#blood in the mouth

[dalliansss]

“ Mmmyprecious, ” Mairon breathes. “I will not let go into Námo’s hold the only known Elf to be able to Sing against an Ainu; or even open his mouth in turn while Ainu Sing. The only Elf whose ears did not destroy itself when mine Song wafted from mine lips. The only Elf who dared to attack me with little visions of Eldamar. Ah, maksima , Finrod, precious , do you think that I will let you go anywhere after that? I think not.”

(A.k.a Blood in The Mouth, an on-going, dark vampire AU co-written with @skaelds )

Commisioned from the wonderful and very talented @sauroff

[toosharpteeth]

unknown // “Sax Rohmer #1”, The Mountain Goats” // “Portions for Foxes”, Rilo Kiley // @incorrectshakespeare // “Little Beast”, Richard Siken

[kavaleyre]

• The Hanged Man •

“Compared to what Falin went through? This is nothing.”

[plainandgeneric]

The IHNMAIMS radio drama monologue comic is finally done after - checks calendar - FOUR MONTHS? If you spot any style inconsistencies, that's why haha.

Anyways, I love a good disembodied, analogue cluster, cable mismanagement horror AM :)

[dalliansss]

@skaelds look!

Sauron reveals himself to Ar-Pharazôn. From @elfscribe's Elegy for Númenor, v.1.

[lilislegacy]

*percy controlling akhlys’ poison to use it against her and choking her on her own tears and saliva*

annabeth: never do it again. never do anything like it again. i’m begging you

many years later

*percy and annabeth’s teenage children being held at knifepoint by enemies, seconds away from being killed*

annabeth: percy, do it

[saint-hymn]

mercy, mèrci

[ladyofthecreeddraws]

Sonsband's a messy eater but it's ok cuz you love him either way <3

[thelostmoongazer]

Lose your head

[lazylittledragon]

so how about that durge

[haveihitanerve]

Okay but hear me out- the batkids as actual Vampires. Not bruce, just the kids, and bruce providing for them. Because he just has the tastiest blood.

Little Dick toddling over to Bruce, tears in his eyes because he ate his bloody dinner too fast and hes still hungry and Bruce just sighing and sticking out his hand and Dick lights up and they watch a movie while dick is happily gnawing on Bruce’s thumb and sucking his blood. Big Dick complains very loudly about how hungry he is and Bruce will glower at him before finally giving in and throwing an arm around his eldests shoulders and Dick pecks his cheek with a sweet “thank you dad.” before sinking his teeth into Bruce’s arm. 

Little Jason would very politely come over and tug on his hand and Bruce would pick him up and let him bite his hand and drink, but Big Jason just pounces on Bruce from behind and sinks his teeth into Bruces shoulder/neck for blood. 

Little Tim slipping five dollar bills into Bruce’s hand just before chomping his thigh and Big Tim very casually stabbing a needle into Bruce’s leg, extracting blood and then putting it into his coffee and walking away. Sometimes, if he’s feeling nostalgic, he will curl up with his head on bruce’s lap and actually bite him for blood, for pure blood, but he likes his coffee bruce blood blend better

Little Cass never once asked bruce for blood because she was scared, but Bruce would just scoop her into his arms and offer her his already cut open shoulder until she was comfortable enough scaling him like a tree and drinking from his shoulder. Big Cass still doesn't ask for blood, she just lands on his shoulders and bites his bicep. 

Little Steph was a little vampire gremlin and any time she saw Bruce without clothes (since his children feed off of him Bruce wears very little, just a tank top and shorts and makes sure to shave as much as possible to provide ample biting space, but as Batman he still wears his full suit just easy to slip off certain parts so his kids can feed easily) she would suction onto him like a little affectionate leech and dig her little teeth into his back. Big Steph also likes his back and has much the same habits as little steph did. 

Little Babs wasn't too keen on blood, but sometimes Bruce would offer her his forearm while she was working and she would work and eat. Big Babs has no qualms about taking his blood, but has few chances, so he stops by her Oracle hideout sometimes and just holds out his arm for her to drink

Little Damian thought drinking blood from a human was beneath him. Until he saw Cass doing it and wanted to follow her footsteps, but he cant climb bruce as well as her, so he just sank his teeth into Bruce’s calf. Big Damian will wait until Bruce sits or lays down and props his feet up and will then enjoy his calf blood. 

Bruce Wayne who is covered, littered in bite scars of varying sizes, who was once knocked over by his three eldest sons because they had been on a mission away from him for a week and were hungry and before they even said hello just sank their teeth into his neck, hand and thigh. Bruce Wayne who’s majority of scars come from his children, not villains and who willingly offers up his neck to any one of his children if they seem hungry. 

Bruce Wayne who, as Batman, will peel his protective bat suit arm off because Dick was hungry on a stake out. 

Bruce Wayne who is not a vampire but his children all are and he’ll be damned if he deprives them their nutrients. 

(selina kyle who is also a vampire and also gets her blood from bruce but from his-)

[dalliansss]

Hunger

Requested by @nobunsonpesach Collab AU with @skaelds Context: Set in the overarching AU of [Blood in the Mouth], somewhere between A Ruined Thing and Where The Wind Whispers Foe

Death throes are fascinating. 

Especially when one is in such close proximity to it; for example, fangs stuck in the prey’s neck, arms wrapped around said prey in a death-hold, to prevent further struggle. One could almost hear the tell-tale weakening of the heartbeat, the strained flutter, the drum beats and the drummer losing the last legs of its strength. And then the Great Shudder, as Finrod liked to call it – the Great Shudder where everything seems to hang on the brink for a few seconds, and then the Stillness. For ordinary elves, of course, it meant respite at last, the fëa escaping the ruined hröa so the spirit may flee to Mandos and there await and recover. For orcs and men, there is nothing beyond the Stillness. They are gone. Just like that.

Finrod drops the dead prey on the floor. It is an orc, with blackish skin pockmarked with scars from battle or the common pox they have here in the pits of Angband – yet scars are sometimes indistinguishable on the orcs. Round, star-burst, gashes that could very well be from weapons and also the teeth of the werewolves and wargs. Distinction is sometimes not needed in a place called Angband. 

The orcs give him a wide berth. Shrieking and howling and hissing, Finrod, Agarogol, had descended on this orc pit with no warning. Some days prior he had been unseen anywhere in Angband, and of course the truth of the matter is that Mairon had decided to play one of his cruel games on him again. The maia had baited him with some newly-made bracelets, taunting him, asking him to beg to have the pieces of jewelry given. When Finrod flatly refused to play the game, Mairon beat him to an inch of his life, locked him in a dungeon and left him there without blood for as long as he could be left.

By now, Finrod understood a few useful things about his new hröa. He could slow his own metabolism by withdrawing his mind inward, withdrawing far enough that the body runs on the littlest energy possible. It makes him resemble a true corpse; no pulse, no heartbeat, but his consciousness is withdrawn as little as possible, ready to spring back in optimum circumstances. But the thing is, when there is an injury to be healed, he cannot manage this simple trick so easily. His body has a mind of its own, and it is preservation and healing whenever it has been damaged. And this time, Mairon damaged him quite extensively. Broke his wings, broke a leg. Even pulled out a fang, which, to a vampire, was greater than the hurt from a silver alloy weapon or even outright silver poisoning in the blood. 

He has no choice but to make do. Withdraw as little as possible, stalling the frenetic healing of his own body, just so he doesn’t lose his mind to the mounting blood lust. For some stretches of days this serves him well, until it is about a week and Mairon lets him out, unleashes him toward the hordes of Angband that simply had the bad luck to be in his way.

And today, orc pit number 43 is the unlucky pot.

Finrod attacks, and attacks, and attacks, slaughtering the orcs and making no distinction. He goes for the biggest, menacing orc-bulls first, because they have the most blood and the most flesh, and he breaks their necks or tears their throats out, black blood and guts spraying all over him in his frenzy. Next he goes for the middling warriors, then the orc-dams, and finally the small and insignificant wetlings that offer little flesh and hurt his ears with their shrieking.

There were about two hundred orcs in pit 43.

When Finrod is done, none are left.

Again he discovers something about his modified hröa. It swells. Like a grotesque balloon, his skin, his flesh, stretches and stretches, until he falls onto his back in the midst of the bloody pit, for now unrecognizable and burdened, his flesh and skin distended to its limits, making him look like a gray-fleshed leech. 

If someone took a needle on him, he might very well have popped.

Finrod lays there, mind lost in the blissed-out high of post-feeding, for now incapable of coherent thinking. He is a glutton, a creature of Melkor, Gorthaur, Mairon– he is no elf, this is for certain. The elf perished in Tol-in-Gaurhoth, going against that werewolf. The elf…

He has no idea how he remains there, laying on his back in the midst of the pit, surrounded by carnage. Coherency returns slowly, sluggishly, like old blood creeping in the vein. He struggles to get up, hindered by his own sudden girth. The dried blood is sticky on his skin, and his claws are caked with flesh and marrow underneath. He manages to sit up, weight down flabbed-down arms. His belly is distended, a great, dark-veined thing. As if a monster got him with child. Even his legs are swollen. Even his face feels full, swollen even upon the cheeks. His skin stretched tight, emphasizing the dark veins. 

A monster.

Wasn’t he the ‘fairest and most loved of the House of Finwë’?

Where were the Valar who pronounced such great and beautiful things about him when he was born?

Where was Ulmo?

Why did Ulmo allow him to become this, when he did as asked, obeyed as well as he could, despite his flaws?

Where was the help for him?

Swear an oath of abiding friendship and aid, and then this is what he gets in return? Served unto the Enemy on a silver platter?

Or maybe there was no help in the first place. He was a pawn. Pawns merely obeyed without question, did as they were told. First told to be kind, then obey these Dooms, stick to this way of life, and then…

He hears the tink of jewelry. He can’t get up, his body too burdened by its sudden, great weight. His mind refuses to understand things more than two’s or three’s. The temperature around the pit increases, and Finrod squirms feebly against his Maker’s approach. Even as Sauron – Gorthaur – comes to a stop before him, he stays where he is, sitting, weight down his arms, his great stomach wobbling with every unneeded breath he takes.

“Look at you,” Mairon croons. “You’re a great leech, swollen with blood and flesh. Mine creature who cannot even best his own instincts.”

Finrod lets the words pass from one ear to another, ignored. Thinking is painful. The blood high is slow to recede, and once it does, he knows it will leave him bereft.

Mairon tsks with disapproval. He walks around him, jewelry tinking against each other. Then he grabs Finrod by the jaw, and he delights how his fingers sink into the fat flesh. He grips him tighter, and Finrod spits out a wad of blood toward the úmaia’s face.

Mairon pulls back and back-hands his fledgling across the face in return. Finrod falls back, flesh jiggling. Mairon harrumphs cruelly and sneers down at him.

“Let’s see how many hours you stay like this, my great swollen leech. I will give you twelve hours. If in twelve hours you do not return to your beauteous form, then, there will be quite some price to pay.”

Likely another round of starvation, and another round of gluttonous frenzy, until his hröa learns to dwindle itself faster, the trauma triggering the metabolic response. 

Finrod says naught. He curls in on himself, and Mairon laughs and laughs.

[hinamie]

the sirens are turning red

[mickules]

Parallel Lines

---

I do wonder sometimes, if neither of them had become 'Brothers', how they might have fared better. . .

Taka, obviously, would not have been as vulnerable to Celeste's machinations had he not been mourning his Kyoudai. . .

But Mondo? Perhaps without the boon of his new hard won friendship with Taka, he might not have had the confidence to agree so soon to help with Chihiro's training. Deeply unsettled and antsy, newly preoccupied that his worst secret will be revealed, he may have stalled just long enough to have avoided that tragedy.

Did their bond become their millstone?

[rhroup]

I have no mouth and I must scream content?😭

Idk if changing fandoms would affect reach on tumblr still learning bout tumblr it’s cool

[starryyskies]

MOUTHS LORE WHAT?!?

I have much more to build on this but I must provide food for my friends <3