#Blood and Injury

[drunkenmantis]

Shot through the heart And you're to blame Darlin', you give love a bad name (3/?)

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[tangledinink]

plz someone tell me they've noticed what i've been doing with the gemini badge on the front of leo's cape the past few updates

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[katyakurae]

Falling (I'll catch you)

Part 1 of this perhaps? Idk

[djpachipikachu]

got emotional about work song and how its related to graves . sorry . the visions are crazy .

⚠️blood and injury warning under the cut⚠️

hes not dead btw . he . is alive . its okay . hes going thru it but he lives

second part here

[musedeluce]

Protection Detail

Rafayel x Reader – (He didn’t actually hire you to protect him as a bodyguard, but you don’t know that, and of course you take your job seriously.)

Tags/Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Slight Angst, Slight Violence, Hospitalization, Blood and Injury.

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It was dusk, and the heady, but ultimately pleasant scent of different perfumes swirled through the air as people moved throughout the exhibit. Floral,citrus, earthy, fresh, there was such a variety of scents. Inhaling, you did your best to identify the specific notes. It was something you did for fun, and also to hone your senses, as keen senses could save your life, and others one day. An ornate chandelier twinkled, illuminating the grand exhibition hall. People dressed in beautiful, high quality clothes milled about, moving from painting to painting. From your vantage point on a balcony overlooking the exhibit, everything seemed to be going quite well. As Rafayel’s hired bodyguard, you were never that far from him, but you took care to be as unobtrusive as possible. Right now, you had just finished a security check and were on your way to relieve the security guard you had asked to watch him while you were gone, for 10 minutes at most.

“Thank you.” Taking your post, you make sure you can see Rafayel clearly and keep an eye on the environment around him. As if he knew you were looking at him, he turned his head, his vibrant, swirling indigo eyes meeting yours for a moment, as it to make sure you were still there, before he turned away to speak with a guest.

“No problem. Nothing really happened while you were gone. Mainly, Thomas has been introducing people to him to briefly talk and then whisking them away again while he stands there looking austere.” That’s so like him, you think, amused at him purposely being the minimum amount of sociable he could be. You were lucky in this regard, as you didn’t have to socialize with anyone at all. The security guard walked off and you remained, alert to any trouble. Slowly, Rafayel circled throughout the room with you following discreetly, and he would sometimes glance back at you before he moved. For a few hours, that’s how the exhibition continued. Everything was calm, people mingled, delicious food and drink was consumed, and honestly it was a great time.

While surveying the grand hall, something slightly out of place caught your eye. A lone figure stood gazing up that the pinnacle of the exhibit, close enough to touch the masterpiece painting.. too close. His posture was stiff, his back ramrod straight and his hands, his hand were clenched at his sides. You couldn’t here anything from where you were but the man seemed to be talking to himself, mouthing words, probably bitter, ugly words if his body language was any indication. It reminded you of someone you had met before. Abruptly, the man whipped around and stalked through the crowd...straight towards Rafayel. Naturally, you started moving towards Rafayel as well, maneuvering to intercept the man before he reached the artist.

Physically dealing with a person is always supposed to be the last resort, with de-escalation being the main goal of any bodyguard. The response should always be proportionate, and the goal should always be the protection of your mark. Security people do not exist to punch people out, they’re only supposed to do that if that’s the only option. Hence, why you positioned yourself in between the man and your employer, who also happened to be someone you considered dear.

“Why should he get all the attention? Just him? My work is just as good, but I’m paid dust!” His voice was tinged with a sickly green, the tone bitter and rotten. “All his work is boring and generic. Inspiring? Unique? Don’t make me laugh. “ His noxious laughter seemed to echo throughout the hall, the sour smell of alcohol on his breath shed more light on the situation.

“Sir, are you feeling alright?” You kept your voice neutral, changing your expression to one of concern despite your annoyance. It was a better approach to ask this question and questions like it instead of immediately asking them to leave, or what they were doing as that was much more confrontational. It had the added benefit of often confusing them, and actually making them consider their actions. Unfortunately, this time it failed.

“I’ll feel perfectly fine when you get out of my way.” The man tries to get all up in your face, but you remain unruffled.

“Sir. I can’t do that, but I might be able to help you in some other way. Do you want a glass of water?” He sneers, and spews spit in your direction as he snarls at you.

“Bitch, get the fuck out of my way. I don’t need a fucking glass of water.” He attempts to push you aside. Annoyed, but not surprised, you effortlessly grab him and flip him around, locking his arms behind his back and start to escort him in the direction of the exit. Hearing some soft footsteps approaching, you knew Rafayel had seen what was going on. Hopefully you could get him out before Rafayel made it to you.

“Okay, sir. I’m going to have to escort you out for getting physical.”

“How dare you put your hands on me!” The idiot was starting to make a scene, but it’s not like you cared. You were doing your job, and he was making himself look bad, a scene wouldn’t affect you. “Rafayel is the one who deserves to be humiliated! He’s got you all eating out of the palm of his hand because of some pathetic art that has no soul!” Other security guards approached, and you made the decision to hand him off to them so you could get back to Rafayel, and so that this person wasn’t with you when Rafayel got close, he was about 2/3rds of the way to you. After the initial outburst, people, seeing it was just someone being drunk and poorly behaved, returned to what they were doing as soon as they saw it was being handled.

“Escort him out, please. And call him a cab or something, he’s drunk, on both jealousy and alcohol.” You push him into the custody of the same man you had asked to watch Rafayel for a while. Turning on your heel, you stride in Rafayel’s direction and meet up with him quickly.

“What’s up?” He asks, tone casual and almost playful, but not quite.

“Just some drunk idiot.” You shrug, and fill Rafayel on what happened, leaving out the specific insults upon his art.

“HEY!” The sharp yell behind you was followed by the footsteps of someone directly sprinting towards Rafayel, and you. Instinctually, you whip around, pushing Rafayel behind you. Icy pain exploded through your head, which had snapped back with the impact of the man’s punch. Itaking the punch was something you knew you were capable of, and since he had now punched you, you could now take more actions. Also, there was no way in Hell you were gonna let some drunken, pathetic sod even touch Rafayel, let alone punch him. The sod in question could now also be booked for assault. All of these were reasons you took the punch, and also because the man had acted quite quickly, and you spent any extra time you had to react to him getting Rafayel out of the way, so you also took the punch because it was one of the only actions you could take at the time.

Unimpressed, you look back at the man, who was apparently sobering up as realization of what he had done dawned in his eyes. You punched him in the stomach as hard as you could, for the purposes of subduing him and possibly, a little bit, for your own satisfaction. Writhing on the ground, event security surrounded him and finally he was kicked out.

“What a mess.” Muttering to yourself, you turn to Rafayel, making sure he was alright. “My apologies, Boss.” You gently touch your nose, your hand coming away with crimson blood on the tips of your fingers. It wasn’t broken but that wasn’t the only thing you had to worry about, whenever you took a blow to the head it was always possible to get a concussion, and bleeding from your nose wasn’t a great sign, especially since you hadn’t actually been punched directly in the nose. “Are you okay?” You eye him, examining his body up and down. “You seem to be, but I’d like your verbal confirmation.” Rafayel grabs your bloodied hand, making a show of examining it, and your face, closely.

“Your devotion is astounding.” His tone is playful, teasing. “I should reward you with a trip to the hospital, the most magical location in the world.” Gasping, you play along, a smile twitching at the corners of your lips.

“The hospital? I’ve always wanted to go there, what a great reward!” The two of you make your way to one of the exits, walking side by side which is unusual as you were either in front of him or behind him depending on the situation. Everyone lets you go, even Thomas.

“Your chariot awaits.” Rafayel opens the passenger door for you, deciding that he would be the one to drive - quite honestly, a good thing because you felt a headache developing, and you couldn’t tell if it was a concussion headache, or just one from being punched.

“Your powers of perception are most impressive! What tipped you off about that pathetic knave?” Rafayel continued his teasing, which you were grateful for. It would serve a dual purpose of keeping you engaged, important if you had a concussion, and honestly just making you feel better.

“Alas, it’s nothing so impressive as you may think. The knave reminded me of someone creepy I had met before.”

“Oh?” Rafayel arches an eyebrow. “Do enlighten me, noble knight.”

“Hush.” You giggle, and then become more serious. “Remember how our second meeting was because I needed to investigate one of your paintings? The man tonight reminded me of Raymond, the collector who bought your painting. They both had the same...creepy and obsessive vibes. I honestly suspect that what happened to Raymond was orchestrated somehow, and that he brought it upon himself. This man today, also brought what happened upon himself.”

“Interesting!” Rafayel’s playful voice adapted a silken tone.”You don’t talk a lot about your other job! I feel left out, and this topic is much less boring than some jealous drunk. Who do you think orchestrated what happened to Raymond?”

“Well, the most likely suspect is you, as the artist. You have the most control over the painting itself.” Equally as playful as he was, you continue to speak. “But, who cares? I trust your judgment, given what I know of you, though I suspect I don’t know that much. I also trust my own judgment, and there was something seriously off about Raymond. Hence why when this guy reminded me of him, I was on alert.”

“How flattering! To think, the best hunter in Linkon trusts my judgment as much as their own.” A genuine, soft smile graces Rafayel’s pretty face. A minute later, you’re at Akso hospital, making your way to the emergency room. Luckily for you, it wasn’t very busy and the wait was short. Unluckily, you were admitted overnight for observation, because even though you seemed to be fine, they wanted to know for sure, and there was the extra factor of your protocore syndrome to consider.

“Honestly Rafayel, it’s okay if you leave.” He had been allowed to go with you once you told them you wanted to see him, so you could inform him of what was going on. “I’ve spent a lot of nights in this hospital alone. I just wanted to make sure you knew what was up.”

“What? And leave you alone after you so valiantly protected me? Not a chance.” Rafayel takes a seat on the hospital cot he had set up. “Besides, we apparently need to discuss your rather worrying tendency for self-sacrifice. I’m a bit mad, you know.”

“Mad? Why would you be mad when I was protecting you, a job you explicitly hired me to do?” He gasped in mock outrage.

“You only protected me because I pay you? In that case -” His tone softens. “If I stop paying you will you stop trying to protect me?”

“Rude! I didn’t just protect you because you pay me, I genuinely wanted to protect you. I don’t want you to get hurt, especially not if there’s anything I can do about it.” You were earnest, and frankly Rafayel was scared to hear it, but so impossibly happy. “So, I guess the answer to that question is no.” Your laugh was invigorating.

“Humans are all so selfish. Always acting how they want with no regard for anyone else.” The cot creaked as he leaned backwards, the fresh, energetic smell of his cologne wafting through the air, and his voice was quiet, enough so that you suspect he was talking to himself. You responded anyway.

“That’s not true. Humans are too varied to make blanket statements like that and “Humans are inherently evil and horrible.” Rafayel hums in response, studying you, the pause in the conversation growing heavy.

“I’ve decided. No protecting me if it hurts you.” He gets up off the cot, and spreads his arms, wordlessly asking for a hug. You open your arms in response, and he envelops you in a soft, strong and comfortable hug. “Your life is precious and important. I’d much rather experience life with you, not be a reason you got hurt.”

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A/N: He's my favorite!! I think a lot of people do not actually understand his character, and portray him as simple, immature, clingy, and whiny. He's playful and fun, yes but also quite patient and calculating, among other things. His character is quite complex and he's very, very smart. For instance, during the car ride he's trying to get more information, not just flirt with the MC. XD I have THOUGHTS

[whispers-whump]

bruised knuckles

burst blood vessel in their eye

split lip

nosebleed

a bracelet of bruises around their wrist

black eye

cracked teeth

blood dripping off their chin

faded scars on the back of their hand

[lippyispunk]

When the World Is Quiet, What Thoughts Remain

Astarion x gn!Reader

Summary: Gods, he remembers this feeling intimately.

Dying.

-

A near-death experience provides Astarion some clarity.

Word Count: 3.7k

fluff, realized feelings, developing relationship

a/n: Hello all!

I wrote this to take place in Act 2, after the Yurgir battle but before Astarion's confession. I believe it is gender neutral, but if anyone finds something that says otherwise, please let me know! First time posting on here, so I apologize for any formatting errors.

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Gods, he remembers this feeling intimately. 

Dying.

Despite the centuries that had passed since his mortality had been lost to this plane, the experience was seared into his mind. Back then, it had been horrific. The excruciating pain. The paralyzing fear of what was to come, as his body was drained of blood and his heart thumped erratically in his chest, desperately trying to keep his blood flowing- his body alive.

 

This time, the pain is ever present. He lies on his back in the mud and puddles, the yawning storm above continuing to release torrents of rain. His ruby eyes blink slowly, despite the droplets landing in them. Twin daggers have been abandoned at his sides, pale elegant hands having to hold his innards together instead. His white lounge shirt clings to his trembling frame, now dyed rusty brown and crimson red. 

 

The fear, however, is blessedly absent. His thoughts trudge through his mind like oozing honey. It’s almost peaceful. Cazador. The parasite. His never ending hunger. All seemed so far away now; the normally constant concerns looming at the forefront of his thoughts, now caught in the sticky trap of insignificance. 

He had been hungry earlier. Always so hungry. The small respite he received immediately after feeding never lasted as long as he wished it would. His condition had been even more bothersome as of late. Ever since he and the little group of misfits he traveled with had entered the Shadowlands. Prey was sparse. And any blood he lost during battle needed to be replaced somehow. That was how he found himself here tonight.

 

He had hunted further from the group’s campsite than he normally would, in search of the few living creatures that had not yet been felled by this accursed land. He had been ambushed by shadow beings, caught unaware due to his weakened, dulled senses. Their claws had cut through him so easily. His lack of armor was another mistake, but a decision made in hopes to be quick and quiet enough to catch a meal.

 

His head slowly lolled to the side, eyes attempting to focus in the direction of the camp. The monsters that attacked him had begun to slither that way before vanishing into hazy mist. His breath wheezes from his lungs, chest shuddering. Breathing wasn’t a necessity for him, but a habit nonetheless. Even now.

 

He wonders, idly, if any of his companions will be awake at this hour to intercept the attack. His muddled mind cannot bring forth who was supposed to be on watch tonight. He even admits to himself, perhaps his blood loss getting to his head, that he would not wish to see them come to harm. Karlach, Wyll, Shadowheart…

 

His drifting thoughts were brought to sudden clarity. A breathtaking, wondrous, kind creature unexpectedly ensnaring his thoughts.

You.

 

Gods, how could it have taken this long for you to flit back into his mind? You were all he seemed to think about anymore lately. Your smile, your laugh, your boundless good heart. But also the confusion he felt that always seemed to twist whatever lovely feeling you inspired in him.

 

He may not wish to see the others harmed, but you… you’re different. The way he feels for you is- different. He cares for you. In a way that he cannot recall ever feeling for someone else. You understand him in ways that he doesn’t understand himself. It’s terrifying. Exhilarating. The most alive he’s felt in, well, ever. 

 

But it wasn't supposed to end up this way. He’s comfortable pretending. Seducing. It’s as familiar as the back of his hand. And the facade had worked with you too, for a brief time. Until that second time he propositioned you at the tiefling party. What had you called his seductions? ‘Honeyed words’? And then the complete dismissal of his fraudulent love confession. He had recovered well in the moment; he’s used to pivoting his tactics when the occasional target gets antsy with his persuasions. Even still, you had rejected him that night. You let him down easy, of course, with a compassionate smile and a sweet whisper of ‘perhaps another time'. 

 

Later that night, when he was alone once more, he contemplated. You were on to him, in one way or another. Maybe you didn’t know the extent of his ploy, but you could tell his flirtations were… insincere. Why else would you turn down another night with him? 

 

He had expected repercussions, a growing distance between the two of you that would put all his progress with you to ruin. You didn’t seem the type to settle for this feigned romance. You'd push him away.

But you hadn’t. You were just as warm and welcoming to him as you had always been. Attentive. Friendly. Hells, even laughing at his irrelevant, snarky quips. He was surprised. And in that surprise, he found himself off guard. You still wanted to spend time with him, despite everything. Maybe… maybe he didn't have to try so hard with you. 

 

Since that revelation, Astarion had found himself just enjoying existing . He had fun around you, and the others too, he'd be loath to admit. Now that the metaphorical weight of seducing you had been lifted. But inevitably, at night when he was alone, the pesky question returned, cycle after cycle. If not his body, what did you want from him?

 

More recently, there had been the battle with the Orthon, Yurgir. Astarion was still befuddled, even now. No one in his extensive time on this plane had ever gone to such lengths for him. When Raphael had offered the deal: one very dead devil in exchange for information on his scarred flesh, there had been no question, no doubt from you. Just resolve and an all encompassing respect for Astarion and his decision making. It made his chest ache. 

 

He's not entirely sure what to call the emotion he feels for you. It goes beyond simple lust for your form or an appreciation of your personality. And Gods knows he's scared to Avernus and back of what this all might mean. But he's not scared of you. Never of you. He realizes that whatever comes, he wants to explore this. With you, if you'll have him.

 

Returning to the present from his recollections, one conviction finally banishes the wandering thoughts in his mind. You deserve better than this. These pretty lies he had been trying to feed you. This mask that he had used for so many years, so many decades. You had given him some of the most important parts of yourself. Your trust, your belief in him, your patience.  It was time he did the same.

 

Ruby irises shift skyward once more, a newfound purpose and vitality clear in his pupils. He has to get back to you. To explain. To apologize. Hells, to bathe in the warmth of your presence just once more would make this endeavor worthwhile.

 

He steels himself before his body begins to twist, rolling to his stomach ever so slowly. An agonized cry peels itself from his throat, unbidden. The fresh wave of pain that crashes over his stomach ripples through the rest of his body, leaving him shaking in its wake. He keeps one hand underneath him, continuing to hold as much pressure on his gaping wounds as he can. The other arm is bent in front of him, poised for what he must do.

 

He begins to crawl.

 

He grunts with the effort, free hand scrabbling in the mud for purchase as he drives his legs into the ground to push his form forward. This is far from the worst thing he has ever endured. But Gods, hasn’t he endured enough in this lifetime?

 

Tears spring to his eyes as he continues his plight. His beautiful white curls are drenched, flattened to his head and dropping into his field of view. His anguished gaze is so unfocused that it doesn’t matter. He’s moving on instinct now, forcing his limbs to respond by sheer force of will alone. The will to live.

 

Somewhere distantly his mind registers that his voice has become an endless stream of moans and broken sobs. Blood continues to slip stickily between the fingers clutching at his stomach. He doesn’t care. He will do anything to make it back to you. He has to. He owes it to you. Hells, he owes it to himself.

 

Time moves in slow motion; he loses all sense of it. He knows not how long he’s been dragging his body forward, just that finally, finally , he reaches salvation.

“Astarion!”

 

He hears you as if he’s underwater, but he would know your voice anywhere. His mind is fuzzy, consciousness fading from his being quickly. He stops crawling and lifts his blood-red gaze. You’re here. His breath hitches in his chest, a new sob rending itself from within. Though this one was not brought out from pain, but rather relief. He's never seen a more welcome sight.  

 

You’ve come for him, battleworn and bloody. Your feet pound the sodden land, racing toward him as you pay no heed to the slick mud. You drop to your knees in front of him, hair plastered to your cheeks and eyes wild with adrenaline and some other emotion he is unable to wrap his disoriented mind around. His eyes trace your face with his last remaining strand of focus.

Astarion had long given up on praying to any deity. What was the point? They never answered him anyway. But you- you are divine. The sight of you here, now, almost has him reconsidering his stance. 

 

“Gods, Astarion! Just hold on, okay? Please!”

 

Your hands flutter in his vicinity for a moment, unsure of where to touch without causing more harm. He watches you, the barest hint of his lip tilting up at the corner.

 

“I don’t think you can make it much worse, darling,” he breathes, tone sounding brittle in his own ears. “Just do it.”

 

He sees you wince before you brace yourself. Ever the leader, doing what must be done. Your hands rest on him gently, but firm. Warm. Comforting, despite the circumstances. He wants those beautiful, lively hands to touch him again after all this. He wants to savor it. To feel them carding through his curls. To rest gently on his arm to catch his attention. To pull him in close, a secret for him alone dancing on your lips. He wants to- he doesn’t know what exactly he wants. He just knows-

 

He cries out sharply when you turn him onto his back, the pain rocketing his thoughts out of his musings.

 

“I’m sorry,” you grimace, eyes scanning over his torso, cataloging the damage. 

 

Carmine eyes are glazed with agony, but he fights to stay conscious. He grunts when you move him again, swiftly tucking your legs underneath you. His head lays in your lap, face tilted skyward and ivory neck lengthened by the newly created slope of your legs. A healing potion appears at his lips, your hand holding firm as you tip it towards him.

 

Normally he’d have some smart comment, he’s sure. Something about being a damsel in distress, perhaps. Or maybe something about how this isn’t what he means when he says he wants to take a drink from you. But exhaustion takes hold, and he follows your lead mutely.

 

The effect is instantaneous; the healing potion is a glorious balm for his wounds. The pain numbs to a background throb, much easier to withstand. The gashes across his stomach begin to seal, the bleeding slowing to a trickle. Astarion sighs through his nose, relief radiating through him down to his fingertips.

 

The rain has abated to a lazy drizzle. It’s the only reason Astarion can hear your faint confession.

 

“You… you scared the shit out of me, Astarion,” your voice wobbles, such a far cry from the fearlessness he is accustomed to hearing from you. He blinks up at you, his gaze taking in your anxious expression as you lean over him. Seeing your expressive concern for his well being is still something he's getting used to.

 

He finishes the potion, licking the remnants from his pale lips as you pull the vial away.

“Apologies, my sweet,” his voice comes out stronger than before, but roughened from his earlier painful overuse. “You know I have a flair for dramatics. What better way to keep things lively than almost dying. Again,” he does his best to smirk, to don the mask of devil-may-care that comes so easily to him.

 

“Gods above, Astarion. ‘Dramatics’? That’s all you have to say? You were nearly gone when I got here. I was almost too late,” your voice tapers off, ending in a near whisper.

 

He blinks again, shocked. The facade slides off his face. Truth be told, your vulnerability is making him… uneasy. He doesn’t know what to say. Why are you so distressed? This is hardly the first time one of the group has come up gravely injured. He doubts it will be the last.

 

He will recover eventually, as he always does following a particularly nasty battle. It may take a little extra healing from Shadowheart, and a belly full of blood would absolutely go a long way in fast tracking the process. But regardless, his body will endure.

He’s painfully aware that his usefulness has… limitations. It extends to his body alone. His battle prowess, his dexterous fingers, his ability to deliver pleasure. But that’s it. He has nothing substantial to offer you. No worldly possessions, no powerful connections, just… himself. His biting nature, both literally and figuratively. His trauma, broken pieces with razor sharp edges. He's not even sure if you are interested in something like this with him, something deeper. No, he thinks. No one could want this. Not truly. His growing feelings for you are one sided, of that he is certain.

 

But then you throw his world off its axis again.

 

“I can't- I can't lose you. You mean the absolute world to me.” 

 

His eyes soften, rounding out as he searches your gaze. For what, he’s not entirely sure. Deceit? Twisted humor? But all he finds is tenderness along with the shine of unshed tears.

You pause for a moment, swallowing. He can see you're trying to continue so he waits, eyes rapt.

“I would miss how you always manage to make me laugh, even when I'm having a horrible day. And getting to hear your laugh in exchange when I do something you find particularly impish,” your serious expression finally gives way to a small amused smile. ”The little sweets you sneak into my bag whenever you manage to get your hands on some, just because you know I love them.”

 

Astarion's eyes widen imperceptibly. Shit. He didn't realize you knew he was the sweets supplier. It was…nice for him. To be able to provide you something you enjoy and a brief respite from all the weight on your shoulders. If only for a moment. To see the stress evaporate from your face for the few minutes it took you to chew. You'd only indulge every so often, when camp was quiet and nothing urgently needed your attention. He'd watch silently from his peripheral vision on occasion, not wanting to ruin your contentment but also needing to witness it for himself.

 

But he hadn't exactly wanted to mentally unpack what this absurd little habit of his might mean beyond the superficial. Hence, the secrecy. He was going to eviscerate whichever loudmouth at camp had clued you in. 

 

“You're there for me, in ways that I could never begin to fully describe. I know we don't always agree entirely, but I'm never afraid to tell you how I feel, or what I think. Because at the end of the day we'll still support each other,” you glance away briefly, and he sees the heated flush on your cheeks. 

 

Embarrassment. Always so delicious to him. For anyone else it means he'd get to loosen his tongue on some provoking quips. How he loves to rile people up from time to time. But now, he finds it enticing for an entirely different reason. Gods, you're beautiful. 

 

You find your courage again quickly, making eye contact with him once more. “I could probably go on, but what I'm saying is… I would miss you endlessly. I can't do this without you.”

What a novel concept. To be wanted, needed beyond anything he could provide carnally. To be desired purely for his presence will take some adjusting. But, if you truly believe everything you said about him, then who is he to disagree? Maybe there is some truth in what you say. If you can see some good in his wretched soul, then perhaps he can try too.

 

“I'm… I'm not going anywhere, my love,” he promises.

 

It flows from his lips so naturally, ‘my love'. It hadn't even been a conscious thought. Anxiety spikes in his gut at the admission, his mind already beginning to spiral. Love? Is that what this is developing into? He doesn't know how to tell; there's no past memories in his mind to pull reference from. 

 

But the smile that splits your lips at his vow is radiant, and he finds that his racing thoughts slow immeasurably. Regardless of the unintentional reveal, the moniker fits. He feels it in whatever remains of his soul. 

 

He smiles then, all honey and warmth. For you.

 

“I'll be here long after you tire of me, I'm sure. Vampires always tend to overstay their welcome, you know,” he jests softly, voice lacking his usual edge. 

 

You gasp quietly and he recognizes it as the familiar sound of you remembering something.

 

“I’m so sorry, Astarion. You've just reminded me, I can't remember the last time you've eaten,” you immediately brandish your wrist, pulling your sleeve up. 

 

He freezes, the roiling, constant hunger in his gut flaring at the sight of your wrist. He knows how close the veins are to the surface there, just how deliciously easy it would be to sink his teeth into that soft skin. His mouth waters at the thought. But he is no animal, and neither are you for that matter. He comes back to himself, muscles uncoiling and gaze connecting with yours again.

 

“I appreciate the offer, darling. But you need your strength. Moonrise Tower won't storm itself, and having our fearless leader stumbling over their own two feet along the way won't instill much terror in our foes, will it?”

 

He can't bring himself to say the truth in its entirety aloud. He truly doesn't want to weaken you before the battle at Moonrise. But it has less to do with fearsome appearances and entirely more to deal with your safety. His feedings always take a toll on you. You smile and wave him off every time, but he sees the effects. Reflexes just a touch slower than usual, stamina not quite up to par with the rest of the group. 

 

It's not your fault he's starving. He wasn't exactly forthcoming about his lack of successful hunts since arriving in the Shadowlands. And you were absolutely overwhelmed with everything going on. Between the deadly shadow curse, Ketheric Thorm, and the Absolute, it was a miracle you could ever focus on anything else. No. He doesn't blame you. He wants you to be okay.

 

He can't be the reason you become injured, or worse.

 

But you insist, your wrist gravitating closer to his plush lips and aching canines. 

 

“I'll be okay, I promise. I'll even ask Shadowheart for a little healing incantation if I really need to. Please, you need to be healthy too,” you plead, eyes doing just as much of the convincing as your words. 

 

He breaks. He might be embarrassed at how quickly he bends to your will if he wasn't so hungry. 

 

His hands close gently over you, one a little ways up your forearm and the other on your hand. You know it's to hold you steady when he bites, but the way his cool thumb runs pleasing circles into your palm sends shivers coursing through you. He presses a kiss to your inner wrist, featherlight and fleeting, but it lights a fire under your skin all the same.

 

“Thank you,” he murmurs before his fangs pierce your flesh. He is as gentle as possible, retracting his canines from the wound immediately. He keeps his lips attached to your wrist, sucking in a saccharine mouthful.

 

He’s uncertain of how much time passes while he drinks, or when his eyes drifted shut, but the feeling of your fingertips sweeping his soaked curls off his forehead pulls him from his reverie. He finishes his feeding, tongue caressing the new puncture wounds as they begin to clot.

 

His irises are vibrant now, a livelier red more akin to a pulsing wound than the darkened burgundy shade they become when he is ravenous. 

 

“You're wrong, by the way,” you begin softly. “When you said I'd tire of you. I could never.”

 

He would look back on this night later on and distinguish it as the exact moment his dead heart began beating once more. But for now, he smiles up at you- one full of genuine adoration.

 

“The feeling is mutual,” he murmurs, unwilling to shatter the moment. His tone is low, husky. More sincere than he's heard his own voice sound in centuries. Despite all that had occurred this evening, he finds a bone deep contentment in himself. He could stay here for a decade in the comfort of your arms.

 

A few moments later, however, the world kickstarts back into motion, voices carrying on the wind to your positions and popping the seclusion around the two of you.

 

Your head perks up at the sound, eyes scanning through the darkness.

 

“Ah, must be the others looking for us,” your attention returns to Astarion. “Think you can make it back? I can help if you'd like.”

 

He can definitely walk on his own, the potion and your invigorating blood have him feeling almost as good as new. But the idea of feeling the curve of your body pressed into his side is too intoxicating to turn down. So he won't. 

 

He breathes deep and nods, resolve settling into his very being.

 

“Yes, I think I've had quite enough of this mud bath. Darling?” He pauses, it's now or never. “After we settle back in at camp, come find me when you have a moment. Please. I think we need to talk.”

-

a/n: Thank you for reading! <3

[himbofrankenstein]

After watching Venom The Last Dance and being emotionally heart broken, I bring you a Meanwhile In The Venom Comic Universe Thread

The Brock Family near death/death experiences & the Other (Venom Symbiote) keeping them alive or trying to:

Get shot and your man starts dying. Oh what would Eddie do without you Other?

Being impaled so the Other has to repair your heart. Classic Eddie.

So you get your head bashed in and damaged, then you grab the third rail. Well, the Other has your coma needs sorted Eddie.

So, you both almost burn to death. Still the Other carries your half dead body on the run for 3 weeks.

Knull throws you off The Empire State Building with no symbiote well, I mean you're dead Eddie. But then your Other grabs your soul (Codex) and brings it into the real world just to have a God of Light take it and revive you. Man, Eddie wtf?

So you get your rib cage shattered & lungs punctured. Its okay, your Other is once again there to grow you a new one.

So your kid is just as much as a disaster as you Eddie. That's okay cause the Other can't let both your sons die from being shot.

So you're killed by your future father? That's fine, the Other is dying to but has enough strength to save you Dylan.

So Carnage your brother decides to kill you Dylan. Your alien dad is gonna try his best. But that's okay your future dad will rez you.

So Dylan, you're forced to shoot your dad at point blank. That's okay, the Other gotta keep their man alive at least once more.

There's perfectly no reason I made this post. Just wanted to show you all how special the Other (Venom Symbiote) is and how a Brock needs them....I think I might cry.

[bones-of-a-rabbit]

I idolized u before I really knew u. And then u hurt me anyway

Anyway what if I told u this is a post based on how I felt learning about the canon personality of a FNaF character. LMAOOOOOOO

[drunkenmantis]

Shot through the heart And you're to blame Darlin', you give love a bad name (18/?) <<prev page next>>

[tangledinink]

Ignore this.

What would happen if Swanatello was badly injured, like either doing his usual guardian things or some sort of late flare up injury from the invasion, and needed immediate treatment?

Like, in a life threatening situation, would Raph Leo and Mikey risk sending Swanatello into a panic/fury in order to save his life? Could they even manage dragging him to the med bay?

((Or does Swannie have some Magical girl powers of healing?))

*Scurries away*

swanatello. ->

[ start ] [ prev ] [ next ]

[smolfoxbab]

guys in situations

[kfrances]

we said tomorrow will be different

[aquabluejay]

Give that anthropomorphic personification some soup! (After you whump the hell out of him.)

I sketched these illustrations for the fic Run Through by celestarium / Meadow (see tags for warnings about graphic blood and torture) when it was still just a WIP. It took me longer than I expected to dig them up to finally share and it turns out the file name is "Hole punch soup Dream" .

[thetomorrowshow]

Whumptober 3 - Set up for failure

ESH AU LET'S GOOO

title: confinement

fandom: empires smp

cw: blood and injury

~

Jimmy bites his lip, sucks in a breath, then sidles into the vault.

It’s a tight squeeze—the Jingler had only opened the vault’s door the tiniest amount, and Jimmy hadn’t been brave enough to ask for him to open it any more. The pin holding his fishnet cape on almost pops free, and his mask gets stuck for a moment, but he manages to make it through and release his breath.

Behind the vault isn’t anything that he expects.

Behind the vault is a room that’s mostly empty, but for a pile of cardboard boxes and an old rocking chair. It looks more like a mostly-emptied storage unit than an actually vault; strange, for such a high-security building.

“What—what am I looking for?” he whispers into the walkie-talkie that the Jingler had given him.

A crackling voice speaks back to him. “Notebook.”

Jimmy glances around. His eyes land on the boxes in the corner and he heads toward them, digging through the boxes.

One of them has a worn yellow notebook, which he grabs, then heads back to the vault door.

The Jingler is waiting on the other side, hand outstretched. “Pass it through, Solidarity.”

“The Codfather,” Jimmy corrects, shoving his arm through the tiny gap. The Jingler takes the notebook, flips through a couple of pages.

“Yep,” he nods shortly. “Thanks.”

Then he turns on his heel and leaves.

“Hey—hey, wait—”

As if by some stroke of bad luck (which, to be fair, Jimmy's used to), the door slams shut.

Come on.

Jimmy pounds on the inside of the door. “Wait! Let me out!” After no response, he frantically fumbles with the walkie-talkie. “Let me out! The door closed!”

“Hmm. We've been here too long.”

“Wh—?”

“But I'll call you an escort.”

Jimmy doesn't have time to ask what that means before sirens start blaring, the lights in the vault flashing red.

The walkie-talkie pops and fizzes out in his hand.

Jimmy groans, drops to sit on the ground and wait it out, abandoning the vault’s door. It won’t be long before this place is swarming with cops, and he’ll be the only person for them to find.

He really ought to get a frequent flier card for prison.

-

“Hope you like the new digs, Solidarity,” the prison warden says loudly, shoving Jimmy into a cell that seems more secure than normal. “We've been working on a specially-reinforced one, just for you.”

“It's the Codfather, now,” Jimmy tries.

“You've made a lot of people angry,” the warden continues, as if he hadn’t spoken. He locks the cell, grins at him through the barred window of the heavy door. “Some of the boys might come through to see you.”

“Oh. Oh, that's . . . great,” Jimmy says helplessly. “Maybe they could just . . . not?”

The warden doesn't dignify that with a response. He stalks away, leaving Jimmy alone in the cell.

Jimmy leans against the wall, slides down to the floor. He fidgets with the stiff navy jumpsuit they've given him, not quite long enough in the leg, then adjusts his Codfather mask.

This is going to be just wonderful. It’s not even been a month since he was last in this prison (they’d started building this very reinforced cell while he was here, that time), and he’d been hoping to avoid it for a little while longer.

Life always sucks significantly worse in prison.

He isn’t exactly separated from the other prisoners, but he isn’t exactly with them, either. His cell (reinforced and all) is in the same hall as the other cells. The difference between Jimmy and the others is that he’s in solitary confinement lite—he doesn’t get to leave for meals or exercise time, and his cell comes with a shower and a toilet in the corner. He isn’t meant to leave at any time.

The heavy metal door that never seems to be unlocked has a window at eye level, bars set into it a couple inches apart. There’s a little slot below it, just wide enough for a food tray. That window means that he can still interact with the other prisoners, unfortunately—or, rather, they can interact with him.

So the first day is a constant barrage of verbal abuse.

See, Jimmy may be a villain now, but he does his best to be kind about it. After all, none of this is his fault, not really. He can’t control his powers. He’s a villain because it’s convenient, not because he actually wants to be evil.

But everybody and their dog has a cousin’s friend who was injured by Solidarity’s powers, and Jimmy has to be yelled at about it.

“When they let you out of your little safehouse, I’ve got a couple friends waiting for you,” a big guy warns, his thick fingers wrapped around the bars of the window. “You won’t be able to walk when they’re done with you.”

“Creative,” Jimmy mutters.

“My mom lost her kneecap,” a redhead leers, spit flying from his cracked lips. “I think I oughta deliver her one of yours.”

That doesn’t sound very nice.

“My brother can’t eat tortilla chips anymore. I’ll spit in all your food.”

“Did you know I used to have two eyes? Wonder what you’d look like with zero.”

“I will break every one of your fingers and toes.”

And on and on and on.

It’s getting kind of boring, honestly. Every time he ends up in prison, he’s under fire from more and more prisoners, many with no real reason. He’s the cause that they unite over, because everybody has been inconvenienced by Solidarity in some way. They aren’t made to leave him alone, either—the guards may not participate in the harassment, but they don’t do anything to stop the threats. The guards don’t do much of anything when it comes to him, really.

He’s pretty sure he should be having solitary exercise time, but nobody lets him out. Whenever he asks (half-heartedly) to speak to a lawyer, nobody pays him any mind. His food is almost certainly contaminated, but when he speaks up about it, the guard tells him to eat it or starve.

Jimmy’s overly familiar with unsafe food, but he eats as much of it as he can. Food poisoning is unavoidable for him on a regular basis. It’s really not that different.

(Sometimes the guard sticks around to watch him eat, amusement in their eyes. At those times, Jimmy knows for sure that it’s contaminated, and he doesn’t want to know how.)

He’s supposed to go to his first hearing about a week after his arrest, but on his third day it gets postponed to a month away. The guards tell him so with unmistakable satisfaction, and Jimmy lies on his bed and stares at the ceiling.

Does it really matter? The courts will rule against him, no matter how good of a lawyer he gets. He’s Solidarity—er, the Codfather. He’s a villain. The villains never win.

Even when he was a hero, he knew he would be tried as a villain.

It’s the fourth day when his power decides to take action. It’s been in effect this whole time, of course—the shelf where his mattress is meant to lie has already collapsed, and the water will only run burning hot—but the fourth day changes things.

He just wishes it would have picked a better time.

It’s right when the last group is coming back from dinner that the hinges of his specially-reinforced metal door break. It makes a loud noise—the creak of the metal groans, then snap!

The steady stream of inmates slow to a stop, their chatter dying off.

There’s another long groan, slow-slow-slow—

The door shifts and clunks to the ground, hinges no longer holding it up.

Jimmy, sitting on his floor-mattress, lets his head tip against the wall as he lets out a long sigh.

It couldn’t have waited? A mere twenty minutes later and he would have been in the clear.

Jimmy doesn’t fight when they pull down the door and storm in.

He just lies on his bed and tries to cover his vital organs.

-

Despite their indifference, the guards manage to pull off the attackers and send them to their own cells before too much damage is done. Then they force Jimmy to his feet and frogmarch him to a normal barred cell in a different hallway. They toss him a bottle of water and a bucket and tell him to keep a low profile, and that he’ll be moved to a more secure prison in the morning.

Jimmy won’t need that.

He has a concussion, for sure. One man had kicked his head until his ears didn’t stop ringing. That makes his vision swim when he sits up, but he grits his teeth and forces himself to call out weakly for some first aid supplies.

The guards reluctantly provide, and Jimmy sets about taking care of his injuries. It’s really not too bad—he has the concussion, of course, and something that feels like his kidney is bruised internally, but the rest of it is your run-of-the-mill beating. Bruises and cuts all over, his entire body sore. The concussion is the worst of it, bad enough that he was barely able to walk when they brought him here. He should really get that checked by a doctor. Not that it’ll happen, but it should.

Jimmy knows well enough not to fall asleep with a head wound, so he kind of just rests on the floor of the cell, sitting up slumped against the wall, not confident enough to pull himself into the flat shelf-bed with the risk of falling. He presses a hand to his bruises whenever he starts to feel drowsy, and that wakes him right up.

The guards are on edge until around midnight, when they seem to relax a bit. The lights went out at ten, so most inmates have been asleep for a little while now. The two guards assigned to him start wandering away from Jimmy’s new cell now and then instead of constantly watching it, start laughing and joking a bit more.

“Hey! Solidarity!”

They poke a bit of fun at him in the early hours of the morning. Jimmy knows he must be a sight—covered in blood and shoddy bandages, his eyes unfocused and looking at nothing as he sits there on the floor.

He doesn’t respond.

“They hit his head pretty hard. Solidarity, you still alive?”

Jimmy blinks, very slowly. It hurts even just to blink.

“Hope they knocked the power out of him. Think he’ll be able to wash himself, or will they transport him like that?”

“Eckels said they’d take him in the morning. He probably won’t shower before then.”

“I’m not touching him.”

It doesn’t happen quite as slowly as it did with the reinforced door.

As the guards talk, one of the bars of the cell just . . . falls out. It clatters to the ground, making the three men jump, cursing.

Then another falls. And a third.

Well. That’s Jimmy’s cue.

Painfully, he pulls himself to his feet. He swallows back the taste of bile as his vision spins, rubs away some of the blood dripping from his split lip, and slowly, gingerly, limps out of the cell.

The guards stare at him. One of them, cautiously, reaches for his taser.

The weapon cracks apart, shards of plastic hitting the floor.

The guard lowers his hand back to his side. The other two don’t move, staring at Jimmy in some strange mixture of disbelief and irritation.

Jimmy sighs, winces when his whole body twinges. “Stuff still in the same place?” he rasps.

One of the guards nods.

Jimmy turns away and starts the long trek to the storage room. He doesn’t necessarily need any of it, but it would be nice to not be in the prison uniform.

He needs a really long nap after this one.

-

(Poultry Man shows up at his rented room and sighs at the sight of him, then shines a flashlight in his eyes and tells him not to get out of bed for the next five days. That’s about the extent of Poultry Man’s helpfulness, but he does buy him a loaf of bread and two jars of peanut butter.)

(It was a fairly average week, all told.)

[lilituism]

Some pose practice. Sorry, 'wing.