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reallyprofoundkryptonite · 3 years ago

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Not Evil- Chapter One

Summary: Krogan is in an explosion caused by the Twins. As he ends up going deaf, he ends up finding an oddly supportive friend in Fishlegs Ingerman. Though, that's when he starts catching feelings. Ones he's always hated. Why can't he be normal?

Pairing: Krogan/Fishlegs Ingerman

Words: 1910

Characters: Krogan (How To Train Your Dragon), Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III, Fishlegs Ingerman

Additional Tags: Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Rare Pairings, HTTYD Rare Pairs, Deaf Character, Deaf! Krogan, Violence, Gore, Blood and Gore, Mild Gore, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe, Bloo,d, Blood and Injury, Malnutrition, learning to love, Trust, Angst, Fluff and Angst, Fluff, Eventual Fluff, Whump, Krogan! Whump, Eventual Romance, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Torture, Internalized Homophobia

ao3

Krogan had fallen off the back of his dragon. Basil. He knew he’d fallen, and he knew he had landed, because he was harshly pressed into cold, hard ground. Pain flew through his body, reaching and arching like delicate waves in his seemingly torn frame.

He let out a weak gasp, his eyes fluttering, rolling underneath his lids. He couldn’t hear anything but the muted buzzing in his ears, slowly pitching up and up into a painful howl.

He gave a soft hiss of pain. The noise did not permeate the thick buzz, which slowly began petering off, as soon as it had arrived in his ears.

He moaned softly, shifting in the ashen grass beneath himself. It smeared ash on his rich, russet skin, on his once clean, spotless clothes, as he curled in on himself, into a fetal position, rubbing at the cusps of his ears with deft, shaking fingers.

Krogan could feel the sensation of his fingers brushing his ears, however even without the sharp ringing in his ears, he could not hear the pads of his fingers brushing against his skin.

He moved, jankily, limbs shivering uncontrollably, as he cracked his eyes open. The whites of his eyes seemed to glow underneath the smudges of deathly, grey ash on his cheeks and face, the ash that clung in the fibrous, curly strands of his beard, and the hair on his head, turning it from its original jet black, to an ashen grey.

He coughed, sputtering out a puff of soot mixed with splatters of crimson. Slowly, he tilted his head at the slimy, red mucus that clung to his arm, his fingers trailing lines of goo away when he grasped onto the slimy substance.

He gave a small, weak gasp, glancing around himself in a slow, nauseating circle. Krogan’s head gave a mournful throb, as he promptly, hastily rolled over onto all fours, hacking and coughing. He couldn’t hear himself do it; the motion was soundless, even the feeling of the grass crunching brittly beneath his fingers was noiseless.

Bile spilled from his throat, onto the ground. It was mixed with soot, stomach acid, and the remnants of his last meal he’d been able to fit in.

A few small, measly potatoes, with some cabbage and a few bites of dried yack jerky. Cheap yak jerky at that. It was tough and hurt his jaw to chew, but it was all he could afford at the moment; Not only had Johann beaten him in nearly being unable to walk a few weeks or so ago, but he’d cut his pay, in over half.

He’d been able to get more of the extremely cheap meat before, but now he barely had enough for scraps. And it was taking a toll on his body. He didn’t have the energy he sorely needed, and he’d lost a bit of weight; he had had to tighten his belt another two notches, and his shirt, once nice and form fitting to his body so it could protect him, hung loosely, ever so slightly. It was noticeable if one looked close enough.

His ribs had started to poke from his sides, his spine, extremely noticeable, despite the muscularity he held.

He looked sick.

Krogan knew this, and despite his glaring need to get up and search through the ashen mist, he was exhausted, and tired, and singed. He hurt. The bruises on his body from the fall made him ache like no tomorrow, and the cuts Johann had lashed onto him with a whip had once again been torn open. He could feel them, wet and oozing against the back of his shirt, which stuck down against his back uncomfortably.

Slowly, he laid down, a puff of soot poofing into the air as he shifted, and settled into the scratchy grass. Dampness rolled down his neck. It was warm; and it dug tracks in the soot on his face and neck.

Krogan didn’t pay it any mind. He didn’t want to move from his scratchy position, he was too tired.

Slowly, he slid his eyes closed, his chest heaving weakly. He curled his head into his chest, putting his shirt over his nose to better protect his breath, however it wouldn’t help very much.

All he needed was sleep, and then he could get up. Then he could move about his day, get ready to leave, find his dragon… go home… get food. Gods above he was hungry…

He must have dozed off for a while, as the next thing he felt was being slowly poked in the back, right where a cut had sliced up his shoulder muscle.

He yowled, the noise soundlessly tumbling from his throat, as his body weakly jerked him to awareness and attention, quickly, rapidly glancing around himself with wide eyes filled with horror.

He wasn’t in the misty ash place anymore. He was still filthy, his body smeared with a tacky mixture of blood and ash. He slowly panted, weakly laying back down with a groan. He was on a hardwood floor. It was cold, and slimy with his own blood.

Again, something tapped him in the back, and a shadow fell over him.

He gave a weak groan, slowly starting to stare up at whoever was bothering him, when the person leaned down, one of their small, pale skinned hands landing on his shoulder.

Hiccup…

The young man’s mouth was moving, a small, friendly half-smile on his face, but Krogan couldn’t hear a thing he was saying. Increasingly, Krogan’s agitation spiked, however he didn’t have the energy to express his fury.

He only stared, watching Hiccup with what must have been a look of sheer, unequivocal confoundedness, because the young man suddenly paused, and rubbed a smudge of ash off of Krogan’s cheek.

Hiccup started speaking again, his mouth moving slower, as if he thought Krogan had a concussion and was having a hard time understanding what he was saying.

When that didn’t work, and Krogan blinked in confusion, Hiccup’s face fell into a small frown.

With one hand, Hiccup reached over, and snapped his fingers into Krogan’s ear. Well, at least that’s what Krogan thought he was doing. He could pick up the small gush of air from the motion, however there was only a very tiny, muffled snapping sound, barely audible over the feeling of his own heart beating like a drum in his chest.

He didn’t move, no reaction, simply watching Hiccup carefully.

The young man’s face had a dawning look of horror on it, as he once again snapped his fingers, before he moved to the opposite side of Krogan’s head.

For a second, a small spark of irritation clung into Krogan’s head. Leave him be… he wanted to be left alone. Part of him hissed to snap at Hiccup, snip his teeth at the young man’s exposed wrist as a warning, get him to go away.

But the other side, the stronger side, simply groaned. He was too exhausted for an attitude of any sort. He hurt, his cuts stung, and he smelled… like sulphur. Great.

Huffing, he laid his head down on the wood floor, much to Hiccup’s chagrin, apparently, as the young man slowly lifted his upper body into his arms. He felt Hiccup twist, felt the vibrations of Hiccup yelling something, and then, he thrashed wildly, wanting to use the last bit of his energy to tell Hiccup to just fuck off, leave him alone, and let him go back to sleep, but even with the wild vibrating of his vocal chords, obviously shrieking, Hiccup only held him tighter to his chest, as Krogan flailed his arms, sneered and snarled angrily.

But it didn’t do any good, and by the time he was handed off to a second pair of arms, he had tired himself out, and simply allowed himself to be picked up by the warm… soft, sweet smelling arms of one of the other riders, who gently shifted him, and then stood up.

The two seemed to talk for a while, and then Krogan was being dragged down a flight of stairs, down into the depths of a stone mountain. He didn’t care. He was simply exhausted, and the one he was being held by was warm, and gentle, and was very… soothingly rubbing gentle circles into his shoulder with one hand.

With that, Krogan slowly drifted off into a sort of unHeconsciousness. It simply was too comfortable for him to do anything else but sleep.

Fishlegs hadn’t been there when Hiccup had brought Krogan back to the Edge. He’d heard about the explosion from the twins, and that Hiccup had gone to make sure there wasn’t very many casualties, however he had been there when Hiccup had returned, half dragging Krogan’s limp body off of Toothless’s back.

Fishlegs gently ran warm hot spring fed water through Krogan’s thick curls, his lips pulling into a frown of soft, delicate confusion.

Underneath his clothes, Krogan looked sickly. He was muscular, yes, but he was skinny. Far too skinny. The few times Fishlegs had been up close with Krogan, the man’s clothes more or less fit him very well; they didn’t noticeably sag off his frame like they did now.

His ribs poked from his sides, his spine was an obvious jut against his skin along his back, and his hip bones were just starting to protrude from his waist.

Maybe he’s just not eating well, Fishlegs reasoned with himself. Dragons tend to have less energy and are more moody when they’re not getting enough nutrition…

Fishlegs reasoned that that had to be it. Once he was done cleaning Krogan up and getting his wounds patched, he would make Krogan something to eat, even if it was simply swiping a mango from the food stores, at least the sugar in the fruit would get Krogan to be more energetic… maybe…

Fishlegs sighed deeply, swiping a finger along Krogan’s chest as he lathered soap along his body, trying his best to avoid the painful looking brands on Krogan’s chest. There was two; one recently burned into Krogan’s flesh, and all blistered and angry looking, and the other, was old. It was old enough that it had started to turn from pink to white.

The young man gently hummed, splashing a little water on Krogan’s chest, and then slowly lifting him from the water, trying not to scrape against the wounds on the large man’s back.

He slowly wrapped Krogan in a previously warmed towel (thanks to Meatlug, of course), that would press warmth into Krogan’s skin and hopefully help him rest easier. Astrid had already came and taken Krogan’s clothes to throw into the washing bin, and Snotlout… Snotlout said he would take measurements of them to make Krogan some new clothes while the ones he’d been wearing were in the wash.

Hiccup offered a fur cloak for now, though Fishlegs wasn’t sure if it would be able to wrap around Krogan’s huge, broad shoulders very well.

Once he climbed back up the stairs, Fishlegs went back to his hut, and laid Krogan in his bed, wrapping him up in furs. Hopefully that was enough to keep him warm, and Meatlug would be there to keep him company in case he woke up.

Seeing it as alright for the moment, Fishlegs stood, and folded his arms in front of him to slowly go get some food for Krogan.

#fishlegs ingerman #krogan #httyd #krogan rtte #httyd rtte #krogan httyd #rtte #httyd fanart #httyd au #httyd fandom #dreamworks dragons #rtte au #fanfiction #how to train your dragon fanfiction #rtte fanfiction #httyd fanfiction

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hawksblooded · 29 days ago

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SHE DOESN’T FLINCH AT the sudden change in Soot’s demeanor, doesn’t bother to grace his anger with a rebuttal of her own. She supposes he’ll berate her for snooping, for daring to touch his belongings, and he does - she doesn’t care. It’s not like she rummaged through his pockets for it. That’s what he gets, she figures, for inviting someone of her interests into this half-workshop, half-inn room. A genuine interest in his craft is left behind to return a cold shoulder. Though her curiosity is left unsated, it seems she’ll have to keep her hands to herself for now. Her questions, too, given how ready to bite he looks. It impresses her, somewhat, his fearlessness; she’s taken him for a much more pathetic breed of man, and though one couldn’t call her happily surprised, still she finds some appreciative measure of his character in it.

Then his thumb brushes her hand and she freezes. Too often, she finds herself clueless as to what goes on in other people’s minds. Too often she’s confused by their reactions, their thoughts. This is different. Yes, he changes, dog to wolf to dog, in the span it takes for her heart to beat again. Surely anyone would be puzzled by such a stark change of attitude, as sudden as the thunder that strikes outside the dusty window. And for a man so seemingly possessive, he’s awfully eager with his own ashen hands. His black-stained touch is gentle. She cannot fathom it’s intent. Alizebeth glares at him with eyes that could cut the soul, but says nothing.

Soot himself looks like he’s about to speak, and lightning briefly flashes on his gaunt features. It looks unsettlingly at home in his eyes, the stark blue light of it. The rickety building shakes with the strength of the storm.

It seems they’re done here. Whether her new employer is truly ready or just eager to get her and her wandering hands out of his room is a question she only asks herself for a moment. She nods with an affirmative hum, rubbing soot and the smell of black powder off her hand as she leads him in turn out into the dusty hall, questions unasked and unanswered burning on her tongue.

Her own living quarters are positively bare by comparison. Her greatsword rests on the shoddy desk, the blade glinting blue in the faint light that streams through the window, the glass rent by a thin crack through which the wind howls. She fastens it to her back with practiced efficiency, tests the bandolier that holds it steady. Alizebeth travels light, like most Hawksblood hunters do. One cannot hope to catch up to the likes of wargs or gnolls with too much on their back. Weapons, some rations, a bedroll when she’s off on long journeys through rugged wilderness make for all she owns. The bed is neatly made, a traveling pack placed at its foot. She won’t need it, by the looks of things, but opens it to produce a package tightly bound in parchment. The hunter unwraps it to reveal a handful of herbs, carefully dried and pressed into thick wafers. She hands the man one, keeps two for herself. “To chew on,” she explains briefly. “Keeps you focused. Heightens the senses. " She eyes him up, his frail stature, his bent shoulders. "Three grams should do.” The package is left on the bed as she rummages further through the bag. Two vials of a clear, oil-like substance placed in the leather pouch at the small of her back, and finally a length of rope, hung at her side by her hunting knife. A necessary precaution, if they’re to fight water-dwellers.

The hunter stands before her employer, a picture of death’s harbinger.

“ Anything else? ”

Perhaps Soot has already grown accustomed to the stony silence of the hunter, even in the meager few minutes that had passed since his coarse proposal and their exchanging of gold coins. Perhaps the unkempt man is simply too preoccupied with the time-honored task of quickly but thoroughly examining each tool or implement those stained hands of his unerringly find and stow away to notice the object of her attentions. Whatever the case may be, Soot stiffens at the sudden breaching of the quiet done by her question, long fingers nearly wrapped around one of those very same bombs but stilling as he spares the hunter a confused and somewhat irritated look.

"What?" Those flinty eyes narrow in then on his bomb held now in her hands, and nearly a dozen different emotions smash the relative stone of his gaze as they widen. Half of them are variations of alarm and concern, but by the furrow of his brow and the sudden set of his jaw he's chosen instead to grasp for the other, more incendiary feelings that likewise lurk there. "Reckon ya might've knew better, not pickin' up any old thing lyin' around. Maybe ya ain't half so keen as I figured." Oh, but there's a fire seemingly stoked now in Soot's belly, and it seems as though the staggering difference in both stature and temperament are no longer a matter of concern given the way in which he stomps over and bares his teeth up at her for another remark.

Then that now cutting gaze flickers from her expression to her calloused hands, to the scars lining them, and whatever he might have intended to fling at her face is extinguished on his tongue. A stained thumb brushes over a small burn just on the outside of a pointer finger as though without thought as those now calmer eyes trace the similar shapes fire-etched into her darker skin, and Soot lets a rattling breath slip from between his teeth with a weary sigh.

"Aye, I do. Though ya might've asked first." There's no true bite to the remark compared to the fangs he'd seemed keen to sink into her moments prior. His gaze settles on just how carefully she's holding the bomb, his nose twitches as though recognizing a familiar scent, and the already thinning thunderhead of hostility is snuffed out entirely in favor of surprise, then blatant curiosity alighting on his gaunt features. "Thought I were th'only one. Strange chance, meeting someone who knows their way 'round black powder'n fuses."

In the light of this recognition, in the loosening of a tension to his person that seemed almost a permanent fixture, it's plain he has more than a single question in return for the hunter regarding their shared craft. Yet whatever Soot might've asked is silenced by a rolling peal of thunder so fierce it shakes the tavern, and when he blinks and shakes his head that cool composure has once more slipped back firmly into place.

"Should get a move on." Carefully, carefully, Soot plucks the bomb from her hand and places it back onto the makeshift workbench he's turned a once dull table into. "Got what I needed. Reckon now we go'n fetch them things o'yours."

#ic ➽; I'M NOT TOO GOOD AT TALKING.#fishermcn

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permian-tropos · 4 years ago

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“Seismic” -- Daniil Dankovsky/Artemy Burakh fic that I just spat out

CW: angst, suicidality

I will post this on AO3 maybe like a normal person but it’s late and I’m lazy

Edit: the AO3 link if you want it there

...

Two dogs barked in warning — they knew, as they so often did, of the oncoming quake.

The plague itself was growling in the air, unyielding in its final hours, and the black soot flakes soared on suddenly stirred air currents, all aflutter with anticipation.

On the eastern side of the Guzzle crossing came running the man who could always smell blood before it was spilled, because it was by rights his to harvest.

On the south side of town the cannons on the railroad were turning and aiming, ready to belch fire.

The yargachin stood on the bridge looking into the Stone Yard, where the spear would finally be ripped from the heart of the world. There it was; that glittering silhouette in the hazy air, that crystalized twister touching down by the bend in the river.

The Polyhedron’s manic angles had never seemed so alive. She was baring herself to the world, a witch upon the pyre screaming her last wild curse, and in that moment she and the Earth were not enemies but one being, united in defiance against their coming death.

As the ground beneath his boot soles shivered, the Haruspex at last knew what the odonghs meant when they said they could sense the weight of every pair of feet on the streets of the town.

Because he felt footsteps that should not be there, crossing the Bridge Square.

Walking west, to where the sun set, the steps spoke their own rhythmic language, tolling like a warning bell: I am going to see this to the end.

The butcher’s heart gasped like it too had been pierced through. Artemy heaved in a lungful of acrid infected air and sprinted through the Atrium, past the befuddled soldiers. His bad leg hobbled and nearly sent him down to one knee, but he turned a corner and beheld:

The fog in the square cut by the silhouette of a long leather coat — and he’d even brought his trademark bag; it swung at his side.

The Bachelor looked like a man upon the lip of a train platform, impatiently clasping his luggage, awaiting his chance to travel far away —truly far — the next time an engine thundered through the station.

His upturned head spelled out plainly that his eyes were only on the tower. Transfixed upon his beloved.

Artemy staggered across the paved stones, past the row of bodies left behind by the Inquisition, and caught Daniil Dankovsky by his arm.

And swung him around with one sharp pull. The man’s eyes were wide and red-rimmed, and out from them cracked all those furrows of stress that had been pressed into the man’s face over two weeks of squinting, straining, grimacing, scowling, and perhaps, by the looks of it, weeping.

“No,” was all Artemy could gasp with the last air in his lungs, and then he had to pant and recover.

“Don’t you dare stop me!” Dankovsky cried out, thrashing and fighting the grip on his arm.

Artemy clung to the snakeskin on his sleeve with all the strength he had left. He shook the man just as vigorously as the man was struggling, until his efforts stilled. “You’re not going up there.”

“You should have killed me in the Shelter. But you didn’t, so I’m going inside one last time. Maybe, just maybe, there’ll be one more dream left, and it won’t die alone.”

“The cannons!” Artemy choked out. “I delivered the orders! They’re taking aim!”

“I know,” said the Bachelor, tongue heavy, like he wanted the words carved on his grave. His lips shuddered, and then he twisted his arm, wildness flashing in his eyes.

Artemy grabbed his shoulders before he could wrench himself free. And stared at him, trying to vivisect him with a glare. By the way the man was trembling, the Haruspex was indeed cutting deep, through his medrel, his nerves.

Dankovsky was lost to his grief, seduced at his lowest moment by the Pied Piper herself, the temptress who had spirited away the children of the Town.

And now it wanted him to lie down with it in its grave, as its eternal lover. It had called him here with the siren song, there is nothing else but me, without me you are nothing, and I need you.

“What does a man do without a dream? What does mankind do?” Dankovsky dropped his bag and clutched the front of Artemy’s smock, and from the way his fingers clawed and twitched, he was coming close to reaching up and trying to squeeze his throat. But he did not do that. He just clung.

Artemy struggled for words. “We don’t do. We just are. And that’s enough.”

Dankovsky's breath caught on a wet clog in his throat. “I can’t live like this,” he rasped. “I’ll never be free again. I never was. Now let me go. I didn’t think you’d have to see this—”

“I’d see it when they found your body in the wreck. Is that how you want to be remembered, mangled and broken?” His jaw was tight as a bear trap, ready to snap. “Is that what you want to leave behind for someone you called a friend?”

The Bachelor’s cheeks were turning ashen. “Someone I called an idiot. Get out of here, Burakh, before you’re crushed by a chunk of debris. Any moment now, they’ll fire.”

“Then move, you bastard!” Artemy yanked on his arm to pull him away, yet still he fought.

A razor-sharp Line was wound all around Dankovsky’s body, biting through his clothes into his flesh like a garrote, and it was screeching the same discordant tune as the wicked metal frame balanced precariously in the Earth’s flesh.

“It’s alive,” Dankovsky croaked. “In a way unlike anything in the universe. It’s so alive it makes the noon sun look like a shadow on the wall of a cave.”

Artemy wanted to sob, the way he had when a being shaped like his favorite childhood toy had tottered up to him on tiny hooves and plaintively asked, could it not live too? Was there not a world where it, strange form of life that it was, could be loved?

“I understand,” he said, and he did. “... I refuse to make another sacrifice. Especially not one as meaningless as this.”

“Not everything is about sacrifice!” the Bachelor spat. “My story is, quite simply, over.”

“You love that that tower so much you’d die with it? After two weeks? Barely any time!”

“Enough time to destroy a town and end thousands of lives.” A cruel grimace briefly flashed Dankovsky’s teeth, though it was covering up a flush of mortification. “You’ve known me for those same two weeks, but you’re out here in the open, waiting to be skewered on shrapnel, all over this poor waste of skin. Could it be that you’re—” he clutched a mocking hand to his breast, over his heart — “oh! just as suicidally devoted, my dearest Haruspex—!”

His words had such venom that he must have thought they would shame Artemy into letting go. A blow to his masculinity, or some such stupidity like that.

Artemy’s blood boiled, and then surged without thought. He seized Dankovsky in his arms and bent him over backwards and kissed him.

He tasted the pulse of both of their hearts as a tickle against his lips. Dankovsky flailed and helplessly threw his arms around Artemy’s shoulders, to catch his balance.

And as he did, his body shivered and his back arched into a yearning, yielding shape in Artemy’s tight grasp. Artemy’s own spine tingled from tip to tail, more urgently with every moment that Dankovsky did not pull away.

Artemy’s emboldened hand found the man’s free leg and clutched his thigh, while Dankovsky gasped through his nose and wriggled in embarrassment at the touch, but kept his mouth firmly sealed against Artemy’s.

The Cathedral bore witness; Artemy could feel it rapturously exhale a great gust of seconds into the world. The Crucible’s stately wings shivered and held their breath, scandalized. And the Polyhedron’s needle, jammed into the agonized Earth, vibrated with outrage.

He is mine, the edifice howled.

Not anymore, rumbled the Haruspex’s decree, and he planted his feet and refused to budge. His sympathy for the tower, miracle that it was, had dried up. For this eternal moment, he was the wedge forcing its way down upon those sharp threads tightly binding Daniil Dankovsky to the Polyhedron.

A great crack of gunfire split the sky and rocked the earth.

The scents of metal and blood were indistinguishable from one another, as both exploded into the air as a ruddy mist.

The seismic shudder sent Artemy down to his knees, but he didn’t let Dankovsky go; they sank together, dropping to the flagstones and unsticking their lips as their ears rang from the cacophony.

Artemy unclenched his eyelids. His heart jumped; they were both still alive, and Dankovsky had his gloved — and still very bloodstained — hand clutched over his mouth. But aside from that old gore, there was a faint spray of pink mist on the side of him that faced the river.

Fingers shaking, realizing he was staring at the cure for the Sand Pest splattered against the Bachelor’s pale skin, Artemy traced the droplets across the man’s temple. Magnificent, miraculous, chimeric blood.

“Don’t look so shocked,” he gruffly forced out, as his own mortification got the better of him. “Like I just took your innocence.” The Bachelor slowly lowered his hand from his mouth, and his dark brows dropped low and miserable, as he turned his head towards the river of blood and the jagged bones of the specular tower. “That’s exactly what you’ve done,” he whispered.

Artemy let go of Dankovsky slowly; his joints felt stuck. “Then I will bear the weight of that evil, and you will live to hold it against me.” He rose on trembling feet and pointed. “It’s over. That’s our cure, doctor.”

Dankovsky remained half-sprawled on the ground, lips forming silent words that could have been numb denials.

“It’s,” he finally said. “It’s… over.”

Artemy swallowed and took a rotten, sin-soaked step towards that beautiful red pool. He understood the hollow tones in Dankovsky’s voice. What even were they now, without the frantic running through the streets, without the smoke from signal fires stinging their eyes, without creeping to avoid the pools of light from streetlamps with a half-shattered blade in hand, without obsessive hoards of trinkets and trash filling their pockets?

The Earth’s thrashing and bellowing in pain underneath him was growing stiller, colder, fainter.

“No more of your self-pity,” Artemy finally forced out. “We have work to do. One more task. I need you, oynon.”

Behind him, by the sound of it, Dankovsky was picking himself up off the smooth stones. “You don’t need me,” he said dully. “I barely helped.”

“Spare me that bullshit. What’s left of the town is alive because of you.”

“Then. Everyone who died.”

“Stop it,” said Artemy. He didn’t turn around. “Don’t goad me right now. I won’t kiss you again, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

For an aching moment, the words caused a ripple, like a stone thrown in a pond.

“Then let’s work,” said Dankovsky, and he was quiet and bitter and resigned, but he was still there. To live in the throes of despair took courage, warm courage borne from warm blood, that still assiduously pumped inside his chest. His unthinking blood cherished the brain that struggled to love itself, and that would do for now.

#pathologic #daniil dankovsky #artemy burakh #burakhovsky #my fic #I just haven't written like an impulse fic in a while you know I just kinda had to

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irlaimsaaralath · 6 years ago

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The Dread Wolf Rises

The morning is ruddy -- clouds of smoke tinged crimson crowd a sky made umber by flame and ash. The sun is nowhere to be seen, though it is surely there, struggling to pierce the heavy curtain of detritus that hangs before it. It is both acrid and hot, the air. Every lungful is scalding, sulfurous, and stifling. Every all-too-brief breeze chased by soot and sweltering. His grey-blue eyes sting, open wide despite the burn that gathers tears on his lower lash line. Vision blurred, he dares not blink, only stares unerringly forward.

From across the field, the Dread Wolf gazes back. Its figure rises against the fire-lit sky like a bank of thunderheads -- dark and deep, bruised and wounded, black lips skinned back from blacker fangs in a silent snarl. His stare is met threefold, each baleful scarlet eye fixed with singular focus. Though all is chaos before him and in his wake, Solas harbors a disquieting calm at the center of his chest that is reflected in his neutral expression.

It would be slanderous to call it peace, however; never was such stillness borne out of so much destruction. More to the point, he is resigned, accepting, devoted to his course with the most solemn of convictions. Any and all things that might dissuade him have been banished, relinquished, and set aside. He harbors not even vain hope now. And, though his heart still beats, it does not live; it died with her.

Perhaps it was always folly on his part to attempt to preserve her until the very last. To want to give her all the time he could so that she might yet wring some happiness out of life. He can't be certain if it was more insulting to her or himself that he expected she would give up on their love. On trying to save him. She never had, and she paid for her perseverance with her life. In the heat of battle, her identity mistaken, it had been his own magic that had struck her down.

She died in his arms, with her devotion to him on her lips, her forgiveness in her final breath. That seemed like an age ago -- a different world, a different life. Existence now was so grim and dark that her light had no place in it. And, so, it was easier for him to do what he must. To imagine that this fate was inevitable. To surrender to it and let what must be come to pass.

Another deep breath of the caustic air finds him ready to unleash the future. The burn in his lungs reminds him change is always painful, but frequently necessary. That the world that rises from the ashes of its predecessor will be as ever it should have been. He lifts his hand, reaching for the power veiled in the smoke, hidden in the flames, poised to undo and remake the world. That is when he hears footsteps.

His ears prick, but he doesn't turn, his focus engaged, and he begins to siphon off his energy. Diverts it from his body and funnels it out, forward, to the vessel that hangs shrouded in the sooty air. At his back, a subtle wind stirs, and it buffets him with a cool breath, fragrant and unmarred by the ruin about him. Before he can help himself, he breathes it in, greedily, ravenously like a parched man gulps water. And all at once, his energy snaps back into his body with enough force that he is rocked back a few staggered steps.

“No,” he hears himself whisper, eyes lidding as his head falls. “No, you are dead.”

“Am I, though?” he hears a familiar voice whisper in return. A voice lost for so many years. He cannot turn as the crunch of footfalls near. He can feel it now, her energy; it radiates outward from her and across his back, slipping over his shoulders. His hands begin to tremble. “I watched you die,” his voice forlorn and small, eyes opening to gaze at his hands as if he could still see her blood dripping through his fingers.

The caress of energy over him and around him becomes solid in the body that presses into his back, in the arm that winds beneath his own to embrace him, hand flat on his chest. His gaze shifts, settling on the pale, slender fingers that smooth over his breastplate to thread into wolf fur across his chest. His eyes flutter as a deep and abiding ache blossoms beneath his ribs.

“I once saw you ravaged by red lyrium, dying and determined to save the world from an unthinkable fate,” she replies, fingers curling in the fur, cheek resting between his shoulder blades. “And yet, here you are.” Solas finds it exceptionally hard to breathe now for reasons separate from the scalding ash in the air. He can't look at her hand any longer, so he turns his head, and from the corner of his eye, he sees a shock of white hair. Tendrils whipped and tugged by the overheated breeze, strands of it brush his cheek.

“Vhenan,” he manages to hoarsely whisper as his legs wobble and give way, the weight of reality bearing him to his knees in the dirt. His hands catch him, his head falls, his fingers become claws in the sandy earth. He still doesn't believe it when her touch slips beneath his chin, when she lifts his face. Eyes clenched tight, he cannot, dares not, but her skin his cool and soft against his cheek.

“Solas, my slow arrow, my Fen’Harel,” he hears her say, and he tries to turn his face out of her hand. To see her again, he would be undone. It would all be undone. But, she holds him steady, and when she speaks again, her voice is against his ear, her lips tickling. “Ma lath, open your eyes,” and he does, helplessly, his red-rimmed grey-blue gaze falling immediately on her face. His throat seizes painfully when he finds his eyes met with viridian, a gentle color for a tender gaze that holds him so carefully.

“You're here,” he hears himself choke out, voice broken and weak, and his wretched hands blindly fumble forward to find her booted feet. Desperation has set in, and he paws at her legs, upward, finally clutching at the lapels of her coat to pull her, drag her down to his level. There's still a smile on her lips when she is on her knees in the dirt with him, when his hands fall heavy on her shoulders to steady himself. He still has to ask, “Niyera?” The syllables are as frantic as his eyes, inspecting every inch of her face for assurances of her identity, of her presence, of her realness.

He only notices he is weeping when her hand settles aside his face and her thumb sweeps through the clean tracks the tears have run through the dust on his cheeks. “Yes, ma lath, vhenan. I'm here.” His breath leaves him in an explosive burst as he lurches toward her, pulls her into his chest. She is solid in his arms, warm and true and real, and she clutches at his fur, her face nestled against his neck. He loses track of how long he holds her, of the apologies and the pledges he makes. And it is only when he's lost his voice to his sorrowed relief that he pulls back, just enough, to find her lips with his own.

The kiss is a fraught thing. Gritty and tender, feverish and lingering. She tastes just as he remembers, and her skin is still perfumed with blackberry and sage. She is the sweetest of all things. Breathless, they part, bowing forehead to forehead in the dirt. Her hand is clasped at the nape of his neck, and both of his are threaded through her niveous hair. This could be his forever. He could dwell here, unwanting, for the rest of his days. There have been so many mistakes he's made that he could never undo, but somehow, this one had unraveled on its own.

Her breath his warm on his lips, and her hand slides to cradle the crown of his head. “You must come with me, Solas. This...this is not the way,” she urges before pressing her lips to his brow. “Let me show you.” Her words are little more than a breath against the skin of his forehead, his cheeks, his chapped lips. And, he shakes with the want to believe her. His eyes open, settle on her face, then pan upward toward the vessel hung abandoned in the sky, just beyond the veil of smoke. The touch of her hand guides his gaze back to hers, steady and sure. He can only nod mutely as she helps him find his feet, his eyes fixed to her, his hand securely in hers.

She turns him from the great chasm that divides him from the Dread Wolf, the flames and ruin, the precipice of destruction. Turns him and draws him with her, as easily led as a child as he leaves the chaos behind. From out of the banks of smoke that obscure the cliff, the violet whorl of a portal becomes visible. She smiles back at him, squeezes his hand. He doesn't look back before he steps through.

As the portal spins closed behind him, a shattering howl rises into the flame-dimmed sky. It stirs the wind, causing it to whip through the valley and up the sheer cliff wall. Atop the now-abandoned precipice, a misshapen column of ash is hunkered low to the ground, vaguely humanoid in shape -- it has hands that reach, a face downturned, knees buried in the sandy earth. Crimson pulses behind the veil of the sooty air as the wind rises, lashing at the high ledge. It tugs at the loose figure of ash, coaxing away bits and pieces that rise into the air like sullen butterflies. Wan and grey, weak and fleeting.

The Dread Wolf continues to howl across the breach, and it slowly deepens and echoes. In accompaniment comes the hum of a discordant song from within the smoke, and beneath, a sound like the brittle cracking of glass becomes the percussion in the cacophony of maligned dissonance. Veins of crimson fracture the veil of soot in the air, fracturing the depthless grey, and it abruptly explodes. Shards of scarlet pierce the air, bombard the cliff face, scatter the ashen figure like so much dust in the wind. Even the howl of the Dread Wolf is swept up and away, and naught is left in the wake of the cataclysm but ruin and despair.

#the dread wolf rises #i caught the feels #i'm not sure what that ending is about exactly #i just want to save him and live happily ever after #damnit #irlaimsaaralath writes

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missvalerietanner · 7 years ago

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The Unseen Soldier | Part 39 | Up In Smoke

Subject: Hades & Persephone (aka Aiden & Sophie)

Genre: Southern Gothic retelling

Words: 1,766

Summary: Sophie chooses her ending.

Updates every Sunday! Click to read.

Midnight.

The weather was calm, and the forest was cool.

Sophie stood on steady legs with fire nipping at the ends of her hair. Aiden stood at her back, and before her Harvesters stood before each panel of the mirrored wall. Among the silence of the forest, she drew in a long, slow breath and began.

The Harvesters raised their arms as one and struck the glass with their bony fingers. Their claws dragged down the surface, sending high pitched screeches into the air. Fresh scratches disrupted the pristine glass, marring it face, but they continued, urged onward by Sophie’s orders.

They withdrew their bony claws and struck at the glass again and again, lashing against its like a whip striking a victim’s back. They clawed and swiped, tearing through the glass without pain, and with each pass, the glass grew weaker, more unstable. Fragments began to crack and separate from the whole and fall to the ground and land at the ends of their dirty robes.

Sophie squeezed her eyes tight and clenched her jaw to suppress a pained groan as she shifted on her feet. The flames fully engulfed her hair now, lifting her orange strands in waves that cracked and weaved behind her head, lashing hungrily at the open air like tongues.

Aiden stood to her side suffering in silence.

Don’t touch me. Don’t leave me.

The two things she requested of him before setting out tonight, and he had promised to oblige. But watching her struggle now, watching her flinch beneath the pain of her own power, and listening to her moan in agony--it was breaking him not to intervene. But this was her idea, her solution, and their last resort. So he kept his distance despite the ache in his bones telling him to react.

With a sharp, splintering crack that bit at their ear drums, the interior mirrors fell into piles of broken shards as sharp as spears. Urged onward by Sophie’s drive, the Harvesters attacked the exterior mirrors with fierce dedication. They stood as the final barrier between the forest and the town, and the Harvesters were eager now, staring for the chance to touch the town and taste its air.

Sophie whimpered and stumbled forward, mashing her teeth harder to keep from screaming as the boiling heat of the Hollow flooded through her veins asif her blood were gasoline ignited by the match of her anger, her rejection from the town, and her desperation to save people who refused to save themselves. She focused on that anger and let it warm her.

She stumbled forward again and caught herself on the wooden frame of the Wall. The broken shards still clinging to its sides cut into her palms and set rivers of blood streaking down the wood. But she didn’t feel the cuts or the sting of the glass biting into her skin.

She felt only a warmth spreading through her limbs as the fire leaked from her hair and danced down her arms and around the curve of her hands. The flames ignited her blood and gobbled up the entirety of the frame. The flames incinerated the wood in a flash, leaving ashes in their wake.

The fire spread like a cancer across the frame, chasing down the paths on either side of her to complete the circle on the other sides. As the flames of the Hollow reached the Harvesters, they reeled back their jawless heads and stared to the ebony, cloudless night sky with those empty eye sockets and screamed as if they themselves were burning.

The sound of their screeches pierced Aiden’s ears, and he clamped his hands against the sides of his face to block their shrill cry. The three dogs whimpered at his back and dropped their heads to the ground, seeking any kind of relief from the noise.

Outside the Wall, the whole of the town was awakened at once by the shrieks. Families exited their homes as one and hurried to the outskirts of town to see the Wall for themselves, to prove it was still there. Others cowered inside or on their porches, shielding their ears from the piercing howls.

But all of the town could see the smoke rising from the forest’s edge in hefty gray puffs reaching high into the sky. And those who dared to reach the Wall witnessed the wrath of the flames burning the frame to the ground; they felt the scorching heat against their skins and wiped sweat from their brows despite the chill in the air.

The Harvesters’ fingers pierced the glass and dragged down, shattering the mirrors from the backside. The heat singed their bones, leaving black stains on their brittle bodies. Many of the Harvesters’ robes caught fire and were eaten away in seconds, leaving the frail, skeletal body behind without cover. Their slender gray bodies slouching forward ended with rounded ankle bones protruding through torn skin that now dangled for all to see.

The townspeople began to scream as they watched the outer mirror being ripped to shreds like fabric before their eyes. Soon, the black, eyeless and open maws of the Harvesters came into view through the holes, and the townspeople began to huddle together for safety. A few of them thought clear enough to bring weapons: rifles and shotguns. A few of the housewives wielded knives while the rest shielded their children from watching the destruction.

Amid the screams and roaring fire, through the haze of the smoked filled town lit up by lanterns and flickering street lamps, the exterior mirrors fell in a wave, dropping with a crash that silenced the Harvesters and the townspeople at once. The fire faded from life when the last of the wooden frame rotted beneath its heat, and all that remained was a crowd of people staring wide-eyed and terrified into the faces of the naked Harvesters with burned skin and charred fragments of their robes hanging in ropes from their misshapen figures.

With a soft exhale, Sophie collapsed. Aiden rushed forward to catch her in his arms, but he stumbled to his knees in his haste. He curled his large arms around her ashen body and cradled her at his chest. He tried to wipe away the stains of the fire from her face, but his sweaty fingers only smudged the ash into gray streaks across her face.

Her hair had returned to its normal orange thickness, and it too was covered in soot, lying lax beneath her head and entlanged among his arm as he held her. Her chest rose and fell in long, slow bursts, proving she was alive but unable to witness the remains of her success.

The Harvesters lingered at the edge of the forest, wavering forward and backward like dogs testing the strength of their leash. The shrinking group of frightened townspeople wavered on nervous legs. Most had already departed, running back to the safety of the town while the bravest remained, too curious and too hypnotized to look away.

Aiden stroked Sophie’s arms, hoping to wake her from whatever darkness held her under.

“Come on, darlin’. Come back.” He glanced between the leashed Harvesters and the terrified and huddled mass of people. “I need you to take charge again.”

From outside the remains of the Wall, Denise watched the remaining embers die away. Her eyes were locked on the Harvesters; their hideous, jawless faces gaping at her, and their black, empty eye holes staring through her rattled her bones with chills. Somewhere in the distance of her foggy mind, she felt someone shaking her shoulder and shouting her name--but to her ears, the shouts were a whisper lost in a daze.

“Denise,” Susanna shook her shoulder violently, trying to jar her out of her stupor. “What do we do now? Those creatures--Denise!”

But Denise could only stare back at the Harvesters while her daughter's words looped in her head.

“I’ve made my choice, Mother.”

“I will not apologize for finding my true place in the world.”

“If you care about me as much as you claim you do, then you will think hard on what I’ve said.”

Denise blinked and tore her eyes from the creatures. She scanned the remains of her Wall, of all her hard work and rage, and at the center the destruction, she saw the Soldier kneeling in the mud with Sophie cradled in his arms.

“My…” she huffed a panicked breath and reached forward. “My baby girl.”

“Denise,” Susanna shook her shoulder again. “We should go, get away from this place before—”

Denise heard none of her friend’s pleading words. She didn’t notice when Susanna dropped her hand from her shoulder and left the scene to seek shelter in town. Denise didn’t notice when the others left her too. She didn’t notice when she was the last person standing on the blacktop under the hissing streetlamp in the center of a pack of carnivorous creatures. All she focused on was her daughter at its center and the man who took her from her.

Aiden swallowed his worry and slid his arm under her knees to lift her from the muddy earth. He rose to his feet and drew her body close against his chest, folding her small frame into a half-circle so that his body would shelter her from the cooling wind on the way back home.

But before Aiden turned away, he felt someone’s eyes on him, watching him, judging him.

Denise watched the Soldier raise his head, and for the first time, she looked the beast in his light gray eyes--the eyes of his mother. She almost felt pity for him, recalling all his mother suffered through before she finally took her own life. But that was a long time ago, and it didn’t excuse what he had done now to her baby. But she found her muscles refused to move under the watchful eyes of those hideous monsters; and so she just stared back at the Soldier as he frowned, shook his head, and turned from her. He disappeared among the thickness of the trees along with her daughter.

Denise released a heavy sigh and stumbled backward, finally able to feel her legs again. As the final smoke clouds cleared from the forest, she saw the Harvesters turn their heads as one, all of them looking to the path where the Soldier disappeared. And they followed him, leaving her and the town untouched.

A sob left her throat like a cough, and Denise sank to her knees and wept in silence beneath the clearing skies.

#tus #the unseen soldier #hades and persephone #hapsgs #southern gothic #greek mythology #writings

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harringtonhavoc · 7 years ago

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New Coventry, despite what the contemporary title would suggest, has never been the epitome of glamor. It is a beautiful catastrophe of crippled sandstone and discoloured cement, grime covering every available surface in a film of soot and soil and carries sharp winds which echo like Lycan howls within the many discarded bottles stacked along every street corner. It has been lodged in a state of perpetual winter, withered trees warped and barren and decorated with an eruption of frantic cigarette burns. Amidst all this inelegance – amidst rabid strangers foaming from split lips and ravenous canines trained only to hunt – Daniella has never felt closer to home. To h o p e.

Ditching priceless, scarlet-bottomed heels in favour of sturdy thick-soled boots had been an effortless transition. Contorting angular wings into an unruly smear of charcoal had been even easier. And she had maintained a designated spot inside her spacious walk-in closet for her beloved leather jacket (in all of its hand-studded glory) since the day her universe was turned upside down, pulling it comfortably over her shoulders like a second skin.

A mere glance at her newfound reflection - at the raven-haired vixen stood proudly before her - and she has been transformed back to those evenings spent tucked over her dormitory desk, hand moving freely across the pages scattered haphazardly over forgotten textbooks. Her illustrations once held life, promise, an implication of a future comfortably lived inside of her own tattoo studio.

Back when she was Dana; the foul-mouthed feminine-hipped greaser who could capture lonely hearts and frighten impressionable minds. Back when she was human; flesh and bone and amethyst veins instead of plastic and porcelain and blemishes which may never be scrubbed clean. What a difference an ‘ella’ can make.

And yet, despite how foul her new surname tastes, her old friends had accepted her back into the fold without a moment of hesitation. Hal had simply pressed a bottle of lukewarm, watery beer into her open palm whilst Peanut cranked up the Elvis.

Dana settled back into her infallible promiscuity with a natural ease, batting those long limitless lashes on ashen cheeks and parting pert lips around a salacious little grin simply to see how Ricky’s head would spin; lobes painted garnet and stomach aching with an urge to consume. With every synchronized giggle and click of her tongue she could feel them dining eagerly from the palm of her hand. Power – what an unbelievably peculiar sensation. A sensation destined to be savoured.

After her third (or was it fourth?) beer - ethanol tinted soul - she had expected to find herself draped over a metal railing, her fingertips buried in Ricky’s hair as he kissed the sin from her lips. Their hips strumming out a declaration of mourning for times lost.

What she hadn’t accounted for, however, is how extraordinarily adamant Johnny Vincent could be.

Huge, rough palms, kissed by tight leathery scars, grabbing hungrily at the spread of hips held firm inside torn denim. Sticky tongue working slow, cloyingly sweet circles over the plush of her own. The pinch of jagged teeth gnawing wounds like braille over swollen cherry-flavoured lips. And he moans her name so adoringly that Dana feels as though she is plummeting several thousand feet below sea level, her body crashing into sculpted rock and lungs full of salt. It is a welcomed oblivion – vision contorted into a fluorescent haze as her senses catch up to the sincerity of this reality.

If 14-year-old Dana, grotesque mascara tears and shredded fishnets, could see her now; wanted by Johnny fucking Vincent!

She hadn’t required much lubrication when Johnny suggested heading behind a nearby building for some ‘privacy’. He pins her body to the ground with minimum effort, her thighs spreading like butter on the dirty asphalt; a collision of opal on jade where Peanut’s faded handiwork has added a certain vibrancy to an otherwise sepia environment. Her throat blossoms shades of carmine and crimson underneath the weight of Johnny’s teeth and he draws a messy little line down toward her cleavage as though marking his territory for any future devourer; a warning sign presented in the form of a fragrant bouquet – something Dana ignorantly overlooks.

Her top has been discarded before she can even fathom her surroundings, chased swiftly by her soft lacy bra; floating on an artificial high summoned by cheap beer and consumed Xanex (the pills, of course, given to her by her mother every morning over breakfast. Appearances mean everything after all. A daughter who wallows in her depression and violation isn’t exactly proper.). Her toes tingle where they curl inside her boots as his mouth – that beautiful, dirty mouth – descends lower. She feels safer here, nestled amidst shattered leaves, than she ever could when buried inside a platinum and gold universe.

“Yous so fuckin’ sexy,” Johnny purrs, exaggerating the vowels; the delay granting him enough time to remove Dana’s wardrobe piece by piece. “S’rude a you y’know. Keepin yourself away from me f’so long.”

Bruised knuckles tent ambitiously over the brush of Johnny’s spine, Dana’s mind briefly wandering toward a certain red-haired harlot who would simply combust at the thought of someone else touching what she considered rightfully hers. Her ears give a phantom ring in consideration – a presumptuous chime mimicking the agonized outcry of Lola’s pitiful voice. Dana cannot help but smirk as she shudders that bit closer toward Johnny.

All too quickly, Johnny stands, settling himself into quite the seductive little role as he performs his heart out before charcoal eyes. And Dana fucking aches. Pulses. Throbs.

She can only watch in slack-jawed appreciation as Johnny removes his clothes; an absolute Adonis baked in honey and muscle and all the fantasies she had doodled into the backs of her notebooks once upon a time. He’s an absolute god – too immaculate for mortal eyes to visualize.

And then there’s Dana. An unsightly, morbid masterpiece; a perceptible announcement of the covert abuse she is forced to endure day in and day out. Mauve and obsidian clouds puff over her pelvis and around firm breasts. Scarlet and maroon lacerations dance down her inner thighs and over trembling arms. Black and copper rings circle around her naval from well-placed cigarette burns.

Yet, Johnny remains utterly breathless, grabbing at his cock with both hands; something unspeakably dark etched within his eyes. His tongue tickles vigorously over jagged teeth in one fluid motion.

“Come here.”

She moves toward him before he can finish his impromptu command, knees scraping on foreign stones, her body tuned toward commandments and instruction.

Dana’s body falls into his own with a natural grace as Johnny takes her rough, quick and warm. His lips never stray from the coolness of her ivory skin or the richness of her parted lips despite how she twists underneath him. Uneven teeth print a scripture of pleasure over mountainous collarbones every time she squeezes her thighs that bit tighter around his pelvis. She had anticipated agony; a sensory response to friction and motion and sex and fullness. But the pain does not arrive – only a mind-numbing ecstasy which sets her nerves on f i r e.

Worshipped. Adored. Cherished.

Johnny takes care of her, paints an illusion of humanity inside a delirious mind, presses eager fingertips between her legs to ensure they reach that magnificent knee-buckling high in perfect unison; wrenching her into heavenly skies and an apocalypse of starshine.

He kisses mindless patterns over the glaze of her temple and coos her into a well-deserved rest.

But it is not until Dana has found herself completely submerged within a technicolour universe full of aerated clouds and powdered sugar, snoring peacefully against Johnny’s torso, that he reaches across her body and retrieves her phone from discarded jacket pocket.

C l i c k.

P a u s e.

S e n d.

Just like that, with a photograph of their damp, contorted bodies perfectly mingled right there on the abandoned sidewalk, one thing is horrifyingly apparent.

Even in sanctuary one can find themselves tremendously betrayed.

#on today's edition of Chaz can't write for shit #this is horrible #eh #but it sorta explains what happened before the shower incident #for refrence this happened yesterday night and the shower thing happened today #so ya #sorry #writing

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gladiatorsteamroom · 19 days ago

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✠ » @ashen-howl || Soot « ✠

Their touch was always so, so gentle with her. Carefully caressing and petting over her plating. Exploring her wings and back, glossa lapping and never saying a word. They couldn't, not really, but they always let her know they were enjoying themselves. Servos pet lower, and lower, little com blips telling her to keep going. Keep touching, keep edging herself, keep herself on that edge while they explored. Taking their sweet, sweet time to explore her frame and bring her to that edge over and over again. Only touching her valve with a pleased purr of there engines when it was truely drenched. And mercilessly shoving digits inside, sucking and licking her node hungrily. Making her overload again and again and again.

The memory floods her processor, her vents coming faster as her frame moves in time with the thoughts. Her legs spread a little wider as her servo moves and stops - and she whines as she inadvertently edges herself several times.

Her other servo moved over her frame, brushing over her plating and teasing seams. Sighing as she remembers their touch and the feel of their glossa and derma over her. Her legs spread a bit further as the servo rolling her node sped up and the other one slid down to dip into her valve.

"S...Soot!"

She whined, starting slower before speeding up almost immediately, curling her digits every once in a while and pressing further on her node. It didn't take long - thinking of the smaller bots mouth and digits in her, their touch setting her frame on fire...

She cried out their name, arching as her overload washed over her and biolights flickered. She could feel her vocals glitching as the overload easily became two, and her processor kept the thought of Soot in her mind - her spark pulsing painfully hard within its chamber as she came down, steam seeping from her vents and her intake...

"Ah.. frag... Soot..."

#ashen-howl #ashen-howl // soot #✠ » danger zone ┋ nsft « ✠#✠ » mission accomplished ┋ answered « ✠

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xretiredcommanderx · 6 months ago

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Wrecker List

〡〢〣〡〣〢〡〢〣〢〡〢〣〡〣〢〡〢〣〢〡〢〣〡〣〢〡〢〣〢〡

Blocker

Bluestreak

Blurr

Bulkhead

Breacher

Burn - @ashen-howl

Crosshairs

Drift

Fisitron

Guzzle

Hacksaw

Hot Shot

Hound

Impactor

Inferno

Ironfist

Jetfire

Kup

Leadfoot

Moonracer

Offroad

Perceptor

Pyro

Rack n’ Ruin

Ricochet

Roadbuster (Young of Tarn and Magnus)

Rodimus (Young of Tarn and Magnus)

Rodimus - @flameofprimus

Rotorstorm

Ruination

Sandstorm - (Du-Du-Du-Du-Du)

Scoop

Scorch - @ashen-howl

Seaspray

Skyfire

Skywarp

Sonar

Soot - @ashen-howl

Springer - @springingfromnothing

Thunderclash

Topspin

Twin Twist

Waterlily - @ashen-howl

Wheeljack - (reserved)

Whiskey - @citizensofcybertron

Whirl - @polyhexing

〡〢〣〡〣〢〡〢〣〢〡〢〣〡〣〢〡〢〣〢〡〢〣〡〣〢〡〢〣〢〡

#for mobile users #long post

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gladiatorsteamroom · 15 days ago

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The message was recieved loud and clear, well, as loud as a text comm could be. She had paused for a moment when they asked her to place her face between their thighs, and her engine revved excitedly and her grin widened once more. She pressed one finally kiss to their lips before peppering a few kisses down the middle of their chassis.

She repositioned herself perfectly between their thighs, leaning up into their pets to her helm as she lightly kissed the inside of them while waiting... partially patiently. The moment that the panels were pulled back and she got a beautiful face-full of Soot's new valve. She barely waited long enough to finish reading Soot's new message before leaning forward and licking a broad stripe over their valve, pressing a kiss to their anterior node.

"Primus, Soot... its beautiful. You're beautiful..." She laughed breathily as she looked up at them with brightened optics, "And as much as I can't wait to hear more about that spike mod you're planning, I think I have a brand new meal in front of me I'd really like to enjoy." She winked before diving right back in.

A moan slipped from her as she licked another stripe over their valve, her servos shifting their legs to hook over her shoulders before they slid up to hold onto their hips. Her optics became heavier lidded as she began to kiss over their valve, sliding her glossa between the mesh lips before gently sucking on their node. After a moment, she pulled back to press a kiss on their thigh.

"If any of this becomes too much, let me know, okay? That way we can stop and get you comfortable again, and go from there."

Soot grinned up at her, kissing back with a hunger and a soft moan. Servos pawed and gripped, arching up into her before she pulled back. Helm tilting back as they vented, soft and quiet, baring there neck to her before they sent a short com text.

::I have a surprise. Put your face between my thighs :3::

As hard as it was to focus, they hoped Steamtrack got the message. And when Steam did as they asked, they pet over her helm, grinning down at her. A moment of silence, of enjoying feeling Steam down there before a new valve panel snapped back. Unmodded, plane black and purple with green biolights.

Completely fresh, very sensitive, and still very much sealed.

::Finally got a valve mod. Been wanting to feel your spike, working on getting a spike mod so I can spike you finally.::

#ashen howl #ashen howl // soot #✠ » danger zone ┋ nsft « ✠

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