#you’re already the blade in durge’s veins

[nocanonhere]

Durge Redeemed - Latest Journal Entry (DurgexWyll)

“I have not said I love him, for I do not know what that means. I know he shows it to me, but love is a feeling as well as an act. I can return the actions, but I am perplexed by the feeling. But if it is my desire to protect him, to run to him when in doubt, to hold his hand, to keep him close, to let him leave once he realizes this is not a union he deserves, to protect from the shadows as he rules and marries and creates, then I do love him. I love him so much it hurts. It is so strong that it fights the Urge. He promised a target should my Urge arise again, but he does not know that he is already the Blade in my veins, warring against my Father. He made himself the target when he pressed his lips to mine. And I’ve warned him as such, even when my claws were at his throat. But he persists, and so do I. So that is love.

Yes?”

[cringecannon]

ive been reading ur posts for a while and i had a vision from god recently that i needed to share with like minds, so i hope this will be to ur taste... i've been trying to find others who i know this will appeal to (besides me)

but...... bhaalcest-- orin being incredibly possessive over durge and jealous over gortash and durge's relationship, so she changes into gortash when she knows durge is expecting him and has her way with durge, while they're none the wiser.

for the sake of everyone else (and urself) i wont get into the nasty gorey parts that really makes this so much better, i love me some knife"play" (is it really play if orin just outright stabs u) and woundfucking (that i really want to get into but!!!!! i have to find the right audience... hoping i can rant insanely about all that here i just didn't wanna outright plop it down when this scene is good by itself too LJDLASJFAL) -👻

To be fair, I already wrote about Orin fingering a wound. I’m all for insane fucked up knifeplay rants in my inbox. Anyway, obligatory Dubcon, Orin, and Improper Use of Gortash’s Body warning

Something’s wrong with Enver.

You only notice it sometimes. The look in his eyes is wrong, or his grip on you is far too tight. Whenever you mention the change in demeanor, he brushes it off. Or he gets angry. Yelling, throwing things, veins in his throat bulging kind of angry. There’s something wrong with him. The man you know wouldn’t act like this.

You love it.

You almost pounce on him the first time it happens, so turned on you don’t even bother removing anything but the bare necessities. He’s confused for only a moment, but quickly falls into place. You ride him until his eyes roll back, nails digging so hard into your hips that they draw blood. You leave your own bloody scratches down his chest, marking him.

Imagine your surprise when you get to see him again a few days later and the marks are gone completely. It throws you off- your hips are still bruised. You call him out on it, he waves his hand and says he had an image to uphold. He can’t walk around looking like he was attacked by a feral cat. The comment irritates you. You like seeing him marked up, proof that he’s yours. You reach for your knife subtly. You think he needs to be reminded of your real claws.

You’re frozen when instead an ornate dagger is suddenly held to your throat. That bastard. He’s stolen your trick.

He presses the point of it to your throat, drawing blood. You feel the warm drip of it down your skin and into your shirt. You should kill him for this. You should play in his guts while he begs for the mercy of death. However, feeling him cut through your clothes with no regard for your safety excites you more. Every thin slice into your skin as he hurries to get you nude is exhilarating. You’ll get him back for it, eventually. You just need him inside you.

He shoves you back hard, splaying you out on the table. You eagerly spread your legs for him, throwing your head back with a gasp when he bends down to lick the trail of blood all the way back up to your neck.

He groans into your ear, hips grinding against yours with a stuttered breath. He wants to savor your blood, forever remember it staining your pretty skin. He leans to the side to hold the dagger against your stomach, dragging the blade across it teasingly. The cut is thin, barely drawing blood. You arch your back, desperate for more. He laughs breathlessly, pulling the dagger away to instead hold it over your thigh. You ask what's gotten into him. He laughs again, biting down on your shoulder. He asks a question of his own- how far would you let him go?

The dagger dances on your skin and you writhe, holding back a grin. Anything. You'd let him do anything, so long as you could play with him too. He groans, mouthing at the junction where your shoulder meets your neck. Of course. It'd only be fair, he wants you to play in his blood too. Wouldn't it be divine, love?

He's never called you love, ever. You're not sure he's called anyone love in his life, but when the blade finally bites into your flesh... you can't seem to make yourself care. You just beg for more.

[shellalana]

That’s the Spirit

((writing prompt from @coffin-prompts))

Resilient. That was the most common word you’d heard used to describe those clones, and now one of them was in your very bar. You’d seen a few of them before, dressed in their greens and greys working for the UPR. They’re nothing more than tools, a gun to be pointed in the right direction. Where was the individuality, where was the character? Where was the decency of being treated like a person? But here... this one didn’t look like the others. For one thing, he lacked the proverbial stick up his ass. He was loose with his posture, his weight supported by the elbows on the countertop just so so that no one could sit at the neighbouring stools. This guy wanted his privacy and he didn’t care about being polite to get it. And that made him all the more intriguing to you, more than the countless stories you’d heard of his many escapes from the UPR facility. Here was a guy who knew how to get what he wanted, no matter what restrictions were placed on him or what barriers were in his way. None of that was going to stop him. That was the kind of guy you needed on your team, before someone else snatched him up. The problem was getting him to trust you first. This was the first time you’d seen a clone shirtless too; you’d always wondered what was under those helmets and armour, whether they were really that alien that they needed to be kept hidden from the world. Your imagination didn’t need to play any longer. He was the living embodiment of everything you appreciated in the male form: muscular, tall, and definitely burdened with an attitude. What you wouldn’t give to go over there and buy him a damn drink already, just to get a word in and see how he’d respond. But you were here to scout him out, see what he was made of, and you didn’t want to get on his bad side before you had the chance to give him an invite. Where there wasn’t smooth purple skin awash in fluorescent red light, there were jagged edges, metal, a rough weapon on his back, and a gleam of sharp teeth as he tried to work the edge of his beer just under the helmet without exposing the rest of his face. “You’re in my chair.” Ugh, not this idiot again. Durg had been one of your better scuttlers, able to take out even the hardiest of ships to get to their loot. It was what kept your people happy and thriving, after all. But where he had skill, he lacked in personality. You watched as the clone paused in his sip, slammed down his stein, and turned around to face whoever was disturbing his peace. You felt the air of the room begin to buzz as everyone else took notice, the drinks temporarily forgotten in anticipation of a fight. It would make today a little more interesting... “Don’t see your name on it.” “Everyone knows I sit there.” “I’m not everyone,” he said with a sneer and went back to nursing his drink. He has balls, you’ll give him that, and went back to take care of your own beverage, peering just over the edge to see how this would all play out. Durg was bristling, his fists clenching as he was denied his seat. You knew he was going to start swinging and he wouldn’t stop until he got what he wanted. But before he could wind up his punch, you heard the sound of jagged metal digging into flesh, scraping against bone. The rhythmic drip drip of blood came after. You almost spluttered your drink all over the table as Durg peered down at the blade sticking out of his sternum. The hilt was still connected to the purple hand that held it, cruel-looking claws curling around leather and twisting at the blade ever so slightly. You considered if now might be a good time to step in and defuse the situation before- The clone headbutted Durg right in the chin, the spiked mohawks on his helmet carving thick gashes through the skin. Thankfully nowhere near his vital veins or else you’d have a bigger problem on your hands. Not wanting to waste the drink, you threw back the rest and leapt into action, your pistol remaining in its holster for the time being. The rest of the bar broke into an uproar in celebration rather than trying to break up the fight. Good; you didn’t need more bodies to pull apart. Thankfully, you also weren’t wearing your regulars or else would have been noticed a long time ago. That made it easier for you to get out of the booth and across the room before someone could stop you for an autograph. As Durg dropped to his knees, still in awe at his bleeding wound, you hopped onto the nearest stool, grabbed the overhead beam, and swung yourself right into the clone’s back. Your boots connected dully with the metal vertebrae protruding from his skin and sent him spilling to the floor. Clearly caught unaware, he dropped like a stone, his blade tumbling across the floor. You managed to get to your feet and heard yourself barking orders to the rest, telling them to drag Durg out and to the infirmary before he bled out. But your mind could think of nothing else but that helmeted face turning to stare up at you. Was he pissed? Impressed? In pain? “You’re on the Detritus Ring. My people, my rules. And I don’t feel like burying anyone today.” Cheesy, boastful, and clearly establishing the pecking order. Definitely not the best way to make a good first impression. All you’d done, you’d believed, was demonstrate that he wasn’t welcome here instead of having something to offer. Big mistake. Still, you couldn’t just let Durg die like that. There was a huff; nails scraped against wood as he tapped the floor, an indication that he’d surrendered. Surprising. You’d expected him to put up more of a fight or at least an argument. Maybe even a question as to who you really were to talk down to him like this. But all of those expectations were replaced with breathy laughter, then a groan, as he rolled himself onto his back. “Good. Cuz you’d have a hard time planning your own funeral.” Cocky. It brought a smile to your face, despite the clatter of guns being unholstered and the safeties being undone. You might have broken his back but you clearly haven’t broken his spirits. He was definitely more than you’d bargained for.