college career is going well. Gotham isn’t where he was expecting to pursue higher education, but the engineering scholarship he got through the Wayne Educational Foundation was just too good to turn down. It even covered the cost of an apartment! Although, the apartment is shared with another student who got a Wayne scholarship. 

Even with that, Danny lucked out and got a great roommate. Duke Thomas is chill, kind, respects Danny’s space and doesn’t throw wild parties or invite random people in at all hours of the day. He even joins Danny twice a week for study sessions!

Really, it would be the perfect college experience except for one thing: the ghosts.

Danny thought they’d stay in Amity Park. They had no reason to stray from the city where the portal was, and his parents are more than enough to keep most ghosts away. It took his friends, Jazz, and even Vlad to convince Danny that he wasn’t abandoning Amity Park and that the city wouldn’t fall while he took a few years to focus on himself. 

He worried right up until he got to GCU and walked the campus for the first time. Then he decided to enjoy the four years he had on the scholarship to get his degree and live his own life like a normal person.

To say he’s pissed about the ghosts is an understatement. 

The one thing he was looking forward to most is not being Phantom. Gotham is home to the Bats and they’re more than capable of handling everything in the city. It means there’s no need for him here and he can focus on school and enjoy going on invisible flights without worrying about being hunted down or having to fight a ghost. 

“Are you fucking kidding me,” he mutters under his breath as he feels the familiar chill race up his throat, A cold mist wafts out of his mouth, curling around his words, and Danny quickly ducks his head and hides it from sight. 

“Did you say something?” Duke asks, looking up from where he leans against the kitchen counter, squinting at a recipe on his phone. 

“Nah,” Danny lies. “Just stressing.” He gestures to the papers he has spread out on the dining table, then stands up. “I’m gonna take a walk. Maybe that’ll get my brain to work correctly tonight.”

“Got your phone on you?”

Danny reflexively drops a hand to his pocket, checking that his phone is where it’s supposed to be. It’s what Duke asks every single time Danny mentions going out, worried about Danny being unprepared for Gotham. It’s nice of him, though Danny does wish he can say that he’s survived a lot worse than a few muggers. 

“Got it.”

“Alright. I’ll try to work on dinner while you’re out.”

Danny nods and offers Duke a small wave before pulling his shoes on at the door. He grabs his keys and heads out, double checking that the door is locked behind him. 

Then he glances around the hallway, checking that the coast is clear, and pulls up the chill of awareness in his chest. Slowly, he breathes out, watching the blue mist waft out and lead towards the stairwell. 

“Wonder who it is this time,” he mutters to himself, going into the cold, concrete stairwell. It always feels a little off in there, as if he’s been removed from the rest of the world when the door closes behind him. His footsteps echo oddly in the space, so Danny chooses to fly instead, keeping his feet off the floor. 

A few flights down is when he sees her: pale and translucent, a faint blue glow around her. She’s a familiar face. Emilia is one of the first of Gotham’s ghosts he’s met, leading to the rather unpleasant realization that ghosts don’t only come from the Infinite Realms. There’s a strange sort of magic in the very foundations of Gotham that makes it the way it is, creating ghosts that are different enough from what he’s used to that it leaves him off balance. 

Gotham keeps her dead. Few get to pass on peacefully, and most have to wait until they grow weak and wither away, a second death, before they can be released from the living realm. The ghosts of Gotham are pale and weak, for the most part, and try to cling to him so grow stronger from his ectoplasm. 

Most want him to help them pass on, or give them a way into the Infinite Realms. Some want him to bring justice to their killers. Others want to kill him and take his ectoplasm for their own so they can continue their reign of terror in Gotham, unable to be stopped even in death. 

Emilia gives him warnings. It’s not always her, but she tends to be the one to draw him out of his apartment, pulling him into a vigilante lifestyle because he can’t bring himself to refuse anyone who asks for his help, and the dead in Gotham have no one else to ask.

“Danny,” she greets. “Nueve is out again. He’s going after the ghosts near Chantilly Street.”

“The sun isn’t even down yet,” Danny grumbles. Nueve, an old gang enforcer who died a few decades ago, cannibalizes other ghosts. It doesn’t destroy the other ghosts, not really, but it makes them feel pain when they shouldn’t be able to feel much at all. Taking their limited reserves of ectoplasm makes him momentarily stronger, and he uses that stolen strength to try to harm the living.

He’s been successful a few times. Danny makes sure to rip him apart as much as possible these days; he won’t be here forever, but he’s hoping that within his four years at GCU, he’ll be able to permanently stop Nueve.

Times like these, he misses having a Fenton Thermos with him. Though he’s not entirely sure it would work on Gotham’s ghosts with how different they are. 

Emilia follows him down the stairwell to the ground floor. Once there, Danny shoves his hand into the floor, taking out the backpack he’s hidden in it. He’s done this change of clothes so often he can do it in just a minute now, hiding his face and pulling on gloves beneath a large hoodie with old ectoplasm stains along the sleeves and hem. A gas mask is pulled on as well, covering the bottom half of his face, a necessary addition to his Ghost Work Outfit™ after he almost got caught in some Fear Gas during Scarecrow’s last attack. 

“Alright,” he says, “Lead the way.”

Emilia takes off through the wall and Danny hurries to follow, going invisible as he hits the streets. 

It’s still early evening, the sun not yet fully set. Plenty of people walk along the sidewalks and cars pass by endlessly, honking at each other as they try to go twenty above the speed limit. Danny does his best to avoid running into everyone, deftly dodging the reaching hands of a few ghosts who spot him as he sprints by. 

They only go a few blocks away from his apartment building, turning into a dead end alley where a group of teens (living, for once) are stuck with their backs to the wall, clinging to each other as they warily watch the man in front of them carelessly twirl a gun around his finger. 

The man makes a strange clicking noise in the back of his throat, and it takes Danny a moment to realize that he’s trying to talk. 

Still invisible, Danny sneaks around to stand in front of the teens, ready to bodily protect them. The man looks alive, and Danny see any ghosts around save for Emilia, standing at the mouth of the alley. There’s something strange about him; his movements seem just a little off, not quite as fluid as they should be. It’s not the movement of someone on drugs. It’s something that screams uncanny valley.

The gun’s handle drops solidly into the man’s palm. He makes another few clicks, then raising the gun to point at the teens.

“Bad idea, pal,” Danny says dropping his invisibility. The teens behind him startle, gasping and trying to press themselves further into the wall. 

The man’s eyes flash weakly and the pieces click into place in Danny’s mind. Nueve must have gotten strong enough to possess someone. That is… alarming, to say the least.

He rips the gun out of the man’s hand and tosses it aside. Then he pushes away the man’s arm when Nueve makes a clumsy attempt to punch him. With his chest left wide open and undefended, Danny takes the chance to shove his hand into the man’s chest, feeling for the familiar chill of a ghost. 

And then he wraps his fingers tight around it and pulls out Nueve, leaving the man to collapse. 

The teens behind him scream and Danny winces. 

Pulling out a faintly glowing human figure from someone’s physical body does not look good. It’s the best way to end a possession, but it does look alarmingly like he’s just ripped someone’s soul out of their body.

Keeping hold of Nueve’s ghost, Danny steps to the side. “You guys should go now. Take care.”

The teens don’t need any more prompting. They take off in a run, tripping over each other in their haste to get away.

Danny spares a glance to the man unconscious on the ground, but there’s nothing he can do with an angry ghost in his hands, so he has no choice but to leave him there as he flies up to a rooftop farther down the street. 

“How many times do we need to do this, Nueve?” he asks tiredly, shaking the ghost.

“These streets should be mine!” Nueve howls, trying to break free of Danny’s grasp. But he’s quickly growing weak, his energy fading, and Danny’s holding back his own ectoplasm as tightly as he can. “They may have killed me, but that doesn’t mean I can’t still take what I’m owed!”

“Dude, you’re dead. There’s nothing here for you. Move on.”

“You don’t get to speak on this, outsider. You think a freak like you has an say over us? You can’t stop us. You don’t even know what’s coming.”

Danny squints at him. “What, are you planning a heist or something? With your gang of dead people too weak to lift a piece of paper?”

“We’re not all dead. We’ve got living folk helping us and we’ll be taking you out first when we hit the streets.”

“Good luck with that,” Danny says flatly, “Begone with you.” 

Without giving Nueve a chance to say another word, he rips Nueve’s head off his body. His ghost wavers, then dissipates like smoke, fading away. 

Another side effect of whatever it is Gotham does to her dead: their ghost forms are remarkably fragile and it takes only a bit of strength to tear them to shreds, giving him some peace before they reform again. It won’t stop Nueve from striking out again, gathering enough strength until he’s able to possess some other unfortunate soul, but Danny’s bought himself some time to figure out what the hell was he talking about?

There are living folk involved with whatever he’s planning. It’s probably another gang, maybe someone with magic who is able to see ghosts? Which is not great. Danny doesn’t know much about magic; even when facing ghosts who used magic or magical artifacts, his go to method of dealing with them is to start throwing hands like there’s no tomorrow.

Well.

It’s a problem for later.

For now, Danny needs to get back to his apartment and work on his calculus homework. Hopefully he can finish it before he gets frustrated enough that he gives up and lies face down on the floor until Duke manhandles him onto the couch, where he’s less of a tripping hazard.

He’s just about to get back to street level when his Fenton Luck strikes again and he hears someone land on the roof, just a few feet behind him.

“Hey there, stranger,” the Signal says. “You know, we run into each other so often it feels rude not to introduce ourselves. Why don’t you go first?”

Danny turns to face the daylight vigilante, standing with his arms crossed as if that would make him look any more approachable. He’s been popping up wherever Danny’s out dealing with ghosts, which is very not great for Danny’s plans to have a peaceful, normal college life. 

Biting his tongue, Danny gives the Signal a quick two fingered salute, then goes intangible and drops down through the building. His invisibility sweeps over him and then he’s running through the streets, hoping it’s enough to keep the Signal from following him to his apartment.

He skids to a stop in the stairwell, dropping his intangibility just in time to crash into the wall. Panting, Danny waits for a tense minute to see if he’s been followed. 

When the door to the stairwell remains closed, he lets out a slow breath, then pulls off all the pieces of his Ghost Work Outfit, shoving it back into his bag. He takes a moment to fix his hair, messy from the hood, then shoves the bag back into the floor, safely hidden from curious eyes. 

Then he very casually walks up the stairs to the fifth floor and walks down the hallway to his apartment. His keys clang together when he opens the door, and Duke usually hears it when it does, but just in case, Danny calls out, “I’m back!”

He’s learned to announce himself after a few late night walks almost ended with him tackled to the floor when Duke thought someone was breaking in.

Duke doesn’t respond as he toes off his shoes. The stillness in the apartment feels off, as if the world is holding its breath. Cautiously, Danny walks in, trying to find his roommate.

He’s not in the kitchen. The living room is empty. Duke’s bedroom door is open and he’s not in there either. 

Something cold lodges itself in his chest. 

“Duke?” he tries again, looking over their apartment again for any sign of struggle, or something terrible happening, or even a mess that Duke needed more supplies to clean up. 

There’s nothing. The apartment is as it’s always been, just with an empty space where Duke should be.

Worried, Danny stands in the middle of the hallway, trying to figure out what he should do next. It’s because he’s standing so still, surrounded by silence, that he hears it: a light thud outside the window. 

Danny turns and he can swear he sees something large moving outside the window, disappearing from sight just as Danny takes a step into Duke’s room to check on it. He rushes to the window and pushes it open, looking down at the street, then side to side, and finally up to the last three floors of the building.

Nothing’s there.

Slowly, Danny pulls his head back inside, closing and locking the window. “Must be my imagination,” he says, trying to convince himself it’s not a big deal. 

He leaves Duke’s room and begins pacing down the hall, anxiety building steadily in him. 

His phones in his hand before he can think his actions through, Duke’s contact pulled up on the screen. He should call. He should make sure Duke is okay, but Danny hesitates. Is this something to be freaked out over? Would Duke thing he’s clingy and nervous and a bothersome roommate? He doesn’t want to risk Duke asking for a new roommate next year when the lease renews.

But he’s worried. It’s Gotham and Danny just dealt with a violent, murderous ghost threatening him. Duke can deal with a stressed out, worried Danny if it means he’s alive.

He hits the call button before he can talk himself out of it. It rings on and on and on until Danny starts to panic about having to find Duke’s ghost to avenge his murder. 

The front door is thrown open so suddenly and so loudly, Danny jumps and his phone clatters to the floor. 

“Danny! Hey!” Duke says with a bright smile, trying to catch his breath. He’s still holding onto the doorknob, slightly hunched over as he pants for breath. “I didn’t expect you back so soon.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah! Yeah, I’m totally fine.”

“Where were you?”

Duke straightens up and closes the door, kicking off his shoes. “Oh, just… out. Shopping. For dinner.”

Danny looks over his empty hands doubtfully. “No luck finding what you needed?”

“Nope!”

“What did you need? Maybe I can go to a different store and get it for you.”

“You don’t need to!” Duke says. “I just needed… tomatoes?”

Danny blinks at him. “We have tomatoes. Did you not know we had tomatoes in the fridge?”

“Oh, do we? Good to know.”

There’s something very weird about this conversation, but Danny doesn’t pry. Duke is weird sometimes, but it’s fine because he kindly ignores some of Danny’s oddities that come from being a halfa and a semi-retired hero. 

“Do you… maybe wanna sit down? Catch your breath? I can make dinner tonight if you want.”

Duke waves a hand in the air. “No, no, it’s fine. I got this. Anyways, how was your walk?”

He definitely shouldn’t talk about the cannibal ghost and his threats to take out Danny with his gang. “It was nice. Very quiet. You know, for Gotham.” He punctuates this with an awkward thumbs up and immediately regrets it, but it’s already done so he commits to it.

“Cool! Great. Just wondering, did you see anything weird?”

“Depends on what you’re asking about?”

“Just some guy wearing black with a hood covering his face. He’s been active in this neighborhood and I saw some people talk about him online. Apparently he just appears out of thin air.”

Danny tries not to wince. That’s him, alright. Gotham’s newest neighborhood menace. “I don’t think so, but there’s a lot of people in Gotham that were all black and walk around with their hood up.”

“True,” Duke concedes. “Well, just be careful when you go out, alright?”

“I always am.” He gives Duke the same two fingered salute he gave the Signal. Duke stares at him for a moment, eyes dark and almost dangerous, then he smiles and walks into the kitchen. 

“Wanna make dinner with me? I think we can figure out this recipe together. Unless you need to do your homework.”

“It can wait!” Danny hurries to join Duke, grateful for an excuse to push off calculus a little longer. He understands what he’s doing in the class, there’s just… so much work. He doesn’t even want to think about the tests. The tests make everyone cry.

“Alright, let’s get to it, then!”

“You’re in charge, chef,” Danny says, laughingly, and bumps against Duke’s side. He expects a light shove in return, something Sam and Tucker always did, but Duke goes tense instead, letting out a sharp breath that Danny is all too familiar with. “Wait, why are you hurt? What happened?!”

He goes to lift up Duke’s shirt to inspect his shirt, see the damage for himself, but Duke smoothly moves out of the way, grabbing Danny’s wrists and stopping him in his tracks. “I’m fine, Danny. I just got hit. Lightly. Minor bruising, really.”

Danny looks at him doubtfully, then wrenches a wrist free to lift up his shirt before he can move again.

Minor bruising is not how Danny would describe the blues and purples that decorate Duke’s entire side. He can see the outline of Duke’s ribs through the bruising. “How is this being lightly bruised? What hit you?”

“A car?”

“A car?!”

Duke winces, then pulls his shirt down. “I’m fine, Danny, really. It was just from a car that didn’t want to stop at a red light. I stopped another person from being hit, but the car got me pretty solidly. You know how bad Gotham drivers are.”

“Sit down!” Danny says, pulling Duke out of the kitchen. “I don’t understand how you’re still standing. I’ll get some ice, and I’ll handle dinner. You just stay there and stop pushing yourself for no reason.”

“Playing nurse for me now?”

“If I have to.”

“Would you wear a nurse costume for me, too?” Duke jokes.

Danny looks him dead in the eye and says, “If I have to. Would that make you follow my instructions? A tight little nurse dress?”

Duke sputters, cheeks darkening, and looks away. Danny grins, victorious, and darts back to the kitchen to grab an ice pack from the fridge. 

“Maybe I’ll wear one for you anyways, once you’re all healed up. Only if you’re good, though.”

“Danny, you’re killing me here.”

“Better me than a car.”

Duke laughs and takes the ice pack, pressing it against his side carefully. “Oh, for sure. Thanks, Danny.”

“Hey, what are roommates for?” Danny shares a warm smile with Duke, then pats his shoulder and heads back to the kitchen to start making a simple pasta dinner. 

Life in Gotham is weird and stressful and full of ghosts and heroes who won’t leave him alone. But it’s not all that bad, really. He’s happy with how he’s doing in college, and he’s beyond lucky to have Duke as a roommate. So long as Duke never finds out about his halfa status, then he’s sure they’ll be able to last all four years rooming together.

He just needs to keep a secret. 

Shouldn’t be too hard, right?

[stevebckley]

Remember Me, Love (when I'm reborn)

Explicit | 34k | Oneshot

Author: @stevebckley and on twitter

Artist: @fancycheliniarts and on twitter

Header by and my Beta: @whataboutthefish

Written for the Steddie Big Bang 2023 @steddiebang

Summary

Steve Harrington was born an Alpha. Everyone in his life had expected him to be an Alpha so they weren't surprised

Everyone except himself.

After over two years of saving every spare dollar, Steve is finally ready to take the final leap to transition from the Alpha he appears to be, to the Omega he’s always known he is. When the clinic pairs him with Eddie Munson as the Alpha that is meant to help guide him through his transition, it only takes one meeting for Steve to realize that he may not want to let go of Eddie when it’s all over.

FIC | ART

Pairings : Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson

Characters : Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson, Robin Buckley, The Party (Stranger Things), Claudia Henderson

Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha Eddie Munson, Alpha Steve Harrington, Omega Steve Harrington, Gender Dysphoria, But like secondary gender dysphoria, Steve Harrington Has Bad Parents, Steve and Robin soulmateism, Bitching, Secondary Gender Transition, Steve Collecting Old Ladies That Love Him, Nesting, So Soft Its Practically Mushed, No Angst, I really mean NO angst, Discussions of Heat and Rut, Medical Procedures, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe-No Upside Down, Anal Sex, Vaginal Sex, Intersex Omegas, Bottom Steve Harrington, Top Eddie Munson, heat/rut sex, The Emotional Impact of Signing Contracts, Dirty Talk, Vaginal Fingering, Anal Fingering, Oral Sex, All Comfort-No Hurt

No archive warning apply

[nostalgia-tblr]

"it's just a low effort oneshot"

bitch that took me six months

[solspina]

Sanguinius is my favorite primarch, yet we have so little lore on his actual backstory. Do you have any headcanons about Baal or Baal’s culture 🥺?

Hello anon! I do actually have a few headcanons about baal and quite a few others about how sanguinius grew up in its environment!

i’m incredibly happy to answer your ask, especially considering that it’s about my favorite primarch too. never hesitate to ask again, this was really fun to write!

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

Environment:

I think that the surface of Baal would be a lot like that of Mars.

It’s a very dry, rocky, and hot planet.

I don’t have many headcanons about Baal itself, but Baal Secundis, the second moon of the planet where Sanguinius was raised isn’t much different from the mother planet.

Other than the fact it’s absolutely plagued with radiation and some of the most hideous creatures ever seen.

It’s been mentions in lore a few times that Sanguinius thinks his wings may be a result of the radioactive environment.

Because of this, I think that Baal Secundis is very fallout-like.

Miles and miles of empty and desolate desert, perhaps occasionally some leftover pieces of armor from previous battles, and many, many bones.

Culture:

It’s also canon that Sanguinius was alone in the desert for what you can assume was a pretty decently long time.

He was found either as a very young adult or as an old teenager, probably naked and highly radioactive.

The planet was incredibly war infested as also told by lore, so I can imagine that the tribe Sanguinius was raised in caused him to do a fair share of fighting.

I believe that the war may have possibly been due to a clash of cultures.

Many sources state that the people lived in a Nomadic culture, they were travelers, scavengers even.

For the longest time, the people of Baal had no god to believe in, nothing to tie them together.

But by the end of his time on the planet, everyone worshiped Sanguinius. He had brought them peace and togetherness under his name.

Lore also states that the culture and current customs on Baal are HEAVILY influenced by the angel.

There are holidays after him.

Culture is one of those things that has a million aspects, but my favorite to consider is obviously weddings!

I think that weddings were merely a concept before sanguinius arrived, but once he had and the people learned it was okay to love, couples united together left and right.

He used to attend more official and political weddings on baal, even going as far as to officiate a few of them. Now, this is handled by Dante.

At modern baalian weddings, women tend to string white feathers in their hair as a symbol of protection and honor from Sanguinius.

Much like a traditional American wedding, brides also wear white as a symbol of purity, something the angel had honored. The difference? Husbands wear white too!

Guests are to wear whatever they wish, as long as it honors the primarch, but the bride’s jewelry is traditionally gold.

engagement rings are ALWAYS made of ruby, to symbolize both the blood of sanguinius and a blood covenant between husband and wife.

I think that it’s also a coming of age event for all male Baalians who wish to be accepted by their tribes to make a journey to the sarcophagus of Sanguinius at their coming of age, probably naked to simulate what the angel himself had to go and fight through as a child.

Many young men hope that when they arrive they will hear his voice, or that the luckiest will receive a vision from his spirit within the warp.

Has Sanguinius seen any of them as worthy enough to see his spirit? That’s for you to decide ;)

[diazsdimples]

Inspiration Saturday/Several Sentence Sunday

Tagged by @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @spotsandsocks @cal-daisies-and-briars @loserdiaz and @bidisasterbuckdiaz thank you friends! I shall get to all your snippets so soon! Also tagging you back for Sunday

Guys I am being such a bad person and have 6 wips that I'm actively writing, BUT the Frostpunk beans are beaning so hard and I'm so glad! Ngl getting people to force me to write it was extremely effective cause turns out, just like Evan Buckley, I have a praise kink that's visible from space sdkjsdkjd. Here's a moodboard I made ages ago and another small snippet!

“Hey bud, it’s Buck. I- I don’t know if you can hear me but I’ve bought a book with me today, and thought I’d read it to you. My sister used to read it to me when I was little, and it always made me feel safe, so I figured I’d do the same for you.” Buck waits a moment to see if Christopher is going to respond, a twitch of a finger or anything to indicate that he can hear Buck’s words, but the kid remains still, slumbering peacefully with his hands folded over his stomach. Buck licks his lips and opens the books, a wave of nostalgia passing over him as the dry pages pass between his fingers as he flicks through to the first lines. “The year that Buttercup was born, the most beautiful woman in the world was a French scullery maid named Annette…” Buck lets himself get carried away by the words as he reads through the first chapter, mapping out the world for Christopher. As he reads, Buck watches as Christopher’s heart rate slowly decreases, going from a swift 90 beats per minute to a much more acceptable 65. It’s enough to make Buck a little choked up, if he thinks about it too much, that his presence and his voice are calming enough to calm Christopher right down. Buck can’t help but notice the way a few medics hang around as he reads, finding excuses to linger in order to listen to the story. One medic takes Edmundo’s blood pressure three times in the span of 2 minutes, claiming that it was a “little too high for my liking”, but considering he’d heard Hen announce only 10 minutes prior that his blood pressure was a healthy 128/75, Buck isn’t buying it. By the time he’s finished the first chapter, there’s three medics shamelessly hovering around him, one even perched on the end of Edmundo’s bed, her chin resting on her hands and a faraway look in her eyes. Buck slams the book shut, chuckling internally as everyone in the room jumps and suddenly bustles back to work. “Well, that’s the first chapter, bud,” he says as he leans over Christopher once again, brushing a hand over the kid’s forehead under the pretence of checking his temperature. “I’ll be back again in a few hours for chapter two, gotta go out and do some perimeter checks before Bobby yells at me. Hen and Chimney will be right here if you wake up, and your dad is sleeping right next to you. I’ll be back, I promise.” He gets up off the chair, tucking the furs back over the arms once again. He thinks about pressing a kiss to Christopher’s forehead but decides against it. Christopher isn’t his son, after all. His friends would have questions. There’s absolutely no excuse, however, for the way he walks over to Edmundo’s bedside, takes his cold hand in his, and rests his forehead against Edmundo’s shoulder, whispering “please, wake up,” into the fabric of his hospital gown. Buck is aware he’s in trouble.

no pressure tagging @theotherbuckley @hippolotamus @watchyourbuck @thewolvesof1998 @neverevan

@babybibuck @fortheloveofbuddie @aroeddiediaz @daffi-990 @jesuisici33

@steadfastsaturnsrings @wikiangela @bibuckbuckgoose @exhuastedpigeon @wildlife4life

@slightlyobsessedwitheverything @evanbegins @rainbow-nerdss @kitteneddiediaz @elvensorceress

@epicbuddieficrecs @smilingbuckley @spagheddiediaz @actuallyitsellie @babytrapperdiaz

@thekristen999 @loveyouanyway @shortsighted-owl @underwaterninja

[catsushinyakajima]

guys Im so scared to upload fanfic what if only two people read it and they both hate it so much that they find my address to physically throw tomatoes at me

[hephanna]

Chapters: 3/? Fandom: Dead Boy Detectives (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Edwin Paine | Edwin Payne/Charles Rowland, Edwin Paine | Edwin Payne & Crystal Palace & Charles Rowland Characters: Charles Rowland, Edwin Paine | Edwin Payne, Crystal Palace (DCU), Niko Sasaki, The Cat King | Thomas, Kingham and Litty | The Dandelion Sprites, Jenny Green (Dead Boy Detectives) Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Slow Burn, Touch-Starved Edwin Paine | Edwin Payne, Touch-Starved Charles Rowland (DCU), Sexual Tension, Explicit Sexual Content, eventually we are working our way up to it Summary:

Charles promised Edwin that nothing, absolutely nothing, had changed between them after Edwin's confession of love, but that was a lie. An unintentional lie, but a lie all the same.

Change was unusual for ghosts. Time changed, but ghosts did not. Ghosts did not age, they did not breathe, they did not die.

Charles, however, had been reborn. He had walked directly into Hell, and back out again, for Edwin.

And that had changed him.

That had changed them.

[livinginsunnyhell]

Half Agony, Half Hope

Dropping to his knees, Buck hesitates, not sure if he can reach for Eddie.

“Can I touch you?” his hands hovers and he gulps.

He nods and Buck’s hands fall to Eddie’s shoulders. It reignites something within Eddie because he untangles his hands from his hair and reaches for Buck.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” Eddie rasps and he sounds like he’s close to tears or trying to will them away. He’s blinking rapidly and his eyes are glassy. They aren’t full of their usual brightness and Buck’s heart aches for him.

“Did something happen?”

Eddie shakes his head. “No, everything was normal when I got home. It’s just – I was so tired, and I got into bed after putting Chris to sleep and – I don’t know, I kept seeing – the woman from today and I kept thinking – and it just – I couldn’t breathe.”

Buck rubs his thumb against Eddie’s shoulder and cards his fingers through Eddie’s soft tendrils to get him to calm down.

“Let’s get into bed,” Buck says the words so easily and the jolt of his heart feels misplaced. Immediately, there’s guilt for taking advantage of Eddie’s panic while Buck can’t contain his stupid crush. He tries to ignore his racing heart as he runs his hands through Eddie’s hair again.

Eddie sniffles and nods. They crawl into bed together and Buck wraps his arms around Eddie, so he’s the big spoon. He wedges his legs between Eddie’s and grabs for his hand, knitting their fingers together. He presses his nose against the back of Eddie’s neck without thinking and immediately pulls back.

"Sorry, is this okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, this is perfect.”

He’s breathing deep and solid, and it lulls Buck to near sleep. He tries to hold back, waiting until Eddie is sleeping before giving in.

“Thank you,” Eddie murmurs.

“You know you can always call me.”

“I know, this – it means a lot.”

“I’m glad you called,” Buck says, and he wishes Eddie was looking at him, so he could see his honesty. “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

“You’re the only one I’d call,” Eddie whispers like it’s his greatest secret and he’s been holding it in far too long.

It’s not a love declaration, but hearing how much Eddie trusts Buck gives him hope that maybe someday it could be. He knows objectively that Eddie trusts him, but no matter how many times he says it, in however many ways, it’s still breathtaking to hear.

And whatever way Eddie means it, Buck takes it and runs with it. Tucking it neatly inside his heart. He doesn’t know if it’s the sweetness in Eddie’s words or the yearning that’s taken over Buck’s heart that makes it feel so large, too large to hold on to.

Eddie’s breathing evens out and he’s sleeping a lot sooner than Buck thought he would. He presses his nose to the back of Eddie’s neck again, breathing in the faint scent of his cologne, of the fire station’s generic soup, of sweat and tears. His lips graze gently against the skin and Eddie shivers. It’s not a kiss, but its chaste, tenderness is infused in every centimeter of it.

It’s in the way he curls around him. It’s in the way he presses his lips to Eddie’s skin. It’s in the way he holds him so carefully. It’s in his mind, taking over every thought. It’s in his stomach, filling up with butterflies. It’s in his heart, spreading through every valve.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

[do-not-careissa]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Jason Todd & Damian Wayne, Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne, Batfamily Members & Damian Wayne Characters: Damian Wayne, Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson Additional Tags: Identity Issues, Damian Wayne-centric, Batfamily Doesn't Know Jason is Red Hood, Jason Todd Has Issues, Good Parent Bruce Wayne, Bruce Wayne Needs a Hug, Damian Wayne Has a Heart, Good Sibling Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Good Sibling Dick Grayson, Protective Dick Grayson, Batfamily is a Mess (DCU), Batfamily (DCU) Feels, Clark Kent Doesn't Know Bruce Wayne is Batman, Bruce Wayne Doesn't Know Clark Kent is Superman, Pre-Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne, Pining Bruce Wayne, Protective Jason Todd, Major Character Injury, Past Character Death, Damian Wayne is a Little Shit, Angst with a Happy Ending, Batfamily Angst (DCU), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Additional characters not tagged - Freeform, Angst and Humor, M/M tag for Conversations and Bruce's Pining Summary:

If there was anything in his life that Damian was confident of, it was this.

“Father, the Red Hood is Jason Todd.”

He saw his father tense, subtle enough that most would not notice. But Damian was not of the majority, he’d lived with the man long enough to notice his tells. The way his shoulders pulled back by mere millimeters, the slight scrunching of his eyebrows, how his eyes moved from tired to alert to disbelief to bone deep sadness in less than a second. Damian would be a disappointment of a student, let alone a son, if he failed to notice them.

It's also how he knew his father didn’t believe him.

[the-raven-lady]

(Not) The Savior You Long For [Part 2]

[Masterlist] [My Ko-Fi]

Pairing: Night Lord (OC: Elias Rushorik) x serf!Reader [fem]

Song Inspiration: Jaws - Sleep Token [YouTube] [Spotify] “And I’m not here to be / the savior you long for / Only the one you don’t. / Are you watching me / with eyes of a predator / As you move towards the door?”

Warnings: Violence, cannibalism, explicit and detailed blood and gore, Night Lord things, ownership over reader, accidental voyuerism (sound only), trypanophobia (medical syringe)

Word Count: 3.7k

Author’s Note: 1.6k words of this are just an introduction that I wrote before I even got into the meat of it, completely by accident, because I do not know how to write without adding 30 layers of context and background (4D chess ass writing). Special thank you to @cannibalise for giving me delectable ideas and reading over some of the more graphic parts to help me set the tone!!!

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]

Tag List: @egrets-not-regrets @sleepyfan-blog @kit-williams @bleedingichorhearts @bispecsual

@lemon-russ @moodymisty @dedios-of-the-word @pickpocketing-your-gender @historitor-bookshelf

Even weeks later, you struggle to shake the psychological mark the terminator’s gaze left on you. You make yourself busy sweeping one of the main halls, pushing your broom robotically up and down the grand passageway. The other legion serfs around you serve a similar purpose: readying the ship for the return of your Primarch and his elite troops. The Nightfall had been in orbit of this planet for naught but a week, dealing with a cultish tech-society and its oppressive government, yet the Night Lords managed to convince them to join the Imperium in record time. 

Convince is a strong word. You’re intimately aware that the discussion was had in the language of acts of violence and burned cities. Having once been on the receiving end of the Eighth’s hedonistic wrath, the thought sends an unpleasant chill through you, memories of mutilation and dismemberment still so clear in your mind. It had taken months for you to stop having panic attacks at the metallic tang of fresh blood. The whirr of a heavy flamer still got to you.

On one of your passes, you sweep by the alley leading to the armory and stop, staring down the dark hall. The serf no longer hangs from the torch bracket, and the astartes that attacked you no longer sits limply against the wall. His armor had been picked at and ‘recycled’ back into the legion. You have no idea what became of either body.

Another memory involuntarily takes you back to the night you had been so narrowly saved by the terminator.

—No, you could not call him your savior. He had just wanted his armor shined, and there was something in his way so he removed it. Night Lords are selfish, self-interested and sadistic, and he was no different.

You rested the massive helmet in your lap as you worked, scraping at filth that had built up for who knows how long. It amazed you that the astartes it belonged to could even see through the lenses given how much dried blood was crusted on them. It came off in flakes before dissolving into the moisture of the wash rag. You could have called the stained fabric spotless when you started compared to how soiled with grime it was now; at a glance, no one would be able to tell that it was white before.

The terminator’s eyes watched you like final judgement. The weight of his gaze instilled an unease in your heart, stabbing at every opportunity it could: each time you looked up at him, each time you lost focus, each time you caught a glimpse of the mangled Night Lord on the floor. It all hammered at a primal spike of dread that threatened to overwhelm you, consume you entirely, reminding you that you were only alive because you were useful. The tension was just as strong as when you had been pinned to the wall or huddled on the floor.

Your washcloth eventually reached a point where it was only smearing the grime rather than removing it, and you looked up to your silent master. The power of his presence alone made you hesitant to speak, and you found your throat suddenly parched. When you eventually recovered your voice, it left you as a croak, “I-I need to grab my water pail from the other room.”

He simply continued to stare at you, unmoving. As still as the gargoyles adorning the hall. You thought for a second that maybe he hadn’t heard you, and you opened your mouth to try again.

”I need to—“

”Then do it.”

You flinched. A rolling storm, his simple response left no room for questioning. Carefully placing his helmet onto the bench, you scuttled off to retrieve the bucket from the other room. His gaze burnt holes into your back.

The water in your bucket was a rusty brown slop when you returned to it. All of the heavier contaminants had settled to the bottom in a coagulated mass while you were away, gelatinous flesh and tangled hair weaving throughout. You lifted the heavy pail, careful not to spill any of the vile concoction onto yourself. Passing by, you noted that the other serf’s water was substantially less dingy than your own, and you didn’t think twice to grab it instead. It’s not as if it was of any use to her now.

The squelch of meat being torn and defiled echoed suddenly through the otherwise silent armory, instinctually gluing you to your spot on the floor. Cracks and crunches of something solid breaking bounced around you. The abrasive sounds left your heart fluttering and nerves electric, and a panicked tension flowed through your limbs as fight or flight tried its damndest to take over. 

‘It would be safer to hide, hide, retreat to safety,’ it erroneously cried, weighing you down like lead. A comforting lie. 

One you refused to give in to. 

‘There is no safety here,’ you retorted, ‘Only certain death.’ A wolf’s den, and you were the doting lamb. The fear of facing punishment for taking too long far outweighed the hesitation to continue, and you willed yourself to step forward through the icy shackles binding you. 

The sight of the terminator tearing flesh from the body of his former brother froze you as you rounded the corner with your pail. His eyes were glazed in manic pleasure as he ripped off another juicy chunk, sharp teeth effortlessly dissecting muscle fibers from the cooling corpse. Bestial snarling and slurping accompanied every chomp, and growls at a pitch nearly too deep to hear rattled through your bones like a saw. With each gnash of his powerful jaws, blood and spit shot out of the torn hole in his mouth, drooling down his armor in crimson dribbles.

Time itself seemed to stop when his predatory gaze found you. His dilated pupils completely swallowed the outer corners of white— could you even consider them dilated when they took up so much of his eyes already?— and pinned you in place. The ravenous beast swallowed his kill in a silent threat. 

You were about to make a run for it when he lowered the defiled corpse and snarled at you, foreign viscera spewing from his scar.

”Finish.”

You had done exactly as you were told while the terminator continued to make a mess of himself. Once you’d finished his helmet, he made you clean off the rest of his armor as a token of a job well done. 

A strong dissonance contrasted the perfectly shined ceramite and rags of human hide adorning his war gear. You didn’t understand at first why the Night Lords would go through such lengths to clean their armor, only to decorate it with the disgusting tokens of their kills and bathe it in blood again, but over time you began to recognize the mentality. The layers of blood were a byproduct of their work— terrifying in their own right, yes, however ultimately just ‘part of the job’—, but each placement of flesh and bone was deliberate; they chose to wear them. It added terror to their already gruesome countenance.

You figure you must have done well polishing his armor, because the terminator had left you alive in the end. As expected, he gave you no feedback. No thanks or gratitude shown before he simply walked off. For the second time that day, you were left in the armory with a huge mess to clean entirely on your own.

Shaking your head, you return to the present and continue sweeping, pushing the pile of dust around to keep yourself busy. 

Sharp clanks of heavy boots cut through the relative peace. You look down the hall to see other serfs parting ways and scurrying off to make way for a coming company of giants. Their armor dwarfed that of the regular Night Lords, tanks of metal and firepower that razed battlefields in their wake.

The Contekar Elite.

You knew of them from hushed whispers passed between serfs in the chow hall. Units of butchers that sowed despair in the hearts of their foes. Ruthless in how they constantly checked one another, the Contekar took advantage of any perceived weakness to prove their dominance over the rest of the legion. They were notorious for simply killing any commanders they disagreed with, and only the likes of First Captain Sevatarion or the Lord Night Haunter himself could tame them. 

Each colossus carried weapons as long and large as your entire body as they approached: chainblades, flamers, and cavitators, all ready to be used at a moment's notice. You hurried to get out of their way, tucking yourself behind a hallway corner. The monoliths of steel shook the ground with each step, a deafening thunder echoing down the main hall that signaled their arrival. There was no chorus or fanfare amongst them to be found; each marine was as silent as death itself.

They ignored you as they passed by. The Contekar couldn’t care less for the meddlings of a common legion serf, too busy with themselves to notice you, and it brought you shallow comfort.

At least, it would have. 

Preoccupied with watching the marines at your front passing by, you didn’t realize that one of them was headed straight towards you until his footfalls physically rattled the ground beneath you. You whip your head towards him and nearly jump out of your skin, clutching to the corner of the wall as he stares down at you. 

His entire body is marred with blood. Even from where you cower, you can see that he must be at least three meters tall in his armor, if not more. The digits of his power claw have pieces of mangled flesh still caught between their hydraulic pistons, forming webs between them. A mummified head dangles at eye level from a meat hook, and it crosses your mind that it could have been yours. 

You recognize his tusked helmet immediately.

The Contekar studies you. He is a perfect statue: unmoving and silent aside from the faint whirring emanating from the power pack on his back. Behind the scarlet lenses, his eyes scrutinize you down to your very last atom. A lion picking apart its prey.

“Come,” he orders, his gruff voice offering no further explanation. He takes a step away from you with the intent to continue further down the passage, and you suddenly find your limbs leaden and weak, unable to follow. Sensing your trepidation, his head turns back towards you, eyes locking on yours. The faded skull decal isn’t as cute when you’re at the receiving end of its ire.

Pain shoots up your left arm as you’re yanked off of the wall and lifted without another word. The cold metal of the Escaton power claw digs into your bones uncomfortably, sharpened claws at each fingertip poking into your flesh. The terminator grasps you by your forearm and drags you beside him until you can find your footing and walk on your own, stumbling into a jog to keep up. When you retrieve your arm, partially dried pieces of viscera stick to it from where you were grabbed. You brush them off hastily with a grimace; at least the power claw didn’t break skin.

You hug closely to the terminator’s leg as you walk with the group, not wanting to get trampled. The other serfs mostly keep their heads down as you pass them by, but a few give you a sympathetic look. The rest of the Contekar continue to ignore you.

The suites housing the Elite are grander than any part of the ship you have been in thus far. Compared to the regular Night Lord’s dorms, the metal halls leading to their private quarters are pristine. The usual decor of skulls and tanned skins is present, but there is no buildup of filth and grime along the floors and walls. The scent of fresh air is jarring. Most surprising to you is that each of the marines has their own private rooms, which you learn when you are unceremoniously shoved into one. 

The tusked terminator’s room is shockingly comfortable, for a Night Lord. A thin light strip, the same brightness of a full moon on your former world, serves as the only illumination of the dark room. Along the walls are various trophies that you assume are from his time in the field, both of his kills and plunders. A large work table and chair take up the whole of the wall to your right. Instead of a regular astartes-sized cot, there is an actual bed with pillows and a wide plush mattress. In the back corner of the room is a closed door, which you assume leads to a washroom.

Whoever your new charge was, he lives well.

A click catches your attention, and you turn to your left to see him removing the heavy pauldrons of his armor. He places each of them on the sturdy table, then turns his attention to his power claw, his gauntlets, his vambraces— steadily pulling them off one plate at a time. After removing his helmet, shakes out his greasy black hair and turns to look at you with a furrow in his brow. 

You remember your place and jump into action, aiding the marine in removing his sabatons. The plates of ceramite are much too heavy for you to lift on your own, but it’s easier for your smaller hands to get into the creases to release locks and latches. The two of you enter a wordless synergy, pulling off the heavy terminator armor piece by piece and placing each on a designated mantle. You’re extra careful not to get caught on the hooks of his armor. The desiccated head serves as a good reminder.

Even reduced to just his body glove, the astartes is colossal. His height easily dwarfs the majority of his brothers. You have to crane your neck upwards to look at his face, barely coming up to chest level on him. This close, you can see the sprinkling of grey hair within his sideburns and the lines of his face that indicate some arbitrary older age. You never did know how to tell the ages of astartes.

He uses his newfound freedom to stretch his limbs. Each is as broad as a tree trunk, and you figure they’re likely just as immovable. When he catches you staring and waiting, he simply returns the look, quietly raising an eyebrow.

“Would you like your armor shined, my lord?” you try, gesturing vaguely to the table and mantle. His eyes track the movement, looking over his war gear in silence before he gives you a curt nod. He points to a drawer beside his bed, then without further clarification turns his attention to removing his body glove. 

Within the drawer you discover a stack of folded shop towels. Why they’re there is a mystery to you. Judging by the size of the terminator armor, you decide three is enough for now, grabbing them and sliding the drawer shut. You look up to ask if the Contekar has any armor oil around, only to see him half-naked walking through the door in the corner. It swings shut behind him, leaving you once again to solve your problems on your own.

You wonder what force in this universe blessed you with such a communicative master.

It took him three entire days to tell you, “you live here,” instead of simply denying you the ability to leave and making you sleep on the floor. You swore he was going to turn your rib cage into a new trophy when you eventually did get out, trying to navigate your way back to the serfs’ dormitory for much needed food. He had hunted down like a rabbit, snatched you up from behind, and thrown you back into his quarters with a growl to, “stay put.” What the terminator lacked in words, he greatly made up for with his intimidating presence.

He did get you food, though, and an abundance of it. You hadn't seen so much variety since you were still living on your home planet. Delicacies like meat were rare to you, and you eagerly scarfed everything down. In your hunger, you did not ask where the meat came from.

It’s not as if he would have told you anyway, given how scantily he spoke. You haven’t even gotten his name out of him yet.

The only times you were permitted to leave the suite were when you could accompany him. Trips to the armory gave you vital chances to hoard cleaning supplies, having gotten accustomed to the lesser atmosphere of decay around the Elites’ quarters. On top of the standard armor oils, you managed to snag an expensive looking jar of polish, which you hoped would gain you some favor. Your master doesn’t particularly show you signs of care, but he also hasn’t killed you yet, and that has to be worth something.

On your way back to his quarters, a discordant howling rings out from one of the rooms adjacent to his. You flinch at the sound, assuming the worst: that somebody nearby was in the midst of being tortured and flayed alive, and that you would have to hear their slow untimely demise throughout the night. It wouldn’t be the first time you had to fall asleep to the sounds of screams and cries. The Contekar, however, scoffs. His nose scrunches up in annoyance, teeth bared in a disgusted snarl. 

“Don’t understand the appeal,” he grunts, shaking his head and continuing forward. 

Glancing over in confusion, you start to pay more attention to the sound. The rhythmic pattern of each holler and whine. The sound of skin on skin. The quiet pleas of, “more, please, more!” 

Your eyes widen when you put two and two together, ducking your head down to hide the blush steadily rising on your cheeks. That was not the type of torture you were expecting to hear. You pick up the pace and hope the terminator doesn’t recognize your sudden newfound urgency.

He allows you to store your armory stash in his bedside drawer alongside the rags. It nearly knocks you over when he throws an arm out to keep you from closing it, sending you staggering back with a huff. He removes one of the towels, then abruptly drops it over the top of your head. You don’t even get the chance to remove it before you’re being pushed in a direction, blindly stumbling along. A transition strip between some passageway causes you to trip and fall to the floor. Pulling the towel off of your head, your vision clears to the sight of the bathroom. 

You shoot the terminator a bewildered look before he lifts you by the back of your shirt and throws you underneath a showerhead, giving you no warning before turning it on. The cold jet hits you like a hose spray, causing you to yipe at the sudden temperature shock. Freezing water saturates your clothes. 

He breathily laughs at your agonized shiver.

Despite the rude beginning, you return from the washroom refreshed, feeling for the first time like your skin isn’t permanently encrusted with the gunk lining nearly every surface of the ship. It had been weeks since you could last bathe in any capacity. The water did warm up eventually– not warm, but not frigid– and allow you to scrub the filth off.

When you exited the shower, your master was nowhere to be seen, and there was a new uniform on the oversized counter. It wasn’t difficult to tell that it was intended for you, given the vast size difference between you and the Elite. The navy blue outfit bears an embroidery of the Eighth’s winged skull over each shoulder and lines of Nostraman text that you are unable to translate. You’re just happy the new garbs aren’t tattered and fraying like the last, which you gleefully toss. They land in the bucket with a wet squish.

As you approach the door to the main room of the quarters, you’re alerted to the sound of quiet conversation, not expecting there to be anyone but the terminator about. The tonal register is too low and quiet for you to make out any spoken words. 

You enter the space in time to watch your master sit at the table and place his arm out flat upon it. An apothecary stands beside him unpackaging a syringe. He stabilizes the terminator’s arm in the crux of his shoulder, turning his palm upwards and pressing the bevel of the needle into a prominent vein running distally from the elbow. Crimson liquid slowly fills the barrel as he pulls the plunger back.

The apothecary’s cart bears instruments uncharacteristic of typical medicae. Replacing scalpels and suturing utensils are various packaged needles and pigment bottles. A large battery pack wires into a small rectangular box, the screen and dials illegible to you from your current distance, with a strange metal stylus connected to it. Sitting atop a stack of disposable napkins is a tall wash bottle containing a clear substance. The apothecary flicks the syringe until the bubbles have all risen to the top, slowly venting the air until only blood remains, and he carefully ejects a drop into each of the waiting ink cups.

Your gaze falls back on the Contekar in time to see him rising from his chair and walking towards you. You cower back on instinct, anxiety creeping up from your chest. 

He wipes a stray drop of blood from his arm with a thumb, and when you move to question what’s going on, he jams the digit into your mouth. The coppery taste spreads over your tongue as you gag from the intrusion, unable to pull away due to the unyielding grip he has on your jaw. He jerks your head upwards, forcing you to look at him, and the abyss of his black eyes swallows you whole.

“Strip.”

Not everyone saw the art the first time around, so here's your Mans

[Part 3]