#For: Fractured Coalescence

[darksadmirer]

Main blog: @markle-sparklez.

TW/CW FOR: flashing, eyestrain, horror, body horror, blood, gore, death, scopophobia, body image, and mayhaps smoking (due to the nature of fanarts I reblogged).

SFW.

Will do 95% reblogs, 5% original posts.

Spam reblogs are OK and heavily encouraged.

Mostly Darkiplier content alongside Celine and Damien, but sometimes Wilford, Anti, and other Egos may slip up from time to time (due to they're in the same fanarts with Dark).

May accidentally reblog the same posts again either because I love them or because I keep looking for more Darkiplier content and didn't notice I have reblogged them in the past.

[ Heh. You're welcome. ;) ]

Feel free to ask.

If I reblogged random posts that are nowhere near Dark or Mark and rather just random Tumblr posts, do not fear. I forgot to switch my account to main sometimes and will notice them, so don't worry.

enjoy your stay.

recommended tags worth to check down below:

[dykecadence]

harrow the ninth in a disco elysium style game. harrow is harry (obviously), ianthe is kim, The Body is dolores dei. gideon's sword takes the place of the horrific necktie. harrow wakes up after canaan house barely clothed and with a fractured memory and she's immediately charged with helping take down the resurrecrion beasts. harrow dies from sitting on a 10000 year old chair

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Between Fire and Stone

Daemon Targaryen/Strong!female

summary: anxious about her approaching union to Aemond, the only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen seeks comfort | word count: 2.8k~ | warnings: incest, reader is described with strong features, fingering, p in v sex, arranged marriage, Daemon being a cheeky cunt

A/N: idek what I was on to write this cos I'm not usually a Daemon girlie but here we are besties. Tysm @em-writes-stuff-sometimes for beta-ing 😘 appreciate you

The cold mist nipped at the skin around her ankles, a shiver running up her spine as she struggled through the jagged rock towards the Dragonmont. Her fingers brushed against the stark stone for balance, the other holding the lit torch to light her way before her in the darkness.

It was one of her favourite things, taking a stroll through Dragonstone in the hour of the wolf. Peaceful. Quiet. Something she could have all for herself. Away from the prying of her maidservants and the overbearing boisterous nature of her brothers. Though Jace, now a man grown, still held onto those immaturities.

Yet another thing that set her apart from her siblings.

For she, only a mere year younger than Jace, was considered a woman, ripe for marriage and bearing children, whereas the same hastiness was not pressured upon him. She knew her mother had never intended to bestow such responsibilities on her, but she understood, it was inevitable. As that time loomed ever closer, she found herself roaming her home more often, as if to savour the feeling of once being a child.

Where her brothers could seek adventure with their dragons once they were big enough to saddle, her egg had not hatched in her cradle. She would not inherit the birthright of the blood of Old Valyria, yet another judgement cast upon her that only inflated her sense of belonging at her mother's side. With her moonlit hair and pale lilac eyes, each of her children could not have looked more different.

Before the incident, there existed only one other soul who could truly fathom the depths of her solitude. No dragon. Ceaseless taunts. The notion of isolation, even amongst one’s family. Any semblance of camaraderie had been extinguished the day Lucerys took his eye. That defining moment when Aemond—her uncle—seized his birthright had marked the fracture in their familial bonds. In the aftermath, her mother, alongside her new husband Daemon, orchestrated a grand scheme to mend the shattered relations, a plan that involved her betrothal to him at an opportune moment.

Try as she might, she couldn't conjure the image of herself as his wife. The thought of residing in King's Landing under his roof refused to coalesce into a coherent vision. It remained an elusive spectre, haunting her thoughts with its intangible uncertainty.

Whispers of tradition and duty echoed in the hallowed halls of her childhood, spun by the gentle tongues of Septas who spoke of the sacred rites of marriage. Tales of Lords and Ladies, of the solemn exchange of vows, and the anticipated consummation on the wedding night. Some stories painted a picture of pleasure and intimacy, of unions founded on mutual desire and affection. Others whispered of duty, of sacrifices made for the sake of one's spouse, regardless of personal inclination.

Caught in the web of uncertainty, she pondered which version of Aemond awaited her, a tender partner or a distant lord, bound by duty and tradition. The unknown loomed before her like a shadow, casting doubt upon her heart and stirring a quiet fear within her soul. She knew not what to expect, but the uncertainty itself was enough to unsettle her, to sow the seeds of apprehension in her mind. And as the weight of anticipation hung heavy in the air, she couldn't help but wonder, which path would her marriage tread, and would she have the strength to endure whatever lay ahead?

Amidst the towering peaks of Dragonmont, she sought solace in the embrace of ancient flames and the soothing hum of Vermithor's slumber. Here, amidst the rugged terrain and the ever-watchful gaze of the dragons, she found a fleeting sense of peace.

But it was not the Bronze Fury that sang to her. 

“Hen ñuhā elēnī:

Perzyssy vestretis,

Se gēlȳn irūdaks…

Ānogrose.”

She felt the rush of heat at the nape of her neck. Daemon stood straight, back facing her, his voice near-matching the hum of Vermithor’s deep exhales.

“It is late, Princess.” Unlike her, Daemon remained as he dressed during the day, shown when he turned to face her, with the self-satisfied smirk on his lips. “What troubles you?” he asked.

She tried to raise her chin, but her eyes betrayed the turmoil that stirred within. 

“My fate,” she said, her careful steps drawing ever nearer. "I am to be wed to Aemond, but I fear what awaits me in that union.”

Daemon hummed, as if curiously amused.

She had known no father figure since Laenor. And though she knew sooner than her brothers the truth that lay beneath the careful picture her mother had forged, since she had been wed to Daemon, he had taken practice with his own daughters and become almost a father to her alike.

She felt his eyes sink over her once before returning to her eyes.

"Marriage is a weighty matter," he said. "But is it the marriage itself that troubles you, or something more?”

She did not miss the lilt to his voice. The one, that like his eyes had done many times before, made something squeeze in her gut. A fire burning bright. A feeling that brought her shame.

He was her mother's husband.

“I cannot say exactly,” she confessed. “Perhaps it is leaving Dragonstone. Mother and my brothers. And being alone in the capital with no face I recognise with trust.”

Daemon nodded almost indistinctly, his fingers reaching out to brush a lock of hair back over her shoulder, admiring her hair loose of its usual braids. His touch sent a shiver down her spine, a sensation both familiar and disconcerting. She fought to push aside the conflicting emotions that threatened to overwhelm her, the warmth of his touch conflicting with the knowledge of their complicated relationship.

"Leaving behind the familiar can indeed be a daunting prospect," Daemon acknowledged, his voice a velvet caress, “But fret not. Within you resides the same fire that fuels your mother's resolve. Embrace it. You are as much Targaryen as any of them.”

She felt a blush creeping up her cheeks at the intensity of his gaze, at the way he seemed to see straight through her defences. She knew she should be wary of his advances, of the way he danced on the edge of propriety with his words and his touch. But there was something undeniably alluring about the way he held her gaze, about the way he made her feel desired and understood.

"Thank you, Daemon," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "Your support means more to me than you know.”

Daemon's smile was a slow, seductive curve of his lips, his eyes alight with a fire that mirrored the flames of the Dragonmont. 

"Ah, but my dear Princess," he replied, his voice low and husky, "you have yet to discover the true depths of my support.”

She felt her throat close up, the feeling mirroring somewhat what happened between her thighs.

What could he possibly mean?

“Do you fear it?” he asked. “The act of consummation?”

Her cheeks flushed crimson at Daemon's bold question, his words sending a jolt of both arousal and apprehension coursing through her veins. 

“It… is perfectly normal, I would think,” she answered, words failing her.

"Princess," he murmured, his voice a soothing caress against her skin. "There is no shame in feeling uncertain. It is only natural to have doubts, especially when faced with such intimate matters.”

She felt he was circling her, as dragons did their targets. And felt her heart thumping in her chest.

“With Aegon, I dare say, I would join you in your uncertainty. But Aemond, on the other hand… is a different matter entirely.”

“How so?” she asked, breathing out when he disappeared out of her line of sight, his presence at her back, fingers draping past the material of her dress.

“I am afraid he may be less… forthcoming with expressing his desires,” he purred. “He may be cold, or at least that is how it may be interpreted.” Her eyes met his with bated breath as he appeared on her opposite side, closer. “He may not be so adept with the pleasures of a female body.”

She swallowed, a chill settling on her front, her body reacting thus. He remained silent, as if daring her to say what he knew was already on the tip of her tongue. So, she took the plunge. “And…you are?”

Daemon smirked smugly, and she knew she already had her answer., “What do you think?”

Her heart raced. Her mind struggled to contemplate whether she should be honest or not, for she had heard stories and rumours. She knew she was treading dangerous waters, playing with fire in the form of her mother's husband, but there was a part of her that couldn't resist the allure of his confidence, his charm, his undeniable magnetism.

"I... I suppose I never considered such matters," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, her cheeks burning with embarrassment at the admission.

Daemon's eyes danced with amusement as he stepped closer. "Perhaps it is time you did," he murmured, fingers trailing lightly down the curve of her spine.

Her skin vibrated with anticipation as she fought to maintain her composure in the face of his overwhelming presence. She knew she should pull away, should put an end to this dangerous game they were playing, but the lure of Daemon's charm was too strong to resist.

“Mayhaps I could demonstrate and put your worries to rest,” he suggested, crossing the imaginary but daring line seemingly without fear. “Rest assured, my experience in such matters is... extensive."

Her heart pounded in her chest as she struggled to maintain her resolve, her body betraying her with every flutter of her lashes, every quickened breath. “But… you and Mother—”

Her lips clamped shut with the bruising of his grip in the softness of her waist, urging her back to the rocky, hard wall. Only now, when faced with the Rogue Prince, did she realise just how small she truly felt.

“Your mother is preoccupied with her own affairs," he replied, his voice dripping with a dangerous allure. "She won't concern herself with our little... indiscretion.”

The realisation sank in that she was alone with Daemon in the secluded confines of the Dragonmont, far removed from the prying eyes of the world. And yet, she still felt her lips go dry when he hung the torch and trailed his touch upon her skin where he was taking her skirts with it.

She could not hide her nerves, or the beating rush of arousal, “Bu—but… with Aemond, I must—”

The air felt warm as her skirt was rucked around her hips. She squeaked when his calloused fingers swept through her folds, ashamed to find she was affected by what he was doing to her as her slick coated them easily.

Daemon chuckled, a pleased hum in his chest that she was wet and ready, while his other hand busied with the laces of his breeches, “Sweet girl. When my dear nephew has his cock buried inside you on your wedding night, he will not know the difference.”

His words, combined with the tight circles he applied to the forbidden bud tucked between her legs, had white hot pleasure burning in her veins. Her lips were parted, but no sound came out. All she could do was look upon his pleased face with a hedonistic expression, feeling very much like they were doing something deliciously wrong but could find no reasonable excuse to cease.

“Do not look so surprised. I have seen the way you watch me. Are you not ashamed for looking upon your own mother’s husband with lust?” 

The more he touched her, the more arousal he coaxed forth, the sound lewd and forbidden in the raw silence of the Draognmont. She could not answer his question without subjecting herself to further embarrassment. Even so, attempting to concentrate enough to form words as his two forefingers slid within her tight, hot walls, was near impossible. She gasped quietly, the feeling so foreign and yet not unpleasant. And like Daemon in any other scenario, while his motions were forceful, somewhat brutal, they were calculated, without effort. Like it came innately. Her hands found purchase on his shoulders, his digits buried deep inside curved towards him, stoking a fire at the hearth of her.

“Answer me.”

She nodded frantically. “Yes—I am ashamed—”

It was all she managed before the feeling began to crest, building and building as if she were climbing some great height and was about to tumble off. But she only exhaled shakily as Daemon withdrew his fingers from her fluttering, sensitive walls, using the moisture to lubricate himself with a careful caress of his manhood.

He chuckled at the wounded expression on her face. “No need for shame, Princess.”

She caught the glint of his ring as he wrung the fabric of her skirts in his fist. Her eyes widened as the head of his cock disappeared easily between her swollen folds, with no real full feeling until he pushed forward, both with hesitation and a sort of evil excitement.

Her back pressed against the jagged stone, her lips only parted to suck in air where it had left her lungs. It was a feeling she could describe very little, the sting of being stretched around him painful and yet once sheathed fully inside her, hips pushing against her own. Daemon wrapped his fingers around her fleshy thigh to tug her leg over his hip, a flash of white hot pleasure creeping up her spine. He only grunted, her slick ridges gripping him greedily without any effort on her part. 

For a few moments, he stayed like that as if waiting for any complaint, but when he found none, began a steady rhythm, fingers creating crescent-moon shaped welts in her skin. He did not share in her reaction. He simply raised one corner of his lips in a pleased manner, watching her face, treating it very much as a lesson in pleasure more than anything else.

She could scarcely think with the violent push of his hips, the notch of his belt stabbing into her each time.

“My nephew does not deserve this perfect. little cunt.” He grunted from the effort. “Tell me, Princess—when he is fucking you with his narrow little prick, will you be thinking of this instead?”

Her eyes slipped shut, her head tipped back and fingers coming to her own mouth to muffle the lewd sound that threatened to come out. Her perceived embarrassment at her own enjoyment of this only seemed to motivate Daemon further, and he widened her hips with a soft nudge of his knee against her leg and groaned at the way she tightened around him.

“You liked that, didn't you?” He breathed against her face, looking briefly down between them to watch how he rooted himself inside her over and over, as if unable to believe this was really happening. “I bet he won't make you this wet. I doubt the little cunt will even know how to make you come.”

Her skirt fell from his hand as it drew down between them, and she resisted the urge to squeal when he began to apply pressure in tight, sure circles around her bud.

“You shall have to teach him those pleasures.”

Her fingers gripped his forearms tight as she climaxed, her tight, hot walls spasming around him uncontrollably. It was so utterly different to the way she had pleasured herself before. This time, the forbidden combination of Daemon stretching her open around him and the pleasure he coaxed from her with his fingers meant that this peak seemed to drain her entire body of energy. Her body feeling boneless in his hold, that if he let go, she would surely lose her balance.

A flash of fear cracked like lightning across her subconscious. Surely he did not intend to spill inside her?

He did not overstimulate her for much longer as he neared his own end. Rather, he savoured the feeling of her warmth sucking him in for just a few moments more before pulling out, stroking himself vigorously to completion, warm ropes of his spend coating her lower stomach.

In the quiet dead of night with only her laboured breathing to echo within it, she felt her eyes could not keep up with her mind as she glanced back up at him. His rapidly cooling seed began to dribble towards her thighs, swiftly covered by her skirts once more as Daemon lowered her clothing back into place. The reality of the dangerous and yet delicious sin she had committed with him began to rise into clarity.

Upon his fingers shone the damning proof of his sordid claim on her, pearly in the glow of torchlight. “What a waste. I’d have liked to see it dripping from you.

But that pleasure… I shall save for my nephew, sweet girl."

General Taglist: @aemondsfavouritebastard @bellstwd @blairfox04 @buckybarnesb-tch @castellomargot @hb8301 @jamespotterismydaddy @mochi-rose @natty2017 @nenelysian @risefallrise @thelittleswanao3 @theoneeyedprince @thetrueblackheart @tsujifreya @urmomsgirlfriend1 @valeskafics @valleyof-goldenlilies

[sunderwight]

cumplane but it turns out that Airplane very much is a god

turns out that if you're on a certain level of reincarnations and you get electrocuted, it DOES count as a kind of heavenly tribulation, even if it happens because you spilled cup noodles on your shitty apartment's faulty wiring

but airplane wasn't like, mentally prepared to ascend, so instead of just arriving in the heavens to cheers and a parade he sort of got sidelined and fractured into a million billion pieces, which subconsciously coalesced into the component parts of the story he'd been working on

god!Airplane is operating on several unconscious levels. but basically, every person in the PIDW/SV setting? is actually him. he is simultaneously luo binghe and mobei jun and ning yingying and yue qingyuan and tianlang jun and the old palace master and etc, more or less playing out various roles in an effort to make sense of his sudden influx of divine power

shang qinghua, however, is the only incarnation that attains awareness of his past life. apart from the system, of course, which holds onto the majority of Airplane's divine power

when Shen Yuan dies, Airplane senses it and drags his soul into this mess, on some mixed impulse of "no don't go" but also "come and see, see what I'm making, tell me it's good now" and "fuck you for all those mean things you said, you think you can do better?"

Airplane and Shen Yuan as the only actual people in the story, except the other characters exist too, they're just all secretly (unwittingly) the same person. kind of

anyway after hundreds and hundreds of years of this, eventually Airplane sorts his shit out, the universe collapses in on itself, and the only ones left are him and Shen Yuan. Airplane is Shang Qinghua, but he's also Luo Binghe, and everyone else besides. ordinarily this would be distressing for both of them, but since they've actually had time to sort shit out they're pretty chill about it. Shen Yuan had started to figure it out a few hundred years ago. Airplane both had and hadn't, because real acceptance and understanding eventually triggered the world to collapse, and a lot of him had been against that by then. willing to live a fractured life it meant that the parts of him which had found happiness and acceptance could keep on having that

but the happiness and acceptance don't go away when the world is done. even though he was afraid that they would. the parts of him that learned to love himself still do, and Shen Yuan is still there and his shizun still loves him, is still his bro, his shixiong, his everything. wherever Airplane goes, he will follow

Airplane ascends as a literary god and brings along his only true believer (Luo Binghe arrives at a throne in the heavens and immediately sits his shizun upon it) and it's pretty chill, in fact

[pin-k-ink]

oasis // hoshina soshiro

tw ⇢ unprotected sex, making out, dirty talk, cunnilingus, body worship, praise kink, biting, daddy kink, so much fluff ugh

wc ⇢ 3k

The sight that awaited Hoshina when he entered the bedroom made his heart lurch straight into his throat. There you were - his entire world contained in one breathtaking picture.

You laid curled on your side amidst the rumpled sheets, features soft and radiant with the peacefulness of new motherhood. Cradled protectively in the basin of your body was the tiny, squirming bundle that was Setsuko, his newborn daughter. His legacy and heir, barely a few weeks old.

As Hoshina watched from the doorway, frozen in quiet reverence, you brought one finger up to gently trace the fine wisps of violet hair dusting Setsuko's scalp. The tender gesture made his chest constrict almost painfully, throat thickening beneath a swell of emotions he could scarcely put words to.

Here were the two most precious beings in his life, relaxed and at peace despite the shadowed mantle he wore daily to keep you both sheltered. His spirit had always focused on defending faceless citizens, upholding justice through strength. But now, in the wake of Setsuko's birth, that driving purpose had become laserbeamed onto safeguarding your beatific smiles no matter the cost.

You seemed to sense his presence at that point, eyes fluttering up to find Hoshina with a look of such pure, untarnished adoration that it stole what little remained of his breath. A soft, welcoming curve bloomed across your lips as you shifted your body weight carefully to avoid jostling Setsuko's slumbering form.

"Hi, honey," you murmured in a hushed tone, gesturing him over with a tilt of your head. "Setsuko was just drifting off again after her evening feeding."

Hoshina didn't require any further prompting. In two strides he crossed the room to sink down on the mattress edge, unable to tear his eyes away from the downy perfection of his daughter's features. She made the most adorable little mewling sounds on each exhale, lips pursing and tiny fists curling against the swell of your breast almost instinctively.

"God, she's beautiful..." he rasped out in a voice rendered gravelly by the sheer immensity of emotions swirling inside. "Just like her mother, radiatin' more beauty and light than this world deserves."

You blushed prettily at the open avowal, the tips of your ears pinking in that way Hoshina always found impossibly endearing. Cautious of disturbing Setsuko, he leaned over to press a lingering kiss to your forehead before trailing his lips down the delicate slope of your nose. When he reached your mouth, however, the softness fractured into a brand of heat and naked yearning that made you suck in a trembling breath through your nostrils.

Hoshina’s palm came up to cradle the line of your jaw, calloused thumb skating over the lush swell of your lower lip in an achingly gentle caress. His tongue swept past the seam with unhurried relish, savoring your unique bouquet like a man delirious with thirst rediscovering an oasis after years of bleached bone aridity.

You melted against his questing lips with a hushed keen, senses flooding with the overwhelming secondhand reminder of how much you had ached for this particular brand of attention during your recovery period. Hoshina refused to be separated from you both during those early weeks, but there was a vast gulf between sleeping beside your exhausted forms each night and...this.

Finally, the smoldering brand flickered and caught into new, blazing life as Hoshina delved deeper, robbing your breath straight from your lungs. You could feel the first telltale sparks of desire rapidly coalescing into raging wildfire deep in your untouched core, crying out for the balm only he could provide after so many barren weeks apart...

Before either of your urgencies could consume what fragile restraint remained, Setsuko let out an aggrieved whimper between your tangled bodies. You broke apart with a trembling gasp, pupils wide and molten in the dimness as Hoshina hovered over you both. Even thoroughly addled by reawakened hunger, his first instinct compelled him to gently gather up the tiny, squirming bundle and rise fluidly to his feet.

"I'll take our little girl down the hall so Mama can get some proper rest," he murmured in a tone made of pure gravel and smoke. You could only nod breathlessly, limbs liquefying as Hoshina treated you to one final, scorching onceover.

"Don't worry, sweetheart..." the fingers of his free hand ghosted along your jawline in a smoldering brand of possession. "Soon as our girl is down for the night, I'll be back for ya. We've got some...catchin' up to do."

And just like that, he was gone - slipping through the door with Setsuko nestled securely in the protective cage of his arms. You slumped back against the tangled sheets in a daze, thighs clenching convulsively at the unspoken promise of ravishment hovering in the air.

Hoshina returned from settling Setsuko in her crib with an unmistakable hunger burning in his eyes. The second the bedroom door clicked shut behind him, he stalked towards the bed like a prowling predator homing in on its prey.

"She's down for the night," he rasped in a low gravelly timbre that made heat unfurl through your core. "Which means yer all mine again, pretty girl."

You shivered at the undisguised yearning blazing in his stare, suddenly hyperaware of how the sheets had tangled around your legs leaving most of your body exposed. Hoshina drank in every inch hungrily - the tousled spill of your hair across the pillows, the dusky peaks of your breasts cresting above the cotton barrier, the taut feminine curves he'd been denied for too long.

A trembling whimper slipped free as he reached the edge of the mattress and hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his fatigues. "Shiro..." you breathed out in a needy rasp. "I've missed you so much..."

Rather than responding with words, he simply held your heated stare as the coarse material pooled around his ankles. You felt your mouth go dry at the sight of his powerful, muscular frame on full display, those sinewy thighs and chiseled abs just begging to be traced with greedy palms and hungry lips. Most of all, your gaze was utterly transfixed by his thick, iron-rigid cock jutting from the thatch of dark curls at the apex of those toned legs.

A fresh gush of slick arousal flooded your aching sex at the reminder of what pleasures that delicious looking cock could provide after too many barren weeks. Unconsciously, your thighs parted in a wanton offering as Hoshina crawled over you with leonine grace, careful not to brace his full weight into the cradle of your hips.

"Let me look at ya, baby..." he rumbled in a tone thick with naked reverence. Gentle but insistent, he peeled the filmy top away until your heavy, swollen breasts spilled free. Hoshiro looked utterly ravenous beholding them, drinking in every intimate detail and subtle change with smoldering intensity.

You instinctively arched into his exploratory caresses as those massive, callused palms mapped every new ridge and sloping curve with aching tenderness. Hoshina’s touch ignited sparks of electricity under your hyper-sensitized skin, stoking you into a squirming, mewling mess within moments.

"God, yer so fuckin' gorgeous..." he growled with clear possession as his mouth blazed a path along your tingling sternum. "These tits, this sumptuous waist and hips..."

One large hand splayed across the slight swell of your lower abdomen reverently, fingers flexing against the firm plane in silent appreciation. "It's like you were sculpted solely for takin' and keepin' my seed buried deep inside..."

You whimpered brokenly at the raw, unfiltered lust lacing his rasping timbre. Your entire body seemed to thrum and ache in symphony with the molten promise held in those few rumbling words alone.

"Show me where ya need me most, baby girl..." Hoshina demanded, voice dropping into a gravelly octave that seemed to reverberate straight through your nerve endings. "Guide Daddy's hand to that needy little cunt so I can get my mouth on ya..."

Trembling, you hooked one knee over his bulging shoulder and laced your fingers through his soft purple locks. With his molten, indigo gaze locked hungrily on yours, you used your grip to guide Hoshina’s awaiting lips down to the drenched, throbbing apex of your sex.

He groaned explosively at the first hint of your heady, musky essence teasing his nostrils. You cried out in turn as his hot tongue lashed a broad stripe against your swollen folds without preamble. Hoshina latched onto your aching clit with bruising suction, growling like a starving beast as he lapped up every honeyed drop greedily.

"That's it...let Daddy drink from that sweet fountain, gorgeous," he panted hoarsely against your sensitive flesh, forcing every syllable to vibrate straight into your tingling core. "Been too fuckin' long since I got to savor my favorite treat..."

His words dissolved into low, filthy encouragements muffled by the messy seal of his gluttonous mouth working you with increasing ardor. You bucked and writhed uncontrollably, fingers fisting in his hair as your climax crested in rapturous waves of release. Hoshina clutched your jerking hips like a vise, refusing to allow even an inch of space as he guided you through the mind-numbing pulses with practiced skill.

Only once you went boneless with satiated aftershocks did he drag himself up to hover over your limp, dazed form. Face slick and shining with your essence, he captured your mouth in a bruising kiss, making you taste the tangy sweetness on his lips and tongue.

"Stay right there, baby girl..." Hoshiro rumbled against your swollen mouth as he shrugged out of his shirt impatiently. "This was just the opening act for all the ways I plan on devourin' every inch tonight..."

By the time you recovered enough awareness to watch the rest of the show, Hoshina had stripped completely bare. Your breath caught at the breathtaking sight, eyes drinking in every glorious ridge and muscle flexing across his sculpted body. He was a veritable demigod come down from on high to worship and ravish your humble form...and you had no intention of ever taking such blessings for granted.

When you reached out to wrap your fingers around the steel-hard girth of his cock, Hoshina shuddered as if electrified by the touch. The sound was nearly drowned out by the low, guttural moan he released into your mouth as you began to stroke him languidly.

"You'd better stop that, gorgeous..." he warned in a voice thickened with lust, pupils blown to utter blackness. "As much as I'd love to finish all over that sexy tummy, it's been too damn long since I buried myself in your sweet pussy."

The vulgar promise made you whimper and squirm, hips arching instinctively as Hoshina settled his solid weight into the cradle of your thighs. One massive hand braced into the mattress at the side of your head, while the other curled beneath your thigh to hook around the back of your knee.

Your hands came up to clutch his bulging biceps, nails digging into the flexing muscles as the blunt tip of his cock pressed insistently at your entrance. Your walls rippled in anticipation, eager to be filled to the brim with his pulsating, velvety length once more.

"Look at me, baby girl," Hoshina commanded in a gravel-thick tone as he began to press inside inch by glorious inch. "Need to see those beautiful eyes as I claim what's mine..."

You obeyed without question, the world narrowing to a pinpoint as your gaze locked. Nothing else existed but him, his cock and the way he filled and stretched and soothed the empty ache inside. You could feel your entire body fluttering and clenching around him, already dangerously close to the razor-sharp precipice.

"Fuck...that's my girl..." Hoshina gasped out shakily, eyes blazing with pure worship as he sank deeper, until the base of his cock was flush with your quivering folds. He remained motionless for several agonizing seconds, his body shuddering with the strain of holding back the primal urge to rut into you hard and fast.

But he had no intention of rushing, of giving into the selfish impulse to chase his own pleasure. Tonight, his focus was entirely on you. On lavishing his beautiful, brilliant, resilient girl with the pleasure she deserved after months of self-sacrifice and devoted care.

So rather than immediately beginning to piston his hips, Hoshina shifted his weight onto one arm and brought his free hand down to trace the seam of your mouth with his thumb. You opened up eagerly, sucking the thick digit in past the knuckle until his eyes narrowed with unmistakable heat.

"That's my good girl..." he crooned in a voice made of pure gravel and smoke. "Just like that, baby..."

You moaned softly around his finger, tongue laving the callused pad with languorous strokes. Your inner walls fluttered and clenched in response to the sheer eroticism, and the answering growl resonating in his chest only added to the heady rush.

"Fuuuuck...ya have no idea what ya do to me, gorgeous," Hoshina panted raggedly, hips finally starting to rock at an achingly slow pace. "You’re Daddy's everything, baby...my whole goddamn universe. And now I'm gonna worship and fuck every single inch of you..."

The last thread of his control snapped like an overtaxed elastic band. Your resulting cry was muffled by the thumb still hooked between your teeth, the sound morphing into a throaty whine as his hips slammed forward relentlessly.

"I've got ya, baby...just hold onto me," he gritted out between harsh, labored pants. His entire body flexed and rippled with the strain, sweat-slick muscles bunching and contracting with each forceful thrust. "Let Daddy take care of his precious girl..."

All you could do was cling to his massive frame, legs wrapped tightly around his pistoning hips as he pounded into your dripping cunt mercilessly. Each punishing stroke hit the perfect angle to make your vision blur and stars erupt, pleasure coiling and spiraling tighter with every deep, measured pump.

Hoshina could feel his orgasm coiling like a molten fist in the pit of his gut, every muscle drawn taut with the effort of staving off the inevitable release. But the way your walls fluttered and clenched around his cock, and the helpless mewls spilling from your slackened mouth...it was all too much.

"Baby, I can't...fuck, I'm gonna-" Hoshina growled out hoarsely, burying his face in the sweat-damp hollow of your neck.His stomach dipped with the effort of staving off his own imminent climax, hips faltering as he struggled to regain some semblance of control.

"Don't stop...please, Shiro...oh God, I'm so close," you begged shamelessly, fingers clawing desperately at his shoulders and biceps. "I need it...need you...so much, Daddy, please-"

Those final broken, pleading words shattered the tenuous grasp of his restraint. A guttural, animalistic snarl ripped from his throat, and suddenly the entire bedframe was shuddering beneath the force of his frenzied rhythm.

You arched your back like a bow, eyes rolling back as he drove into your spasming channel at a bruising pace. Hoshina's name fell from your lips in an endless, broken litany, until the sound of his voice broke through the haze of white-hot pleasure.

"Give it to me, baby...I need ya to come all over Daddy's cock. Let me feel ya..." he gritted out between harsh, labored panting, hips slamming and grinding erratically. "Please, I can't- Fuck, I'm gonna- Ahh, baby, I'm comin'!"

He managed to stave off his own impending release for one last, torturous second, just long enough to feel you explode around him. Your entire body convulsed, muscles tensing and releasing in a series of rhythmic, powerful spasms. Hoshina groaned into the curve of your shoulder, his teeth sinking deep into the tender flesh as his hips jerked and ground into you desperately.

His release flooded your depths in a thick, scalding rush, each twitching pump of his cock spilling more seed until it dripped and oozed around the seal of his girth. You were utterly boneless beneath him, trembling and mewling helplessly as he rutted and ground his way through the last tremors of climax.

By the time the blinding rush receded, the pair of you were drenched and panting. You were both completely drained, bodies trembling and flushed in the aftermath of that incredible, mind-blowing connection. Hoshina rolled to his side, gathering you in his arms protectively as he struggled to regain a semblance of equilibrium.

You were a perfect, lax bundle of pliant warmth nestled against his chest, and Hoshina felt his heart swell at the sight. After a few moments, he finally regained enough of his senses to gently nudge your chin up so he could gaze directly into your beautiful, sated eyes.

"Hey," he murmured in a low rasp, lips curling into an affectionate smile.

"Hey yourself," you breathed back with a matching smile. Your entire body was still tingling with the lingering aftershocks, but nothing was quite as potent as the adoration radiating from the man holding you.

"God, I missed ya..." Hoshina sighed, expression melting into one of pure contentment. He brought a hand up to gently trace the elegant contours of your face, committing every minute detail to memory all over again.

"Me too," you sighed dreamily, arching into his palm like a kitten begging for affection. "That was amazing...but we're going to have to invest in a new bedframe tomorrow."

"Worth it," he growled possessively, fingers curling under your chin to tilt your face up. His kiss was sweet and unhurried, lips slanting with languid relish as he explored the contours of your mouth.

When the pair of you finally surfaced for air, your cheeks were flushed and your pupils blown wide. "I'm sure Setsuko will be asleep for a while," Hoshina said with clear reluctance. "How about a nice hot shower to relax and then we'll get some much-needed sleep?"

"You always have the best ideas," you replied with a contented sigh. "But if we shower together, there's a strong chance we won't get any sleep at all."

"I'm a big fan of the occasional sleepless night," Hoshina growled playfully, hands sliding down to cup the round curves of your ass. "Besides, the best part about a shower is gettin' ya all cleaned up before making a filthy mess of ya again."

[green-eyedfirework]

Slade mates Dick for bureaucratic reasons but then Dick’s body thinks he’s unclaimed.

~#~

Dick felt like he was moving through soup, hot and sticky all over.  His hair was stuck to his skin and his mouth was dry, his whole body aching faintly.  The worst soreness was the deep cramp inside of him, a fullness with clenching tremors that danced on the edge of painful.

He registered the squelching noise right before the curious numbness between his legs, and the rest of the dominos fell swiftly after that.  His legs, folded and braced above him, the fingers clenching against his waist, the rocking motion in tune to the cramping deep inside him, the warmth in him, around him, everywhere.  The thick, powerful, choking scent of alpha arousal.

He was naked.  Bare skin pressed against bare skin as Dick—as Dick was fucked, that's what this was, there was something inside him, rocking so deep he felt like his insides had been rearranged.  He couldn't help the shocked, hoarse whine as the cock jammed inside him, pressing at parts beginning to wake up, and he was met with a low alpha rumble.

Dick had to fight to get his eyes open, they felt like they'd been glued shut, confusion and panic rising ever higher, and managed to crack them open to see the alpha looming over him, on his knees with Dick half in his lap.

The confusion receded at the sight of the silver hair and scarred eye.  The terror surged.

Slade thrust forward a few more times before he stilled, warmth pooling every higher inside Dick, and what few fragments of scattered thought he had coalesced into the urge to flee.

Dick had thought—Slade had said—he didn't remember what happened, everything was a haze, all he could remember was the heat—this wasn't his room, this wasn't his nest—where were his siblings—what was going on—

Dick didn't bother trying to ask questions.  If Slade hadn't noticed he'd woken up, he would soon, and Dick moved.

His legs were braced on Slade's shoulders and Dick yanked them back, trying to kick Slade in the chest to push him away.  His hands scrabbled at the sheets—the wet sheets, fuck, how long had Dick been out, how long had Slade fucked his body like all that mattered was an open hole—his voice dropping to a hiss as he struggled.

It was a testament to Slade's distraction that Dick got one foot against his sternum before the mercenary reacted.  Fingers wrapped around his ankle, yanking Dick's legs apart again, and Slade drove them back, pressing down relentlessly to fold Dick in half.  Dick tried to lash out with hands—they wouldn't even curl into fists, they were so weak, and Slade had to let go of his knees to grab his wrists.

"Dick," Slade growled, pinning him down, but Dick's legs were now free and he tried to kick out again.  "Dick."  Dick snarled at him, angry and wordless, fear beginning to fracture into too many emotions to control.  "Dick, stop fighting!"

If Slade wanted an omega who just laid back and took it, he'd chosen the wrong one.

Slade growled, loud and sharp, and some part of Dick still caught up in heat haze flinched back at the sound, but Dick had spent years training to fight those instincts, and he kept writhing.  Something inside him jerked painfully as he tried to slide up the sheets, though, and Dick's jolt of realization was overtaken by Slade bending down and latching onto the side of his neck.

The bite hurt.  Dick felt himself go limp as Slade's teeth dug against his collarbone, holding him in place and not letting go.  It was worse than the claiming because Slade was pressed against every inch of him, pinning Dick thoroughly, from his fingers on Dick's wrists to his knot inside Dick.

There was something thick and hot in Dick's throat and it was quietly choking him.

His eyes prickled and no amount of furious blinking could stop the tears trickling down the side of his face.  He could smell his heat scent growing fainter, replaced with the quietly bitter scent of misery.  He took a breath and it came out strangled.

Slade released the bite.  Dick took a fuller breath, muscles working again, but Slade stayed where he was, breath puffing against Dick's neck, a clear threat if he tried to fight again.  Dick stayed still and squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to let his breath hitch.  Fuck if he'd let Slade know how much it hurt to know how completely he'd miscalculated.

"Deep breaths, little bird," Slade murmured, voice soft.  "Calm down."  Dick imagined stabbing a knife into the man's remaining eye.  "You'll hurt yourself if you try to move now."

Oh, Dick would hurt himself, not Slade's knot would fucking tear him open if he tried to jerk away.

"Dick?"  Slade's voice sounded so gentle.  Such a lie.

"Fuck you," Dick tried to snarl, but it came out broken and half a whimper and Dick ducked his head against his arm as Slade lifted up to see him.

He couldn't hide it, not entirely, and Slade made a soft sound, one hand letting go of Dick's wrists to brush the tear tracks on his face.  "I'm sorry, little bird," Slade said slowly, "I had to—"

Dick jerked his head back to glare up at Slade, cheeks puffy and eyes still wet.  "Had to?" he repeated, voice as low as he could get it, chest heaving and rage-fury-betrayal running through his veins.  "Keeping your cock in your fucking pants is beyond Deathstroke the Terminator's infamous skillset?"

Slade looked down at him, face impassive and jaw tight.  "Will you let me explain," he said evenly, voice clipped.

"Explain?!"  Dick's voice broke on the screech and, to his horror, it cracked completely, his entire body trembling as he failed to control it.  He tried to take a deep breath and suppress the tears, but it broke halfway through and he dissolved fully into sobs.

"Dick," Slade said, quiet and full of expertly feigned remorse, and he let go of Dick's wrists completely to instead wrap an arm around Dick's waist.  Dick let him, seeing no point in trying to attack a superpowered mercenary with his fucking knot still tying them together, and Slade shifted position, rolling onto his side and pulling Dick with him.

Dick ended up half on top of Slade, half tucked against his side, and he burrowed his head against Slade's shoulder as the tears dripped down.  He couldn't stop shaking, and as much as he hated it, the soft circles Slade was rubbing against his back were helping to lull him into calmness.  Complacency.  Stupid fucking omega hindbrain quieting with a noseful of Slade's scent.

"I'm sorry," Slade repeated, keeping up the quiet strokes.  "I didn't want to.  I made you a promise and I intended to keep it."  Dick snorted wetly and sniffled.  "You were dying, Dick," Slade said softly.

A jolt of alarm shot through Dick.  What.  "And you decided to see if you had a healing cock?" Dick snapped back, rigid and tense.

Slade exhaled.  "Ever heard of bond rejection?" he asked.

"What?"

"Bond rejection—sometimes an unstable claiming can lead to bond rejection, where the body of the claimed person believes that the claim is unfinished and seeks to rectify that."  Dick was slowly going cold—the rush of dizziness and fatigue after the bite, his unexpected heat, when it wasn't supposed to be for another month, the way he felt so much worse than normal—"Long story short, your heat was getting worse and worse, so we called the doctor.  She diagnosed you with bond rejection."

Dick swallowed.  He—he remembered feeling sick.  Tim's worried face.  Jason trying to soothe the pain that wracked aching muscles.

"The only way to stop it was to stabilize the claim."

Which meant completing the mating.  Something cold and unpleasant was roiling in his stomach, but Dick couldn't deny that he was feeling better. 

No nausea, no headache, no fever burning through him.  The unnatural warmth was dissipating too, replaced with the coolness of sweat drying.  He felt as weak as a newborn kitten, but he also felt more clearheaded than he'd been in days.

"I'm sorry," Slade repeated against his hair, keeping Dick tucked firmly against him.  "There was no other way."

Dick took a shaky breath and didn't answer.  But he also didn't try to push Slade away.

[inubaki]

splinter fractures

Bright light and an insistent rush of cool, scented air hit as the portal coalesced into being in front of them, and Charlie gave her father a quick kiss on the cheek before leaping straight in. Adam glanced down at Lucifer, not knowing whether he was meant to do something similar, but he took one look at Adam’s face and pulled him down by the shirt. After a brief kiss, no more than a brush of lips, Lucifer let him go and turned away.

Before the portal shut, Adam managed to quickly jump into it, landing on hard marble on the other side. To his surprise, they weren’t standing at the gates of Heaven, where he’d assumed they’d be portaled in, but rather a small office space. In front of him, there was a wall taken up by golden stained glass. Sat in gold seats at the low table that was the most predominant built of furnishing in the room, were Emily and Sera. Both were sitting with attentive postures, with Emily looking extremely pleased to see Charlie, and Sera with her token neutral expression. 

“Okay, this is new. Where are we?” Charlie asked.  ———— chapter 29 by @writingfromabox

not my best work but I’m happy to be able to do a few of these because life is hard and feels unfair sometimes. Deeeeepppp breaths!!!! And I’ll do better next time.

[atsadi-shenanigans]

What Shall We Become 16 - Sacrifices

The rogue is badly injured.

On AO3.

Fucking TRIGGER WARNING for torture and gore here.

Pain is everything. Wretched, grinding pain. Can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t think. He tries to sink into oblivion once again, but his thrice-cursed vampiric nature will not let him.

He’s broken. Blind. Can’t hear. Smells only blood—old and dead and his own. Worthless blood. He’s tasted it before (not a thinking creature, the master had decreed, red eyes leering; have a taste, boy and it was the most rancid thing to ever touch his tongue).

Rancid, undead blood. A mockery of life.

He’s…where? Why?

His thoughts won’t coalesce. Something touches him and his skull shifts and pain lights his hair on fire. There’s something deeply wrong with his head. It’s broken. He’s felt that before. Skull smashed like a sun melon.

Oh, what has he done.

The master rarely lets anger show so directly. It usually comes in disgust and annoyance. In a predator’s eyes in a dark room. But he can be pushed to anger. Astarion has a talent for it. Wretched, stupid boy.

He can’t remember what he’s done, this time, though.

Cold hands on him and his skin lights up in agony. He’s being dragged, he thinks. His siblings hauling him somewhere (he knows where). More than one, even. He’s made some terrible mistake. If they’re all here, if it takes all of them and not just Godey…

He whimpers.

There’s no point in fighting. There never is. The master will let them, sometimes. Let them have that small freedom. But exercising it makes it all so much worse. Yet compliance, when Astarion forces his own legs to move himself and his own arms to stretch out for the manacles, his reward is the master’s chilled fingers sliding through his hair and a thin voice in his ear, “So pathetic you don’t even try.”

He doesn’t know how long they drag him. Must have been in a distant wing of the palace. He can’t remember this night at all. Doesn’t know what he’s done or failed to do to draw the master’s ire like this.

It doesn’t really matter. Master doesn’t need a reason. At least not one Astarion’s stupidity needs to understand. He’s so worthless, so insignificant, he can’t even comprehend the lessons the master must carve into him, over and over again. He must be corrected so frequently.

Eventually, they stop. Eventually, his siblings haul him onto a table. His own blood is so thick he can’t smell the stink of the kennels. He’s not sure that’s an improvement.

Then they pull his arms up and oh, he’s truly shattered, isn’t he? Ragged fractures twist and tear him internally as they move him and he cannot stop the screams. The master laughs; he enjoys Astarion’s screams. They’re the sweetest of them all.

New pain starts. Hot slashing, scraping over his ribs. Is Godey starting with a flailing? It’s been some time since he’s experienced that one. The screams begin in earnest, now.

Voices warble. His previous injuries have filled his ears with blood, likely crushed his ear canals entirely. There are no words, no sense. Just warbles and his own, pathetic cries.

Godey hoots and jeers, as Godey does, wretched beast. And then they pull at the incision. He’s being dissected. He wishes he knew what he did so he can beg properly. Sometimes—very, very rarely—that works. The master appreciates a good grovel, especially in front of an audience: his siblings and guests alike. Likes to show his power and control.

But Astarion can’t remember, and can only scream as skin is ripped open and scraped from underlying muscle.

“…more! Bleed more!”

Doesn’t know that voice. The master must have company. A special guest. Perhaps Astarion did nothing at all and the master just wanted to show off his most beautiful creation. Those are the worst nights.

Something nudges him inside his broken head. His fuzzy thoughts blur a moment. The master is often in their thoughts, but never so small. And the master is right here, overseeing Astarion’s correction.

Another nudge. Something urgent. Something angry.

He’s failing his punishment. The master means to make a pretty example of him. But he cannot move to thrash, cannot think to plead. His eyes are ruined and he can’t even cry as the torment continues. A poor example. A failure, even in this.

Frustration, now. And…and fear. No, not just fear.

Terror.

…that. Is not the master.

Something in his skull crunches. His body tries to stitch itself together even as the tearing continues. That’s Godey’s favorite part. The way Astarion’s body struggles despite his mind knowing better. He lets Astarion heal, just a little. Expend whatever meager rat blood he’s consumed enough for the nerves to reconnect. And then starts again. For the challenge. Grind Astarion down until even his body fails. Because to lift one up, to shape them to perfection, they must first be destroyed.

Sound filters in. Still warbling (must be the blood or the brains in his ears). But it’s enough to make out chanting.

“Boooal! Boooal!”

What in the hells is a boooal?

A knife cuts into him again. The air is thick and stinking. Fingers inside him as something jeers as it hooks fingers between his ribs and tugs.

He screams again. The master’s favorite sound. Drawing it out, playing Astarion’s agony like a musician with a lute.

He hears…water. A soft lapping behind the chanting and his own vocal chords go ragged.

There’s no water in the kennels. Only blood. Old and rotten and his own.

“Boooal! Boooal!”

“Yes! Bleed! Bleed more!”

The air shifts. He catches the scent of that water, cool and dark. And of…fish.

This isn’t the kennels, is it? And if it’s not the kennels…

Something else clicks and crunches in his head and a memory floats up: he fell. In the Underdark. He was running with his…his illustrious leader. And something exploded and knocked him into the depths and shattered him.

Something taps in his head again. It almost feels like her. But he remembers that, too. She was in his mind (and he in hers). She saw it. Saw his own memory. The river. The rope. His knife.

She knows he cut her loose and left her to die. She’ll see right through everything that came after, all his pathetic attempts to soothe the ire he knew would come eventually. Of course she would find out. He always knew, deep down, she would find out because good things do not last. This, the thing rummaging around inside him, that is reality.

He might actually die here. After all the running. After everything. Not an illithid tadpole. Not an orc club or a goblin arrow or even a githyanki blade. He’s going to be torn to pieces by what sounds and smells like fish.

A pathetic end. A pathetic failure. That’s all he is, anyway.

At least he’s not in the kennels. At least Cazador won’t get him back.

His arms won’t move and neither will his legs. He must have crushed his skull and probably his spine. He can’t get away. He ought to resign himself and save himself the trouble. There were times he prayed to the darker gods for something like this. Any way out. Anything at all.

And yet.

“Bleed the sacrifice!”

Whatever gurgling monstrosity hovers over him reeks of putrid blood. “Bleed him for Boooal!”

“Boooal! Boooal!”

Ah. He’s being sacrificed to another god he’s never heard of. There certainly is a crop of those popping up all along the Sword Coast this year, aren’t there?

And yet.

He doesn’t want to die. He didn’t two centuries ago. And while that hasn’t held true all the time since then, it does once more. He doesn’t want to die down here, soaked in his own blood, surrounded by stink and fish and rot. Blind.

Alone.

He doesn’t want to die alone.

“…arion.”

The voice in his head. Oh wonderful. He’s hallucinating. Perhaps he can lean into that and get out of his own cracked skull while his body succumbs to the grave he clawed out of centuries ago. Perhaps he still has a soul (unlikely). Perhaps he can find the others and haunt them.

“…starion…”

The gith? No, too boring. And besides, she might have some astral ability to blast him to another plane. The Blade would simply exorcise him. As would the cleric. The tiefling? No, no, she doesn’t deserve that. The wizard, then?

“Astarion.”

Unless someone is very good at using the tadpole. But the only one so far good enough to form words is the wizard (he gets the sense the gith can, but doesn’t deign to). But that voice doesn’t sound like the wizard, and Astarion has blocked himself off. Thrown up every wall he can because he cannot stop what is happening to him (never can, stupid boy, weak runt) but he can damn well hide in his own mind, at least from them. But something slips through his walls. Slips through because it’s familiar. Because he’s recently been part of it and she halts at the soft edges of his consciousness. Waiting.

He’s usually the one who needs an invitation to enter.

His illustrious leader. Not dead. Not even distant. What…?

He reaches out. And she pulls him in as she did before. He can almost touch the inside of her skull, trace the contours of the bone from the inside. Then he’s staring out through her shit eyes.

Everything dim, in shades of gray and faint blue. A vast lake. The upturned front of a boat (the bow) ringed in chanting fish creatures. A be-gored figure standing over a table, and upon that table, some broken thing, all white and red.

It’s him. She’s looking at his mangled self as the disgusting figure raises a knife again.

Her rage is the sharpest thing he’s ever felt.

Eleanor.

She’s right there. Slipping along a rocky outcrop at the edges of the horrid camp or temple or whatever it is.

She’s too close. She’s not stealthy. Can’t melt into the shadows as he does and she’ll be seen. Be captured. Be dragged to the table to join him, only her mortal, human body won’t stand up to this as his own does and they’ll both be tortured to death by whatever even is that?

But then a memory: digging through a pack (his own) (must have dropped it) (she found it, her vision blurring for some reason). A bottle filled with liquid silver. An invisibility potion. Taste of absolutely nothing in a way that makes her grimace.

She’s invisible. Slinking along the edges, creeping closer. She’s not speaking to his mind through the tadpoles. She’s simply gotten close enough for his unnatural ears to catch her voice.

Why. Why is she even here?

And the danger of that tadpole connection is that she can feel his thoughts as her own when they’re not careful (the pain, the stretching and tearing of his muscles and the pink of his skin turned inside out).

She lets her thoughts be his in this moment: she returned for him.

It makes no sense. It’s pure idiocy. There’s no reason—

The knife cuts and the gore-slicked fucking little goblin cackles and clasps its hands as Astarion wrenches and oh.

Oh, her rage is a thing to behold. Not a fire. Not a storm. Not any of the terms poets usually describe it as. Hers is a blade: clean and sharp and glowing cherry red as it burns. It’s aimed at that figure, at the fish. She’s going to kill that goblin. It’s not a question. Not a suggestion or a want or a wish. She’s going to kill it as certain as she breathes; she only needs to find the right approach.

And for that, she’s fallen to her usual habits.

It’s not a habit.

It very much is, darling.

The smooth vial in her hand. Her skin tingles where the liquid sloshes inside. A shade of orange found at the edge of a flame, shifting to hot blue where it ripples in its confinement.

What’s an “emotional support grenade?”

She didn’t mean to let that slip.

Arsonists oil. The one he gave her.

She’s close enough now to smell them all even with her dim, human senses. The heavy stink of fish, the stomach-churning sweetness of rot, and the thick, metallic reek of blood, old and coagulated.

The figure (goblin) above him sways back, its head falling as it inhales. The fish flail around in devotional frenzy.

She hefts the vial. Cuts their connection. He slams back into his grinding, screaming body, blinded and paralyzed as every nerve lights in agony.

Glass shatters. And it’s as if the world (Eleanor) manifests his own agony into reality as scorching heat flashes over him and the fish scream.

The thing over him (he doesn’t think it’s a goblin) shouts. Everything hurts, everything burns.

And then a rush over him. Something crashes. Screams. The sound of wood bashing flesh.

He can’t move, can’t see. Can’t know what’s going on and he can’t—can’t—he needs to see.

He finds the doorway to her through their connection. She’s distracted. He doesn’t need to sink into her this time, only skim along the edges until he finds the shape of her eyes.

If she notices, she doesn’t react. She’s rather busy. Everything in her is focused. A razor’s edge aimed at that awful creature. It’s short thing, with a sharp chin and a mouth full of needle teeth. Familiar. Seen it before.

Fire boils in the midst of the fish creatures. Two lie, presumably, dead. Others back away. Many are scorched.

She sees this in a glance, and hones back in on her target.

Goblin, she calls it. It’s not, but he’s in no shape to correct her.

The goblin screeches and swipes with the knife still sticky with his blood. She backs away, holding still at it flails. As it screams insults and pink spittle froths at its lips.

It can’t see her. Good. She’d never believed in a fair fight (one of her most admirable traits). The goblin moves fast for her to angle behind it (which she would prefer). And it’s too close to that table and the gurgling thing upon it for her to risk another grenade.

Fear twists through her. He doesn’t understand why. She’s not in the goblin’s reach, isn’t—

Kill it. End it. Tear it apart.

That fear falls beneath the anger. She’s got her whacking stick (staff). No poison robes, though. A fucking pity. But that stick’s pretty damn solid and she demonstrates this by smashing down at the horrid beast.

It senses the blow. Tries to dodge. The staff swipes down the side of its arm. Then the thing grabs it, twists, nearly pulls it from her.

She remembers a fight like this: Lae’zel and Harvey Dent. She doesn’t think. There’s no thoughts. Only that rage and her purpose and she lets go.

The goblin stumbles back. She’s already on it. Grabs its face and shoves it back. They hit the table and pain blasts through Astarion’s body—

Fuck! I’m sorry!

And the goblin kicks. Scrabbles. She doesn’t have the strength to wrestle it, but she does have the bulk. Lae’zel said something about that once, huh?

She slams it down. Reaches for the eyes, fingers hooked into claws. Take out the eyes, cripple it, don’t get up, don’t let it get up.

The goblin shoves its chin down. Those needle teeth sink into her forearm. She shouts (hollers) and jerks back, but it don’t let go. It’s slicker than shit and manages to twist out of her hold. The knife flashes, and she has to stumble back again. But not before kicking out and connecting as pain rakes down her shin.

No, no. It needs to die. It needs to not exist. That thing will end.

She throws her staff. It goes visible as it leaves her hands; the goblin snarls and swipes but she’s moving again. Grabs something at her neck—careful, be careful fucking ringwraith shit—and bashes the thing full in the face with a metal flask.

The goblin screams. Throws something (poison; Astarion’s lungs stop their labored, habitual panting). But Eleanor—

She lowers her head, holds her breath, and plows into it. Through it. Grabs it like a spitting, clawing cat and slams the both of them down to the ground. Grabs a fistful of gore-slicked hair and pops the thing’s skull against the ground. Once. Twice. Then spots the end of her staff and plucks that up, lunges backwards to her feet.

Before it can do little more than hiss, she’s on it.

There’s a strategy to her work, though he doubts she’s conscious of it (never get up, don’t never get up, you don’t get to hurt nobody motherfucker). She systematically begins to smash the creature apart. Crunches and shatters the joints, like she did with that gith in the mountain pass.

The knees, so it can’t get up and can’t run.

The elbows, so it can’t claw at her.

A shot to the neck because that is her favorite spot, not that he can blame her.

And then the face.

That part isn’t necessary. The beast will die after she crushed its throat. But she’s on a roll, and he’s certainly not going to stop her.

Die, die, die! her mind chants over and over, in that same frozen, almost detached way he realizes she slips into when she’s like this.

She beats it beyond dead. Past having a face. Spatters of blood coat everything and he’s sure it freckles his own body.

(he wonders what it would taste like if he licked it off her skin)

And then the silence finally registers. To the both of them. And she pauses to look up; stomach lurches as her gaze skitters over his ruin but he’s seen his own insides before and she notices him in her head at that thought and they both backpedal—

Astarion slams once more into his broken puppet of a body. Agony drowns everything for a moment—he feels air where there shouldn’t be any, and if he were a living man, he knows he wouldn’t feel it for long.

“You have killed out god?” burbles a fishman.

Eleanor leans in over Astarion, smelling of blood and sweat and fury and he wants to turn his face into her warmth.

“Can you light this when I say?” she says. Holds something over his head and she found his secret stash of sparkpowder, didn’t she?

“Yes,” he manages. His mouth is full of his own, rancid blood. It spatters over his face when he forces air out of his shivering lungs.

“Our Boooal?” a fish says.

“All you shits stay the fuck back, or you’re fucking next!”

“He killed Boooal.”

Which starts another chanting of that stupid name.

She fumbles with the rope—simple rope; a testament for how mangled he is that something so simple and rotten could hold him down like this. Swears in her own tongue and the words come out thick and trembling. Funny, he hadn’t felt her fear of the fish when he was in her mind.

“Boooal was a liar!” A different voice. The others fall silent. “Boooal was not a god!”

A murmur runs through their audience, and it sounds like wind rustling a flooded field of long grass.

“Boooal not god?”

“Boooal! Boo—ah!”

“Boooal was an impostor! A test!”

“Astarion, what the fuck’re those things,” she says as she manages to free one of his hands.

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t reach up to free his other hand as he ought to. For some reason he cannot fathom, he reaches down to find his skin and lift it, burning and screaming, back into place over his ribs, like a maiden clutching at what modesty she can find after something horrible.

Eleanor makes an injured sound. Her own wounds must be finally hurting her.

“I’ve no…idea,” he says, in between bouts of choking on his blood.

“A test!” the fish shout in a chorus.

“A test!” the first repeats. “A test from our true god!”

Her fingers still over his other wrist.

“Our true god! Mah-gloompah!”

“Mah-gloompah! Mah-gloompah!”

The chant takes up, sounding rather like some deranged devotional, if all of the congregation had previously drowned. A sick gurgling that sweeps over them both.

“Hail, Mah-gloompah!”

“It seems,” he manages, “that you’ve become a god, dear.”

***

Heads up that I'll be taking a week off to catch up. Chapter 17 should be next, next Wednesday, September 11.

[venstm]

@chipen ♡ That  proud,  impeccable  facade  hawk’s  donned  for  the  sake  of  the  public  was  nothing  short  of  a  farce.  He  knew  how  it  fractured,  fissures  burgeoning  to  the  edges  of  those  majestic,  red  feathers,  apertures  opening so  wide  and  cavernous  that  they  might  swallow  him.  It  was  reflected  in  his  discerning  gaze,  in  the  way  he  always  sought  the  most  advantageous  option,  appraising  details  others  might  glance  over  with  precision  that  was  a  prerequisite  to  survival.  Dabi  knew  what  it  looked  like  because  it  was  integrated  in  him  as  well,  the  act  of  survival  in  spite  of  every  outward  factor  aiming  for  your  inevitable  demise,  it  was  like  glimpsing  an  apparition  of  his  past  in  shattered  fragments  of  glass.  They  were  a  similar  breed  of  despicable,  Hawks  just  fell  within  the  purview  of  the  heroes  in  a  way  Dabi  never  could.  Ah,  if  only  he  had  turned  out  like  him,  wouldn’t  that  old  bastard  of  his  be  proud  of  him  then.  His  skin  itched,  a  recurring,  incessant  crawling  beneath  the  pieces  of  desiccated  skin  his  staples  kept  secured.  His  steps  behind  the  hero  were  furtive,  silent,  his  presence  a  billowing  darkness  that  seeped  around  his  peripheries  and  blinded  him  with  the  imminent  scent  of  acrid  smoke.  ❝  just  on  time,  actually.  ❞  his  retort  was  effortless,  casual,  the  sort  of  blasé  that  promised  every  encounter  of  theirs  would  play  out  in  a  similar  way.  It  doesn’t  disguise  the  fact  that  the  two  of  them  had  gotten  far  more  intimate  than  any  hero  and  villain  ever  should,  didn’t  that  mark  Hawks  as  some  sort  of  ludicrous  rendition  of  a traitor,  even  if  he  was  playing  both  sides  effortlessly,  Dabi  was  only  here  to  do  his  part  in  Shigaraki’s  plans.  ❝  good’ta  know  you’re  still  keeping  tabs  on  me,  can’t  imagine  a  hero  like  you  has  anything  better  to  do. ❞  there's  heat  within  his  crooked  fingers  as  they  card  through  those  precious  feathers,  the  way  he  could  sear  the  imprint  of  his  blighted  hands  into  the  sinuous  curve  of  his  spine,  right  between  them,  a  temptation  he  would,  for  now,  repress.  He  doesn’t  notice  the  bleeding,  never  does  these  days,  as  if  the  sensation  of  pain  had  become  so  repetitive  that  it  was  dull,  boring.  Hawk’s  does,  his  astute  senses  grazing  over  Dabi’s  grotesque  features  before  reaching  out  and  swiping  it  away,  it  was  such  a  tender  gesture  that  it  made  his  insides  churn  with  what  he  decided  was  disgust.  ❝  not  to  get  ahead  of  myself  but,  you  don’t  keep  your  interests.  ❞  they  both  know  what  is  implied  within  that  accentuated  word  ❝  very  well  hidden. ❞    it  was  intended  to  sound  derisive  but  as  his  voice  dips  an  octave  or  two  lower,  the  rasp  returning  in  a  cruel,  taunting  sort  of  way,  it  comes  out  far  more  sultry.  

The  ruthless  blue  of  his  eyes  gaze  down  at  the  hero,  a  coalescence  of  resentment  and  barely  concealed  lust  growing  lucent  within  them.    ❝  we  should  get  down’ta  business,  i  would  hate  for  you  to  feel  like  you’re  wastin’  your  time  with  me.  ❞   long,  gaunt  fingers  skim  over  the  soft  inner  skin  of  his  wrist,  tilting  his  head,  a  signal  to  beckon  Hawks  inside  the  warehouse.  Out  here,  where  the  rooftop  was  wide  and  open  there  was  a  tacit  advantage  had  over  him  and  it  was  quite  obvious  where  he  stood  with  that  knowledge.  What  he  had  in  store  for  that  little  two-faced  hero  well,  that  was  still  to  be  decided  depending  on  how  volatile  he  was  feeling  after  listening  to  his  little  spiel  and  who  could  say,  maybe  a  little  gratuitous  violence  would  get  them  both  going.  ❝  you  coming  or  what,  birdie  ?  ❞  and  he  turned  his  back  on  him  and  began  the  trek  inside,  knowing  how  unwise  it  was  but  his  posture  was  far  too  casual  to  give  away  how  tense  it  might  have  made  him.  Leave  that  speculation  up  to  the  pros.  

[paladinbaby]

i feel like it’s potentially relevant i keep track of these all in a discord channel called nettle spiralling. family portrait of nettle nolastname

@july-19th-club / my nieces is probably the reincarnation of shirley jackson, cj hauser with notes / all about love, bell hooks / where angels fear to tread, e m forster / antichrist, the 1975 / elisabeth hewer / haunted epistemologies, laura westengard / letters to a young poet, rainer maria rilke / sam sifton / the anthropocene reviewed, john green

[Image Description: Ten pictures of text.

1: “simply cannot resist what i call the little mermaid or the tin man or the pinocchio plot, the one about a character who is either inhuman or human but outside in some way, constantly searching for whatever it is that they consider to be the quintessential proof of humanity, preoccupied by it so deeply that they fail to realise the proof is in the act and fact of the search itself”

2: “”What does it mean for the structure of your life to feel menacing? To be imprisoned within it? To feel like it might kill you?”

Haunting is an act of care, care is an act of haunting. Haunting is formed between the trauma, mothers inflict on their daughters.”

3: “We can never go back. I know that now. We can go for-ward. We can find the love our hearts long for, but not until we let go grief about the love we lost long ago, when we were little and had no voice to speak the heart’s longing.” The first three sentences are highlighted in red.”

4: “I seem fated to pass through the world without colliding with it or moving it - and I’m sure I can’t tell you whether the fate’s good or evil. I don’t die - I don’t fall in love. And if other people die or fall in love they always do it when I’m just not there.”

5: “And I swear there's a ghost on this island / And his hands, all covered in blood / And my wife inquired of understanding / But of course, my dear, you can't

She said, How can I relate to somebody who doesn't speak?/ I feel like I'm just treading water

Is it the same for you? / Is it the same for you?”

6: “I want to be eaten alive. I want / to feel wanted.”

7: “cultural anxieties and desires, allowing”for a whole range of specific monstrosities to coalesce in the same form.” The excesses of monstrosity and the hybridity of the living dead help visualize naturalized oppressive structures, making those structures uncanny and therefore intervening in the architecture of oppression. Both haunting and sadomasochism appear in queer thought as expressions of queer temporality that expose a particular type of traumatic temporality. Haunting manifests the swirl-ing, fractured, intersecting temporality of ongoing low-level trauma, not just a single event popping through into the present but a disorienting and overwhelming storm of traumatic intrusion.

The traumatic gothic shadow cast on queer theory is not always made explicit however.” The initial sentence fragment and queer temporality are highlighted in blue. The penultimate sentence is highlighted in purple.

8: “You must realise that something is happening to you, that life has not forgotten you, that it holds you in its hands and will not let you fall.”

9: “Above all, cook for someone else. Take a moment to prepare food not simply because you’re hungry, but because cooking is an act that makes others feel better. And making the lives of others better is why we are here.”

10: A photo of a page of a book, some lines are highlighted in yellow throughout. “would like that, to show it your belly. There’s something deep within me, something intensely fragile, that is terrified of turning itself to the world.

I’m scared to even write this down, because I worry that having confessed this fragility, you now know where to punch. I know that if I’m hit where I am earnest, I will never recover.

It can sometimes feel like loving the beauty that surrounds us is somehow disrespectful to the many horrors that also surround us. But mostly, I think I’m just scared that if I show the world my belly it will devour me. And so I wear the armor of cynicism, and hide behind the great walls of irony, and only glimpse beauty with my back turned to it, through the Claude glass.

But I want to be earnest, even if it’s embarrassing.”

End ID.]

[tgrailwar-zero]

Perhaps once we’re fully on our feet we can join you in jolly co-operation in fighting the foe that has taken over the Moon Cell.

SLAYER: "That's the hope! That Titan that took everything- that Titan that wished to destroy humanity! We're the only ones standing in it's way!"

KEEPER: "We won't ask you to do anything you don't want to, but your help would be appreciated."

SLAYER: "Ahaha! And-- this Solar Cell is a secure box. It can bang on the 'outside' for eons if it wants, it's not getting through. Which gives us plenty of time to prepare and come up with a perfect plan. We were each summoned for a reason. That's right! You must have come for a reason! More allies, willing to go into the fray and join us in saving Humanity!"

PRIESTESS: "…Once the core of the Solar Cell gathers enough power, then we can begin our assault. It'll be far from 'jolly', our adversary carved through true Divine Spirits from the Age of Gods. Just thinking about fighting it gives me the chills, bringing back horrible memories…"

PRIESTESS: "But we can't afford to be cowardly! If something has to be done, then we'll have to do it!"

SLAYER: "Hear, hear! We ride in ready to die, and thus we shall prosper! Ahahahahahaha!"

KEEPER: "Hah, look at you, matching Slayer's energy. Well, not exactly, she's still a few notches higher. Still... I like this, it's better than your usual gloomy self. Maybe you really are feeling a bit more hope?"

PRIESTESS: "Maybe you're right, either way… I can't waver. I am of a unique body, but I was summoned with this strange Saint Graph for a reason. And if that means laying down some dragon-fox wrath, then so be it!"

PRIESTESS: "We'll show that Umbral Star the might of the Sun!"

.

..

...

You felt a shudder.

At this point, you knew the rest.

War, fire, death. It was as if not to torture your brain with irony for much longer, your mind mentally began fast forwarding through everything else. There wasn't any changing the past, after all.

At some point, you recalled that you had slain the Slayer.

...Your fractured memory told you that it wasn't easy.

You recalled the moment of your 'end'. Where you had been cast away, and sealed.

The last time you had recalled this moment, it had been more twisted. More horrifying, more monstrous, more viscous. A beast, clad in shadow, mechanically slaughtering you and casting you into the abyss.

Now, the memory was clearer.

Powerful magic coalescing, a sealing spell beyond compare. The Priestess of the Sun had her hands raised, her expression bitter and filled with betrayal and contempt. A goddess that had seen tragedy, and now was more than willing to enact divine retribution.

A voice screaming. Hoarse.

"For what reason… for what purpose?!" "Show me, tell me, do something! Please!" "Why did you destroy my world…? Why did you crush my dream…? We could have saved everything! Avenged everyone! And now... and now it's gone! Are you happy?! Are you proud?! The war is over before it even began!"

"I'll… I'll curse you! For a thousand years, I'll curse you! May you and your sins burn for a thousand, thousand eternities!"

She brought down her hands with rage, the might of a wrathful god slamming down on you and pushing you deeper and deeper into darkness.

Deeper and deeper.

Blacker and blacker.

Dark, for so long.

You felt your hands let go of the teabowl. Not even a second had passed, it seemed.

The sweet taste ended bittersweet in your mouth. Still, it felt a bit like a jolt. It'd be easy to stay in that memory forever, but waking up was the important part- as hard as it was, sometimes.

RIKYU: "..."

RIKYU: "..."

RIKYU: "I see."

[tinytinyblogs]

Stray Kids Mafia Series: Changbin

Once he sets his gaze upon you, he vows to return for you.

(mafia theme, non-idol au)

💌I might update it when I remember; switching from one thing to another almost made me forget about this Tumblr, but I'll still ensure to listen to any of your requests or stories.

Stray kids masterlist here

Your insights and reactions make these posts come alive. Love reblogs, comments, and all the good vibes welcome ✨

Beneath the icy caress of the night wind, the world shivered. Darkness draped itself like a shroud over the forgotten alleyway, where Changbin sat hunched, a wounded warrior adrift in a sea of pain. His battle-scarred flesh, an intricate tapestry of crimson and bone, mirrored the brutal symphony that echoed in his aching limbs. Even a whisper of movement seemed an insurmountable ordeal, each tortured groan an echo in the oppressive silence. The quiet city hummed faintly in the distance, a distant serenade against the oppressive stillness that swallowed the alley whole. But then, the silence fractured. A presence materialized beside him, a shadow coalescing into form and settling onto the unforgiving stone. Changbin's weary eyes, heavy with the weight of pain and exhaustion, cracked open just a touch. He met your gaze, a mix of concern and an enigmatic curiosity swirling within its depths. Your voice, a quiet melody in the harsh nocturne, cut through the silence. "I won't offer you this ice cream because based on your condition, you're on your deathbed." you stated, the gentleness of your words belying the firm conviction in your tone. The air thickened with unspoken questions. Who were you, a ghost conjured by the delirium of his wounds, or a savior emerging from the inky night? Your mere presence was a spark, a flicker of warmth in the desolate expanse of his pain. And though his body thrummed with the chilling whispers of defeat, Changbin found himself inexplicably drawn to the enigma before him, to the promise of answers hidden within your shadowed eyes.

The air buzzed with unspoken tension as your words hung heavy in the alleyway's stagnant air. "So, no ice cream for you, then," you reiterated, your voice unwavering despite the chaos that still resonated from Changbin's fight. He stared at you, his brows furrowed in a confused frown. Your presence, here in this desolate purgatory, amidst the smoldering embers of his brutal encounter, was as incongruous as a hummingbird in a hurricane. "You shouldn't be here," he rasped, his voice a strained whisper through the grit of his teeth. He understood the danger, the razor-thin edge on which he teetered, and your presence, somehow, magnified it. You, however, simply nodded, acknowledging the unspoken truth of his statement. That calm veneer you wore, so at odds with the icy night and the still-fresh echoes of violence, only heightened his bewilderment. "I figured," you remarked, taking another deliberate bite of your ice cream. The incongruity of the action – the sweet, milky taste against the backdrop of raw grit and danger – sent shivers down Changbin's spine. It was as if you were relishing the very dissonance of the scene, the cold treat a perverse counterpoint to the heat of his wounds. "The way you fought back there," you continued, your gaze unwavering, "it was like something ripped straight out of an action movie." Your admission lingered in the air, a heavy weight settling on his battered chest. Your presence, the evidence of your witness to his desperate struggle, was a thorn in his side.

You shouldn't be here, a silent observer in the shadows of his clandestine world. You should have faded away, a fleeting apparition lost in the night, yet here you sat, your cool demeanor and icy treat only amplifying the surrealness of the moment. The mafia's brutal dance had concluded, curtains drawn on their bloody ballet, yet you remained, an anomaly in the aftermath, and Changbin couldn't help but wonder – who were you, and what game were you playing in this unforgiving alleyway? "Leaving you here to bleed out," you countered, your voice calm yet firm, "wasn't exactly on my itinerary tonight." Your words, simple yet resolute, defied the logic of the situation. Stepping into this murky underworld, negotiating with shadows and secrets, was far from your preferred terrain. Yet, the sight of him – a warrior carved from stone, now brought low by invisible blades – had ignited a dormant ember of empathy within you. Ignoring him, letting him slip into the oblivion of shadows, was a fate you couldn't bear to witness. "If your man doesn't show up in a few minutes, I'll have to drag your hulking frame to the hospital myself." Changbin's voice, rasping through cracked lips, was a gravelly whisper in the echoing symphony of the city's distant hum. His words, "You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into," hung heavy in the air, a grim foreboding that settled on the frigid night like a shroud of ash. It was more than a warning; it was a lament, a resignation sung by a man who knew the darkness all too well and saw you, a moth drawn to his flickering flame, teetering on the precipice of his perilous world.

You turned, meeting his gaze head-on. His features, etched with the stark lines of past battles, remained an enigma, a carefully crafted mask that shielded his true intentions. You felt a shiver dance down your spine, like the first brush of icy wind against bare skin. "I don't know," you admitted, your voice steady despite the thrumming pulse of adrenaline in your veins. "Who you are, I mean. But judging by the symphony of bruises adorning you and the echoes of that brawl still hanging in the air, 'normal person' wouldn't exactly be the apt title for your biography." Your words hung in the air, a spark of defiance challenging the unspoken threat simmering in his shadowed eyes. You pressed on, the image of him fighting like a cornered beast still fresh in your mind. "But," you continued, your voice softening, "at least you should acknowledge the fact that in this city of indifference, I choose to care. I chose to stay, not turn a blind eye to a wounded warrior bleeding in the dark." A flicker of something, maybe surprise, maybe grudging respect, crossed his face as you spoke. He shifted, wincing as pain lanced through his battered body. A low growl escaped his lips, laced with a raw edge that sent another shiver skittering across your skin. "I could kill you, you know," he rasped, his eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. "Right here, right now." His words were a blunt warning, a testament to the life he navigated, a world where violence was a currency traded on the dark corners of the night. You met his gaze unflinchingly, choosing honesty as your shield. "Sure," you retorted, a surprising calmness washing over you. "Kill me after you catch your breath, though. You look like you're about to drop dead on your own right now."

Changbin squinted in the dim, lamplight casting shadows that danced across your face. Despite the grime and the raw edge of danger hanging heavy in the air, you held yourself with a cool audacity that intrigued him. Your sharp wit, a flickering spark in the darkness, ignited a begrudging smile on his lips. It felt strange, almost wrong, to find himself enjoying your company amidst the throbbing pain in his body and the cold bite of the night. Yet, you were a welcome distraction, a melody playing against the harsh symphony of his reality. The sound of an approaching car shattered the fragile peace. Changbin's instincts, honed by years of navigating the shadows, jolted awake. He reacted with the speed of a striking viper, pulling you into the deeper darkness of the alleyway. You found yourselves huddled together, the night an inky cloak shielding you from unseen eyes. His senses on high alert, Changbin scanned the surroundings, his jaw clenched tight. "So much for killing me," you whispered, your voice a soft echo in the charged silence. "Why protect me now?" The question, laced with a hint of amusement, pierced through the tension. You felt the heat of his glare even in the darkness, a silent warning to remain quiet. His hiss, "Shut up," was clipped, rough around the edges, but beneath it, you sensed a flicker of something else – concern, perhaps, or a begrudging respect for your audacity.

Changbin's body coiled like a striking serpent, taut with tension at the approaching headlights. But as the silhouettes of his men materialized from the car, his muscles slowly unfurled, a grudging acceptance settling over him. He didn't release your hand, though. It remained clasped in his, a surprising warmth amidst the cold steel of his resolve. Emerging from the alleyway, he moved with quiet confidence, a stark contrast to the raw violence that had just played out. His presence exuded a steely aura, even amidst the bruises and torn flesh painting his body. He gestured towards his men with a curt nod, guiding you with his gaze, the unspoken promise of protection hanging heavy in the air. Standing before you, battered but unbowed, Changbin couldn't deny the strange allure that had woven itself around you. Your presence, like a stray ember glowing in the desolate wasteland of his world, had kindled something within him. A flicker of curiosity, a spark of fascination – emotions he'd never acknowledged before. You were a puzzle piece he couldn't quite place, a discordant note in the harsh symphony of his life, yet he found himself drawn to the dissonance, the intriguing melody you played just beneath the surface. The night wind whipped around you, whispering secrets Changbin couldn't decipher. His men moved swiftly, shadows engulfing them once more. He watched them go, his grip on your hand tightening for a fleeting moment before reluctantly releasing it. As they dissolved into the darkness, Changbin met your gaze once more, a silent question lingering in his eyes.

"What are you looking at?" Your question, echoing against the grimy walls of the alleyway, hung in the air like a misplaced melody. Its innocence, stark against the backdrop of your recent audacity, painted a confusing portrait in Changbin's mind. Was it naivety, sheer obliviousness to the danger you'd waded into, or something else entirely? A calculated defiance, a spark of rebellion hidden beneath those luminous eyes? He started to explain "I told you," the words heavy on his tongue like leaden weights. "You don't know what you've gotten yourself into," he began, his voice a low rumble in the night. But then, the streetlight bathed you in its pale luminescence, and for the first time, he saw you clearly. The moonlight, like a sculptor's chisel, revealed the delicate lines of your face, the soft arc of your lips, the firefly glint in your eyes. And for a moment, the chaos, the pain, the weight of his world, everything faded away. He found himself…enjoying the view. Your arrival, a whirlwind of action and defiance, had ripped through the carefully constructed walls of his existence. You were a glitch in the matrix, a discordant note in the grim symphony of his life, and he couldn't ignore the dissonance it awakened within him. The words he spoke, echoing in the stillness, carried a double meaning. You'd stepped into his world, uninvited yet undeniable, and with that came an unspoken understanding, a pact forged in the crucible of the night.

His life, a labyrinth of shadows and secrets, had always operated on one principle: take what you want. And what he wanted, at that moment, was to understand you, to unravel the enigma you presented. You had dared to defy him, to offer him kindness amidst the carnage, and that act, that flicker of humanity in the darkness, had ignited a curiosity he couldn't suppress. It was a dangerous path, fraught with uncertainty, but the allure of the unknown, of this unexpected connection, was a siren song he couldn't resist. The moon, a silent witness to this dance of attraction and danger, bathed the alleyway in its silver glow. The air crackled with unspoken electricity, a battle of wills played out in the quiet space between them. And as Changbin met your gaze, his own emotions mirroring the turmoil within, he knew one thing for certain: this was just the beginning, the opening act in a drama more unpredictable than any he'd ever known. Changbin's voice, roughened by the night and the echoes of the recent struggle, dipped low as he spoke. "See you soon, pretty," he murmured, the husky endearment a stark contrast to the grim setting. His words, laced with a veiled promise, hung heavy in the air, a tangible weight settling between you. "Get yourself ready to keep seeing me," he added, his eyes glinting with an unyielding determination. "I wouldn't let someone like you go away from my sight easily." The last line, delivered with a quiet confidence, was more than just a statement; it was a declaration of intent, a promise carved into the night air.

© Tinytinyblogs

[dapurinthos]

having to write that scene so i can refer back to it later in-fic (the scene will not be in the fic) but i'm refusing to do anything but dialogue. & i was just 'if the visions themselves hurt, how can i make this worse?'

hansolowerefine.gif

“Do you know what it's like when all possible futures coalesce into one? It’s not an epiphany. It’s not a very nice feeling at all. It’s a collapse. It’s—it’s a death. A death of possibilities, of maybes, of, of hopes. It all collapses to a single point. Such hopes. All those possibilities collapsed down to a point, and—and all the maybes strangled by a single is, and now those hopes are shattered. There's all sorts of ways that futures are cut down. Krynda Hulis wrote about it like gardening. Prune this tree back to give that plant more light. Make sure the mint stays where it belongs. Stars, Ari hates mint. Do you know how long it took to find toothpaste that wasn't mint? I think I went to all the pharmacies in a five kilometre cubed area just to end up finding this weird, tree resin-flavoured toothpaste in some little Tionese grocery hidden in a tiny corner of the Embassy Mall. It tastes like someone doused a bunch of herbs in vanilla.” “You're delirious.” “I have a compound fracture in my left tibia that I forced back inside me that I'm barely holding in place with the Force and you're here to kill me.” “Not if—” “Part of keeping a garden is weeding it. No one ever thinks of the weeds. There are good weeds, like taraxa and chasuka. On some planets it’s weed, not a crop. Remember—remember when we ended up stranded on Aduba-3, out on the Triellus, because of the problems between the miners and those native priests?” “The Modirin Mining Concern.” “Of course you remember all the details. They were so mad that those priests were conducting funerals and burying the droids and cyborgs alongside the miners killed when that one chromium mine collapsed? And Rael raided that one maze-stalk field only to find out that there were still months to the harvest, so all the ones he brought back were underripe? Three days of taraxa leaves.”

[somecallmekay]

A Date at the Ball

@wonderwyrm and I prepare for the ball, 700 words, Blue Moon Ball

Evenings in spring usually tended to be on the warmer side, and tonight was no exception. The gentle heat of the setting sun slowly withdrew as the cool air kept everyone at a comfortable temperature, which was certainly aided to some extent by the magics enchanted. 

The sky was awash with colours of the setting sun, painting a diorama of hues accented by champagne pink clouds, carefully guiding the observers gaze towards the marble pillars which served as the main entrance to the hall, which was bustling with life. 

Wizards, witches, dragons, angels, wolfkin, everyone showed up dressed in their best. The Blue Moon Ball was certainly an event not to miss, and everything has been going smoothly, much thanks to the host.

Most people showed up slightly ahead of time, and we're socialising outside, save for one figure. 

Wyrm was dressed in a brilliant white dress, sparkling in the evening sun, reflecting the setting sun, yet underlit with a menagerie of colours, matching his wizard's hat and shoes. Bright and shiny, yet far from gauche, they razzled and dazzled in the crowd like fresh snow. 

Suddenly, the floor beneath them darkened, darkened, and darkened until it became a pool of pitch black. The shade, while still attached to their feet, moved slightly to the side, then something started rising out of it. Dark tendrils of darkness reached up into the sky, then coalesced into a singular form, stitching themselves into a humanoid body. 

She chuckled,and extended her hand towards the shape. “You're so dramatic, Kay.”

The body accepted his hand, the shadows fracturing to reveal their date for the ball, who turned the hand over and kissed the back, far too dramatically. “What can I say, it is the day to go all out. What'd you think?” they said, and slowly turned around, showing their outfit. 

A black suit, black shirt, they wore no tie, their neck adorned with a silver necklace in the shape of a small hammer, and an onyx pendant. They wore several black and silver bracelets, and a silver ring on their right middle finger. Their head was completely black and only reflecting some light, as if made out of ink. The outfits were completely different, yet instead of clashing, they accentuated each other beautifully. 

“Sharp,”came the answer, “but a little too black, don't you think?” The question was, of course, a joke, and immediately met with a response from his date. “I mean, I'm a living shadow, might as well lean into it. Anyways, damn, is this place nice or what?”

And like that, hands in pockets, all the theatricalities gone, just two friends hanging out dressed pretty. 

“Yeah, Lurien really went all out for this.” Wyrm responded cheerfully. “You can really see how much work he put in.”

“Same could be said for yourself, you look beautiful.”

“Aww, thank you! Took me a moment to get the enchantment exactly right, but it really paid off I think. Check this out!” he exclaimed and did a quick twirl. 

The lights of the dress went wild. Lights enchanted their glow, temporarily capturing the gaze of everyone around, and a round of polite applause followed. 

Kay was clapping the loudest, which wasn't saying much since golf claps aren't for noise, but regardless. 

“Bravo, beautiful. If they ever make a card game out of this ball, you're getting a holographic card just for that.”

“That might be the weirdest compliment I've gotten.”

“Gotten so far, the night is still young. Besides, the ball hasn't even sta-”

The massive doors into the building rumbled, and slowly opened, and a chime echoed through the grounds, signalling the ball had officially started. 

The shadow wytch paused. “huh. Colour me wrong I guess.”

Wyrm laughed, then offered his hand for their date to wrap their arm around. “Shall we then? My date?”

The teasing in her words was lightheaded, and instantly, she found a dark arm locked with hers. “After the Shadow Lillies and chocolates? Absolutely, darling.”

“Well, I did get a visit from someone who knew you'd like them. Tall, shadowy, black clothing.”

“I couldn't possibly imagine someone like that. Seriously, does their wardrobe have like, only one colour?”

They shared a laugh, just as they stepped into the halls. Oh yes, tonight was definitely a good night to go all out.

[silversiren1101]

I've Missed You - Drabble

[Blasted with this, need to get it out. Not proofread. Not edited and vetted for character voice and vibe check]

"...Apologies. I will return another time--" Regill halted immediately upon stepping into the Knight Commander's room, seeing she was not alone.

Sosiel Vaenic stood at her bedside, leaned over her still unconscious form. Sparks of golden light flitted from his fingers to where he was holding her arm, the motes melting over flesh and dull scales into the limp muscles beneath them. A way to prevent atrophy, Regill recognized. She'd been unconscious for over two weeks now, her reconstructed soul still not yet coalesced enough for her to wake. Without it, she'd be too weak to hold her hammer when she finally awoke, much less wear her armor...

Something about that gripped his chest with an unbearable tightness. The Knight Commander was not weak. She--Arangeir harbored a strength he'd seen in no one else, and yet he could only think of what'd happened in the deepest depths of her dreamscape at that thought. The core piece of her fractured soul--her in the truest sense of the word--had wailed in his arms, a sound he'd never heard from her before that'd pierced him surer than any spear. It hadn't been real, and yet it had. The dreamscape was more truth than it wasn't, in a sense. Her hot tears had both soaked his neck and hadn't. The body that shaken against his was her essence at its most pure, and so his had been, too. She'd shivered from the cold and felt cold, but the cold had been the unspeakable despair trying to snuff the last light of her remaining which he'd desperately tried to kindle to keep from going out completely. His actual fingers hadn't threaded through the feathers on the back of her neck as he'd pulled her close, but he could still feel the cold and damp of them there in reality. His actual arms hadn't wrapped around her, trying to banish the chill of death with his own body heat, but even through the thick bandages and sling keeping his left arm secure he resisted a shiver. And though she lay there, so quiet in her slumber, he heard the wracking sobs she'd held in for decades finally finding their way out, sounding so utterly broken it'd made his breath catch.

He was not made for comforting. He had not made himself to be comforting. He'd made himself to never need it himself.

And the thought of her, awake, whole again yet struggling to even hold the hammer and don the armor she'd always been so proud to wear filled him with such a wrongness. It made him want to leave. He felt a sudden need to run-no, retreat, the roiling feelings about it all an unknown foe he had no idea how to handle. Even as many hours--days--as it'd taken to force himself to finally visit her bedside in reality, that dread creeped over him the same feeling as when he knew he was facing overwhelming odds. It wasn't that he was a coward. He was tactical, not wanting to rush in without fully understanding the situation. How he felt was impacting his sense of judgement, so he simply needed more time to figure out what exactly it was he was feeling and develop a proper defense. It was all too new. Foreign. Alien. His chest and stomach felt tight like someone had squeezed both with an ironclad fist, and his pulse thumped enough to threaten his already precarious balance, his cursed wounds stubborn in their refusal to heal.

He wasn't a coward. He wasn't afraid of her. The Knight Commander--Arangeir was--

"She would probably like to hear your voice, you know."

Regill blinked, stopping with one foot already out of the room. Sosiel had spoken behind him, a softness to the cleric's voice out of place with how he normally spoke to him. There was no condescension or disdain, fury or disgust so unbefitting a Shelynite as Regill was used to receiving from the man. There was only a patient, almost warm reassurance. He might've been offended, or at least annoyed in any other situation, but the twisted, confusing mass inside him left no room otherwise.

"You were the one that told us not to leave her alone, were you not? Everyone has spent time with her, but not the one she needs most."

'She doesn't need me', he thinks, but not out of any sense of self-deprecation. A part of him wants to assert that she doesn't need anyone. Not Arangeir, she's--she shattered to pieces and sobbed in his arms and clung to him so tightly he thought he'd have bruises on his actual body when he woke from the dream. The image of her proud and mighty in her Hellknight plate, a confident grin on her face and energy in her every movement clashed so harshly with the shivering, bare body crying against him...

She did need him.

He felt light-headed. He needed to retreat. He needed to be alone and think again and identify what was making him feel like this.

"...I don't want to interrupt her treatment. I can come back... another time", he made to excuse himself, beginning to continue his path out the door.

Behind him, he could hear the smile tinging Sosiel's words, holding him back yet again.

"I can finish after. With your wounds, it was no small feat to make it up here. No need to make you waste the energy it took."

The courage you finally worked up, Regill understood the insinuation clearly. He hadn't even any ire to hold his tongue, no energy left to continue denying anymore. He was a coward. The thought of approaching the comatose woman and just seeing her there in her sickbed had him on the verge of panic. He didn't know what to do about that. He didn't know how to handle what it meant about him. He... He just didn't know. He wasn't comfortable with not knowing. He wasn't used to not understanding himself like this.

"Please. It'll be good for the both of you."

The cleric was right. He couldn't argue. Leaving now would be a waste and, worse, a humiliation.

He sighed, exhaling more shakily than he thought. Bracing his good hand on the door's frame, Regill turned back around, finding that Sosiel had folded Arangeir's arm back over the thick covers keeping her warm. She herself hadn't moved a single inch otherwise, still as if time itself had frozen save for the subtle rise and fall of her sleeping breaths. His gaze didn't move upward, to her face. It couldn't. He could only see how it'd looked before they ventured into her dreams to find and save her, eyes pitted and nearly black underneath from weakness, scales on her face still tinged with Abyssal corruption, oozing blood and sloughing off, leaving patches of rot and pus beneath...

He looked instead at Sosiel, who merely nodded and stepped away from her bedside, ushering him forth. He even hooked his foot around the leg of the chair that'd been left close by for visitors to keep her company in her slumber, preemptively moving it close given Regill would've struggled to do so with the state of his arm and core wounds.

"I won't eavesdrop, don't worry. Just find me in the war room on your way out so I can finish up her treatment."

The cleric was past him and gone, the door closed, before he could change his mind, before his confidence could waver yet again. He'd be in the war room, a clear view of the hall where he could see anyone come and go. He'd know if he left too soon.

This was going to happen. This needed to happen. It had to.

Ultimately, it was not for his own need, or beating back the traitorous fear that Regill found himself at her bedside minutes later. It was only for the fact that he knew that she needed him that he bit back the pain it took settling into that chair, the stitches gracing his ribs making him gasp. And it was only for the memory of how cold she'd felt in that crumbling dreamscape that he managed to take her hand into his own after, in sudden, desperate, need to know that she was warm now.

He stared down at her fingers, limp in his own bleached ones. It was strange, seeing them bare, not protected with that familiar black leather and backplate she always preferred compared to the Hellknight standard gauntlets. A solid few seconds passed before he consciously realized that he was holding her hand, and the realization came with a sharp inhale that made him nearly drop it. He shifted backward, the brief moment of panic finally forcing his gaze upward towards seeing the face he'd avoided up until that very moment.

Arangeir--Minovae looked at peace. She looked more at peace than he'd ever seen since they reunited in that cave assaulted by gargoyles, not remembering him nor even herself then. Those deep bags beneath her eyes had faded almost completely. Her scales were almost back to their normal luster, a milky seafoam instead of their opalescent but no longer tinged by red and purple and ringed with pus and blood. The patches where they'd fallen off had mostly healed, and he could see a faint shimmer where they were already beginning to regrow. Even her lips, which had split in multiple places and painfully oozed had healed.

She looked almost how he remembered her. Not weeks ago. Not the months in the Abyss. Not even before then.

Decades had passed, almost a century of her disappearing from his life and the world, but the sleeping, recovering woman he held the hand of looked so very close to the one he'd known from Cheliax. Nearly eighty years ago, for over 10 years they'd fought side by side, bleeding together... dying together... surviving together...

Falling for one another.

He knew that now. It seemed so painfully obvious to him now that his feelings for her hadn't come about only in the past year. They'd been there since she'd left him back then, saving his life without telling him the truth of why. She'd loved him the whole time and it turned out that he hadn't been far off himself, because then he'd felt a pain with her departure that'd only came out as rage and bitterness without knowing the truth of its origins.

And now they were here. They were alive, and she looked so much more like the image that came to mind when someone said 'Minovae Arangeir' that he could only realize he'd loved her all along. Somehow, too, he knew that the version of her that would wake, when she was ready to, would be more like that woman too. The suffering and trauma she'd endured, more than enough for a dozen lifetimes, had come to light. She could heal. She could smile again, genuinely; that wide, dazzling smile bright as clear sunlight where a hint of fang would slip over her lower lip that he hadn't seen their time in Egorian nearly eighty years ago.

"...I've missed you."

His voice broke the restful sanctuary of her room on its own accord. He didn't start, not like before with the realization he'd been holding her hand. A calmness had washed over him, banishing the anxiousness and near-panic from the unknown feelings ravaging his usual discipline and disposition. He only breathed deep, and squeezed those fingers, warm and alive, the same as he'd squeezed around her arms and shoulders in the dream.

"I've missed you... Minovae."

He even used her name, finding it alien yet familiar on his tongue in equal measure. Not Knight Commander. Not Arangeir. Not any other rank or title or name to keep a level of formality between them. It sat there heavy yet... right.

"Rest. I'll wait, as long as it takes."

[green-eyedfirework]

Slade heard the shouting first.  Not many people ventured here, Slade had managed to secure himself a prime position in exchange for being one of the Arena’s best gladiators.  A cell that was more of an apartment, most all the luxuries he wanted, food and pretty slaves and good fights.  He’d killed the last master who’d ordered him to lose a match, and his new one had learnt that lesson well.

There was little more that he needed from life.  Talia knew that a content gladiator was a loyal one, and unlike her father, she’d cultivated that loyalty well.

“Please—Talia—stop—” a younger voice on the edge of desperation, and at least three sets of footsteps.  Slade straightened off the bench and moved towards the front of his cell.

“You know better than that, Richard,” Talia’s voice was coldly amused, “You lost a fight to one of mine, and the Arena voted life.  That means I own you now.”

“Bruce will buy me back!” the voice insisted stridently, “Talia, please—”

“I find myself not exceedingly fond of my beloved at this moment,” Talia said dismissively, “And you will serve far better as a gift.”

“No—”

The footsteps reached the front of his cell, the curtains drawn back to leave only open bars, and Slade watched as his owner stepped into view, poised and calculating as always.  “Slade,” Talia smiled, eyes dark and satisfied, “How are you today?”

“Well,” Slade replied noncommittedly, far more interested in the struggling figure pinned by two guards, “I didn’t realize I’d earned a gift.”

“This particular one fell into my lap,” Talia’s smile grew wickeder, “And I have no need for a gladiator that loses fights, so I might as well use him as a favor.”  That was when the struggling figure jabbed an elbow into the stomach of the guard to his left and made a break for it.

Unfortunately for him, the guard recovered quickly, and made a sharp swing of his staff at the bandages that wound down one leg.  The unfortunate gladiator crumpled with a strangled shriek.

“Come now, Richard,” Talia said, her expression twisted with distaste, “At least try to lose gracefully.”  The guards yanked the limp figure off the ground and dragged him closer to the bars, and the spark of interest at the familiar name coalesced into sharp coldness at the sight of tan skin and dark hair.  Locks of it draped across that bowed face, as though Slade wouldn’t be able to recognize the man that had killed his son.

Talia read the simmering fury across his face.  “He’s yours,” she said softly, watching him, “To do with what you wish, for however long you wish to keep him.  His fate is yours.”

Richard Grayson made a barely perceptible sound.

Talia moved forward to unlock the cell and waited as the guards dragged Grayson closer before snagging the young gladiator’s chin.  “Your master needs a reminder on what happens when he spites me,” she murmured, “Your body will do quite nicely.”

Slade couldn’t see what Grayson did or said, but he saw Talia’s fingers tighten, nails biting into skin, before she let go and stepped aside to let the guards throw Grayson inside the cell.

Slade didn’t move.  Not as the guards retreated and Grayson pushed himself up to standing.  Not when Grayson pressed himself back against the bars, fingers tightened into fists as the click of the lock echoed in finality.  Not as footsteps receded, out of sight and out of hearing, as the beaten gladiator cowered in the corner.

Grayson looked gray.  His expression was fractured and his clothes were dusty and torn and he had one arm pressed to his chest in a way that indicated either an injured arm or broken ribs.  Possibly both.  The other arm was tensed, ready to lash out, despite him wavering on his feet.  One leg had bandages from calf to thigh.

More than all that, he looked small.  Exhausted and trembling and gaunt, like someone recovering from an illness, nothing like the snatches of the golden favorite of the Arena that Slade caught from time to time.  Not too many, no one was stupid enough to let Slade and Grayson in the same room, and especially not the kid’s previous master, but Slade remembered watching his son bleed out on the Arena sands as a sweaty, bloodstained, gleaming young gladiator lifted his dual swords to a wave of cheers that shook the entire stadium.

It wasn’t something he could forget.

“Who knew that the little bird would fall,” Slade said, low and cold, stalking out of the shadows.  Grayson pressed further into the corner but there was nowhere to go, blue eyes flitting around the cell like something would save him.  “You must’ve heard the story of the boy who flew too close to the sun.”

“Slade,” the kid’s voice was passably level, eyes wide and locked on him, “I—I’m sorry—”

“Sorry?” Slade arched an eyebrow, “Sorry that you killed my son?  Sorry that you built a career that started by defeating the Ravager?  I didn’t see regret when you stood over my son’s cooling corpse, I saw triumph.”  Grayson swallowed, expression fracturing further.  “You’re only sorry that you’re locked in here with me.”

“Slade—”

He didn’t give Grayson a chance to spout off pretty words—apparently he had a talent for being charming, a talent for making friends.  There were a group of them, young, puffed-up gladiators, that fought on the sands like it was their own.  Excellent, trained fighters.  And cocky and arrogant to boot.

Slade had always hoped for the chance to meet Grayson on the sand.  To have the fight he’d been itching for for years.

This was almost as good.

Grayson ducked at Slade’s telegraphed punch, pushing off the bars and twisting past Slade to stumble deeper in the cell.  Slade turned to follow him, noting his unsteadiness and adjusting his speed accordingly.

The fun was in playing with his food before he destroyed it.

Grayson was talented.  With dual short swords in his hands, and preternatural flexibility, he had gone undefeated for years.  He was masterful at twisting out of the way of strikes, all speed and deadly grace, and even with an injured leg he kept his balance well.

But he was unarmed, his right arm was clearly paining him, and he’d looked ready to drop even before the fight had started.  Even drawing it out, it wasn’t long before Slade grabbed his wrist from a poorly executed punch, and wrenched.

The kid went down with a choked gasp, clutching his shoulder as he landed hard on his knees.  Slade gave him three seconds before slamming a kick into his side—the kid made a harsh, punched-out sound and toppled over.

“Pathetic,” Slade noted, standing over the panting young gladiator, “The golden Nightwing, lying broken in the dust.  A fitting legacy of a boy that tried to fly too high, too fast.”

Grayson set his expression into a snarl and tried to lever up.  Slade ground a foot into the bandaged leg and Grayson collapsed with a strangled sound, trying to claw away.

“If only Grant could see you now,” Slade murmured, “He had a talent for humiliating his opponents.”  What his son could’ve done with a broken bird at his feet—but Grant had been cocky, and Grayson had been smart, and Slade had to watch from the stands as his son gurgled out his last breaths.

Grayson stared up at him with a facade of defiance, half-curled up on the ground.  “Spare me the monologue and just kill me already,” the kid snapped, his snarl unable to hide the waver in his tone, “There isn’t an audience to entertain here.”

Cute.  Slade would take great pleasure in watching that break.

“No, there isn’t,” Slade agreed, and reached down to haul Grayson to his feet and shove him back into the center of the room.  “There’s no one to entertain here.”  He smiled, slow and sharp.  “Just me and you.”

The mask of defiance cracked, and for a moment, the only thing in Grayson’s eyes was terror.