#dash writes

[emdashfaggot]

holy fuck i wrote 5k. i finally sat down and wow and there was a smut in it and this was after i had about three to five consecutive brain blasts about plot and how a bunch of stray pieces actually fit into the puzzle

[goodtimingwithscar]

The Apology.

Collab With @hermit-gri !!<3

Genre: Angst, Forgiving.

TW’S: Uhh, what may be considered a panic attack?

Enjoy!!

"you.. MONSTER!!.."

"Scar we can figure this out-. I- please!!.."

Limited Life, was possibly the most brutal time in the Avian’s life, betrayal, murder, fire. And it was all his fault, not just his, The Bad Boys.

He was in the gang, that killed his bestfriend, he knew Scar was going to get killed, why didn’t he tell him? Traitor.

Suddenly, Grian heard footsteps, approaching him, he prayed that it was scar, so he’d get a chance to apologise properly. Scar then walked through the trees, having a scar on his neck from when he was killed.

“Grian.” Scar’s voice was rigid. “..Scar!!” Grian tried to be cheery, but it didn’t phase the opposing man at all. “..oh.. scar, I’m so sorry.. I know truly I should’ve warned you-!. But-.”

“But you didn’t, Grian. You didn’t care and you made me lose an hour of time I have left to live.” Scar interrupted, pushing grian, causing him to almost fall off the log he sat upon.

“I know I didn’t!.. Scar I tried to warn you!!” Grian said quickly, tears filling his eyes.

“How did you try to warn me?, all you did was smirk when the tnt starting lighting!! What form of friendship is this, Grian?” Scar hissed, frowning.

“It wasn’t meant to kill you, Scar! It was only meant to kill Cleo..” Grian said.

Scars heart ached with anger and grief, he clenched his fists, glaring at Grian.

“YEAH LIKE THATS GONNA MAKE ME FEEL BETTER!!, I DONT CARE IF YOU DIDNT MEAN TO KILL ME, YOU STILL WANTED TO KILL MY FRIENDS!!..” Scar yelled, pushing Grian hard enough to knock him off the log.

Scar smirked, “if that hurt you, you’re pathetic, I got killed, and you knew!!. But no, I’m the bad guy now because I pushed you, once. It didn’t even do any damage!” He exclaimed, pulling Grian to his feet.

Grian stumbled, holding scars hand, refusing to let go. The avian looked up into scars eyes, tears in his own, he said nothing, but ran closer to scar, hugging him tightly.

“I’m sorry!!..” he said. “I know!, im a terrible friend!!..” he cried, resting his head against scars chest.

Scar was shocked, looking down at Grian. “I-.. oh.. Gri.. it’s okay..” Scar said, gently rubbing his back. “Don’t worry, 'kay?..” he sighed, holding the sobbing Grian upright.

[littlemissdash]

in which socks are not a necessity | Alfonse x OC

words: 1818

description: the winter festival has grown too cold to weather a moment longer, and alice seeks peace and warmth in front of the fireplace. 

hi @avistella​, i was your pinch hitter for the @summonersecretsanta​ gift exchange! Thank you for being so patient with me in finishing your gift. i hope you enjoy! happy holidays!

It’s so cold. The Winter Festival is always a joyous occasion in Askr, but it’s evening now; the sun has long since set, and there’s a chill seeping into her bones. Alice has already spent the better part of the day entrenched in celebration – people pulling her this way and that, to play this game, to sing these carols, to thank her for guiding the Order of Heroes over and over again – and to be frank, she’s had all she can take for one day! She creaks out of her spot in front of the fire to add another log. As she stokes the flames, she muses that perhaps tomorrow she’ll treat herself by sleeping in. Surely, the castle will go on without its Summoner for an hour or two in the morning?

In fact, the thought of her warm bed is particularly appealing right now…. Once the fire has warmed her skin a little more, she’ll make her way there. In the meantime, she sets about thawing her toes by the heat of the flames.

“You know,” she hears from behind her, “most people would at least consider wearing socks in the winter-time.” There’s a smile in his voice, as though he already suspects what answer she’ll give him; and though she knows he’s only teasing, she can’t hold in a small huff.

“I’m fine without socks, thank you very much. I don’t see you hounding Sharena for wearing shorts in the winter.” She glances over her shoulder at her uninvited guest. The prince has shed his armor for the evening; dressed in a simple tunic and slacks, he nearly looks… ordinary. The thought that she is one of the few people who are lucky enough to see him like this makes her proud (though she’d never admit it out loud).

“No, perhaps not,” Alfonse replies from his place near the door. “But Sharena isn’t quite as sensitive to the cold as you are, and I’d hate for you to get frostbitten toes.” There’s a warm, shy smile on his face, the kind of smile that sparks something hot in her chest, and she turns her gaze back to the fire to hide the color in her cheeks. Alfonse clears his throat and speaks again. “May I… join you there? If I’m not interrupting you.”

Just a minute ago, Alice had been reveling in her solitude; but if it’s him, well… interacting doesn’t feel effortful. She pats the empty floor beside her. “Of course you can.” It’s difficult to resist his hopeful look – not that she tries particularly hard. She returns her attention to the flames, and for a long moment after he settles beside her, there’s nothing but the sound of the fire crackling.

There’s something… intimate about quietly sitting together like this. After the cacophony of war, the bustle of festivals, the arguments and debates of war councils… most days, Alice thinks she’d like to just crawl under her covers and stay there. It would be easier. It would certainly be more peaceful. But sitting together with Alfonse like this… it makes her glad she decided to get out of bed.

“Did you need—” “I wanted to—” They interrupt each other, flushing when they realize their mistake. Alice turns her face in embarrassment, and Alfonse coughs into his hand. “You first,” he insists.

“Did you need a break from all the celebrating?” she asks him.

Alfonse scratches the back of his head. “Well, not quite…” he clears his throat and starts again. “Celebrations like this are welcome. Seeing my people in high spirits… it reminds me why we go out and fight, every day. I am grateful for that.”

When he speaks of his people, the look on his face changes… something between determination and fondness. He loves them dearly. She hopes, one day, she’ll learn to love them with the same fervor.

“They’re welcome, but…?” she probes gently.

“But…. I couldn’t find you,” he admits. Perhaps it’s the light from the fire… but his cheeks almost look a little pink. (It’s terribly endearing.) She can’t help the small smile peeking out on her face. “I have something I wanted to give you,” he adds hastily. It’s only now that she notices that he’s been hiding something behind his back all this time: a small, neatly wrapped gift.

“Huh? But... we already exchanged presents,” Alice protests, flustered by the sudden gift. Did she forget an agreement to exchange extra gifts? Or worse, has he done this out of the goodness of his heart, and she has nothing to repay him with?

“That we did. However, I wanted to give you my true gift in private.” He pauses for a moment, looking for the right words. “It is… selfish of me, perhaps, but I want to be… the only one to see your reaction.” His face is undeniably pink now, but he isn’t avoiding her gaze.

“I – well… alright,” she responds. Alfonse looks satisfied, and a moment later he sets the gift in her hand. “Should I open it now?”

“Please do,” he answers. He’s nervous, she realizes! Even though he’s speaking so boldly to her! What could have Alfonse practically wringing his hands in front of her? Now she’s becoming anxious…. Oh, but now he’s waiting for me to open it….

“The wrapping is very nice,” she says to break the nervous tension between them. “I almost feel sorry to rip it.” Alfonse smiles in response, but doesn’t say anything; she finally bites the bullet and pulls at the ribbon. The wrapping paper is torn off to reveal a small, white box.

She hesitates for just a moment before opening it. Alfonse is watching her eagerly, though she doesn’t know it – she’s too busy taking in the intricate necklace he’s presented her. It’s finely made, that much is clear. The gold metal shines in the light of the fire, delicately shaped and curved in swooping branches to cradle the stone in the center – a bright shade of blue that she recognizes on sight.

It takes a moment before she finds the words to speak, and she’s quieter than she means to be. “The stone…. It’s the same color as the one in Fólkvangr. Isn’t it?”

Alfonse smiles wider now; He had so hoped she would make the connection. “It is,” he says just as quietly. There’s an implication behind the connection of sharing the same stone, though neither of them is quite brave enough to give voice to it. “Do you like it?” he asks instead.

“I… I think it’s gorgeous,” she says truthfully, “and far too much to give me.”

“I commissioned it specifically to be made for you,” he replies evenly.

“That’s even worse!” she groans. The longer she looks at it, the more certain she is that she isn’t worthy of such a meaningful gift. “I don’t mean to scorn your gift, it really is beautiful, but this must have cost so much. I’m hardly worth spending that kind of money on!” Without really wanting to, she pushes it back to Alfonse. “It’s kind of you, really, but I don’t need or deserve this kind of gift.”

He catches her hand, and his smile shifts to a frown. “Alice, you must know I could never agree with that. I had this made because I wanted you to have it.”

Alice shakes her head, avoiding his eyes. “Alfonse, please… it’ll only make me feel guilty. I didn’t prepare you a gift in turn.”

He looks a little crestfallen now, and she regrets her rejection even more. “But you didn’t refuse the circlet when I gave you that. What’s so different about this?” Indeed, the circlet sits comfortably on her head as he speaks. He’s been proud to see her wear it almost daily since he gifted it to her.

She pauses for a moment. “It’s… well, it’s not, I suppose. It’s just that… isn’t this sort of gift… quite sentimental?” She’s almost nervous to look at him now – has she read his gift wrong? Oh, perhaps she should have gone straight to bed after all!

But no, he’s looking at her intently once again. “It is. That’s why I wanted to give it to you in private.” He chooses his words slowly once more. “I hope that you will look at it… and think of me, and know that you are ever on my mind.”

His voice is very nearly reverent, and her protests finally die in her throat. Alfonse makes this sound like – well, not quite a proposal, but almost… a declaration of intent.

She considers his words for a long moment. “If… I don’t accept… would you give this to someone else?” She asks quietly. Her heart is tinged with jealousy now, though she knows it shouldn’t be; if she is to refuse his gift, he ought to do what he pleases with it. Yet, now that she knows what significance this necklace holds… thinking of another woman wearing it leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.

“I will not,” he answers immediately. “If you refuse it now, I will hold onto it until the day that you do accept it.”

Her cheeks are burning hot and her heart is fluttering, jealousy soothed and slotted away for another time. She looks to his eyes for one last hint that he might be wavering, but he’s holding strong; in fact, he raises the necklace u. “May I?”

“…Yes, please,” she finally concedes, turning her back to him and lifting her hair off her neck. Alfonse’s breath hitches at the sight, though he quickly calms himself – the gesture is more intimate than she realizes. He carefully hangs the necklace around her neck. The metal is cold, but his fingers brushing against the nape of her neck are warm. He allows himself to appreciate her little shiver, and then pulls away.

Alice turns to face him. Bathed in the warm glow of the fireplace, cheeks flushed pink and an elusive smile on her face, the necklace – his necklace, nestled on her chest. Alfonse blinks, breath hitching once more, and commits this to memory.

Her voice breaks his reverie. “How do I look?”

He takes a second to find his voice. “Would you stay still a moment longer?” She tilts her head, brow furrowed slightly. “I want to remember you just like this. You look beautiful.” At this, Alice flushes a deep, deep red, and hides her face in her hands. “No, no, I mean it!” Alfonse laughs, leaning in towards her. All of a sudden, he finds that he’s feeling rather giddy. He gently pulls her hands from her face. “You look beautiful like this, too!”

“You’re flattering me,” she accuses, but she’s slowly starting to giggle along with him. And as he kisses her, sweet and slow, Alice prays that this warm feeling inside her will last a little longer.

[doctordash]

Just Business

I got inspired to do another bit of writing for the Son of Ink AU. This time featuring my own boy Watson and @thelostmoongazer ‘s big blue bastard, Mr. Moon.

Watson stood in front of his bedroom mirror with an annoyed expression, his lone eye flicking back and forth between the two ties in his hands. He’d been caught at this juncture for the better part of the last ten minutes, unable to decide which of the pair he’d rather put on. Unfortunately for him, the only person around that could aid him in that choice was completely useless when it came to matters of fashion. 

“What is difference between the two, I do not understand. Just pick.” Bonnie murmured with a dismissive wave of her hand, paying more attention to the pistol she was assembling while sitting at his desk.

“I have to make a good first impression, that’s what. I always wear black but I’ve been thinking about adding some more color into my wardrobe, but I don’t know if now’s the time to commit!” Watson replied with an exasperated sigh, holding each of the silken accessories to his neck one at a time.

Bonnie sighed and shook her head, standing from the desk and leaving the gun partially assembled. She stepped over and yanked the blue tie out of his hand, then ripped it into two pieces and dropped it in the trash. “Decision is made. Get dressed, you’ll be late.” she said simply, pushing him towards the closet with one hand before sitting down at the desk again.

Watson frowned, grumbling something about her owing him a new tie as he resumed his preparations. A freshly starched white shirt, black vest with gold accents, and the tie that had been so generously picked for him were put on and adjusted with intricate care, and he completed his look with a pair of gold cufflinks. He unhooked his jacket from the inside of the closet and slipped it on, smoothing out the sides before stepping to the desk.

Bonnie looked him up and down once as she stood, then handed over his freshly cleaned and assembled 1911. “I must admit, you do clean up well. Do not be gone late, yes?” she grinned, and Watson rolled his eye as he stowed the gun in its specially modified holster, sewn into the lining of his coat.

“Yes, yes, I know I’m not allowed to dress up this nice without giving you the chance to un-do it later.” he replied with a laugh, leaning over to give her a quick peck on the cheek. “Shouldn’t take more than a few hours, I hope!” he called as he left, snatching up an umbrella from the rack beside the door.

A quick jaunt in the elevator brought him to street level, the night sky was overcast but the rain had yet to begin to fall, leaving his umbrella no more than an accessory for the time being. He waited on the curb patiently for a few moments, eventually hailing down a cab with some effort.

“Keens. Make it quick, if you please, I’m running dangerously close to late.” Watson asked of the driver before slipping the man a folded 5 dollar bill, which was enough to get a wide eyed nod before the yellow car streaked off into the busy night streets.

The arrival to his destination was prompt, despite the ride through the city being a bit on the dangerously fast side. “Keep the change.” he murmured with a nod, stepping out onto the curb once again before hooking his umbrella on his arm. Watson took a moment to compose himself, producing his brass pocket watch from his inner coat as he paced in front of the building. From everything Zandris had said, this was a very important contract, and someone he most certainly wanted to be on the good side of. He looked down at the small card in his other hand one last time. Keens Steakhouse, Table 14, 7pm. His pocket watch read exactly 6:58 as he stepped through the door.

Watson was hit with a wave of sensations all at once. The restaurant was warm and pleasant, and the comforting aroma of pipe smoke and finely cooked meats permeated throughout, melding with the faint tinge of old wood and broken-in leather. He stepped up to the hostess stand, weaving past a small crowd of people that were presumably waiting for a table. A quick conversation was enough to gain him entrance, and the inky toon quickly found himself led through a maze of tables, people, and food.

His destination was the farthest back corner of the restaurant, a large corner booth nearly obscured by pipe smoke and cast in shadow from the wall sconces. He approached with confidence and cleared his throat, stowing his watch away again in his jacket pocket. “I believe I’m here to meet a client.”

He saw movement in the booth, a figure shifted into view with shadow still cast along part of his frame. A broad shouldered man in a clean white pinstriped vest with matching tie, dark shirt...and strangely, no neck. Instead, a few inches above where the odd cutoff ended, a particularly round blue head sat, with one eye and two mouths. Both of which were giving Watson an extremely toothy smile. “Ah! You must be the...Butler, was it? Please, sit, we have business to discuss.”

Watson smiled as well, taking the offered seat across from his client with a nod of his head. “Please, call me Watson.” He reached out to offer a hand, and was met with a rather firm shake, something he expected from a man of his build.

“Mr. Moon.” the blue toon replied, lounging back in the booth again. His free hand held a glass of what could only be red wine, and it caught Watson’s eye immediately. Being so brazen with alcohol in a place like this only cemented that this man was not a person he wished to cross. “You come highly recommended, Mr. Watson. According to our...mutual friend, there’s no-one better in this city to call when you have a...problem that needs to be addressed.”

Watson nodded in agreement, looking to the side at the waitress that approached the table. Before he had a chance to speak, his companion addressed her instead. “Another of the same for my friend here, sweetheart.” He spoke, flashing that toothy smile again. “Drink and steak, medium rare.” The blue toon flicked his lone eye to Watson for a moment, and he simply nodded again in confirmation before the waitress departed the table.

“That’s very generous of you.” Watson spoke up, neatly steepling his fingers in front of him. “And I’m glad that my reputation somewhat precedes me. I pride myself on that very much.” He smiled, adjusting his tie slightly almost out of reflex.

“Indeed it does.” Mr. Moon replied, quietly sipping from his glass as he affixed his singular eye on the inky toon across from him. “You see, I find myself in a very unfortunate situation. I’ve recently acquired some new assets along the Hudson, several large warehouse operations for moving product in and out of the city. But therein lies my problem. The current operator of their facility, well...let’s just say he’s yet to accept the fact that he’s under new management.”

Watson watched his companion as he spoke, looking over his features and body language. There was something off-putting about this man’s presence. In the way he carried himself, the way he spoke and acted, that hinted at a far darker person underneath. As if this was all an act, and at the smallest slight he may snap. It was unsettling.

“Now, I’m a generous man. Those that work for me will tell you as much, all I really ask for is respect.” the blue toon continued, pausing momentarily when their food was delivered. Watson had never seen such perfectly prepared steak before, and found himself relaxed by having something else to focus on besides his client’s unnerving nature. He listened quietly, both enraptured by his words and cautiously watching his every move.

“I’ve tried giving him every chance, I really have, but he just. Doesn’t. Get. It.” Every word was punctuated by another move of his knife, carving into the steak in a particularly violent manner. “And so, I’m unfortunately left with no choice but to employ someone such as yourself to...handle this problem for me.” As he spoke, Watson made note of his second mouth, that had slowly shifted from a smile to a frown over the course of the conversation.

“I see. A very unsavory situation indeed.” Watson replied after a moment, neatly cutting his steak as he talked. “I would be more than happy to deal with this for you. What sort of...problem solving do you require here? Merely a conversation, a suggestion to pay better attention, or…”

“I want the fucker dead.” the second mouth rasped in a low growl, causing Watson to start almost imperceptibly in his seat. Mr. Moon coughed into his napkin. “Pardon me, this issue has been...grating on me for some time now and I can’t speak of it without getting...rather irritated.” He smiled again, but that only served to further Watson’s apprehensiveness towards the man.

Watson nodded in agreement, deciding the best course of action was to remain businesslike. “Certainly. Do you wish there to be a message left behind, or for him to simply...disappear?” He waved one hand in the air, and Mr. Moon nodded slightly. “Make him vanish without a trace.” he replied, popping another piece of steak into his mouth. The upper set of teeth had shifted to a more neutral expression now, and just that little change was enough to ease Watson’s nerves.

“As soon as possible, I would assume?” the inky toon asked with a raised eyebrow, earning him another nod of acknowledgement. “Wonderful. Then I’ll be able to take care of it tonight, provided you have the required assets.”

Mr. Moon reached under the table and pulled up a black leather briefcase, sliding it across the booth to his companion with one hand. “All the information’s in there, along with the 50% up front. Unmarked, as required.” He replied, lifting his glass after a moment to take another sip without taking his eye off the other man.

Watson popped the case open for a moment to peer inside, glancing over the dossier of information along with the multiple neat stacks of bound bills. He closed it with a snap and dabbed at his lips with his napkin, then smiled. “Well, everything seems to be in order. Our mutual friend will be in touch once the job is completed.”

Mr. Moon smiled again, with both of his mouths. “Wonderful. That’s the best news I’ve heard all week.” he quipped, waiting for Watson to stand before sitting forward to shake his hand again. “All goes well, we’ll certainly do business again. I always have problems that need solving. Can’t escape it.” He chuckled dryly.

“Do have a pleasant rest of your evening.” Watson replied, turning on his heel and quickly departing the restaurant. Once he was outside, he gasped, releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding in. A light drizzle had started to fall, and he unfurled his umbrella before striding to the nearest payphone.

“We’ve got a date tonight.” Watson spoke into the receiver once it was picked up. “Meet me up dockside in an hour with the Browning, if you please.”

“It went well?” Bonnie replied, leaning against the refrigerator on the other end of the line.

“Reasonably, despite the guy giving me the absolute creeps. He had two mouths.” “Two mouths...and blue?” Bonnie asked, and Watson was silent for a few moments. “How did you guess that. Don’t tell me you’ve…” he trailed off, and Bonnie laughed. “I wish. No, he is best customer I have.”

“That...that explains a whole lot.” Watson replied after a long pause. “We’ll talk when I get there.”

He hung up and stepped out of the booth again, looking back at the phone and then to the door of the restaurant with a weary sigh. Thank goodness it was all just business.

[inkydevildraws]

15, 71, 75, 97 for Allen - 16, 22, 44 for Dean

oh boy a double wammy. I wrote Allen and Dash wrote again for Dean (he’s in love with his son).

WARNING: Allen’s story contains some mild mutilation and torture. Do no read if you are sensitive to this material.

Allen was a lot of things; Optimistic, Flexible, Athletic, Dependable, Loyal, Intelligent, but most of all… he was Gullible. He never understood why anyone would lie to him on approach, he just simply wasn’t the type of guy you’d talk to in the first place. He especially didn’t expect a group of toons driving up next to him in a fancy car to be lying when they said Mr. Benny asked them to pick him up, which brings us to our current sad predicament.

Beaten, bloodied, bruised and definitely broken, the Angel could only glare at the three toon grunts that hovered over him with pipes and bats in their hands, snickering as they gazed at their handiwork. Oh how the young man wanted to jump at them and wring their necks, but anger couldn’t hold itself proudly against the overwhelming fear and pain that he was succumbed to. Fingers bent and twisted at every joint, the large demon hovering to the dark back-side of the room flashed what was presumed to be a grin. The only thing Allen could see was the uncomfortable sheen of a single golden jagged tooth and the billowing red smoke that crawled out from the shadows and across the floor to him. It had a bad scent to it- not cheap, but it just had this presence and aroma to it that made the boy uncomfortable. No doubt he was entertained by the show of abuse given that the idea to break all his fingers in the wonder that it would make him scream was his idea, but no amount of pleading or trying could make the mute hybrid holler for them.

It felt like eternity that he was in this dark room, a single moon-lit window illuminating the spot on the floor he was sitting on while the looming shadows around him lifted their weapons to beat him. Feeling this would be his last, Allen lowered his gaze to at least be sheltered somewhat from the horrors of his own end. Trying to think of pleasant things, he resumed a thought he was having before these goons showed up. He was picking up groceries to make a dinner for Noir that night after the few awkward days of avoiding him due to his inner turmoil on his feelings for the angel, but he was ready to tackle it on with a hopefully pleasant meal. He never invited the older toon to his lonely apartment before because he felt it was too small and thought Noir would think ill of his humble home. Thank goodness for his own optimism that he assured himself Noir was not the kind of person to be like that, and so put his plans to action. Little did he expect what today would bring though.

Away from his view, a single hand raised from the demon who continued to watch. The three immediately halted and turned towards their boss who could be heard standing as the chair he resided in creaked with relief of the heavy weight. Allen, curious as to why nothing had happened, finally looked up, the light of the room somewhat illuminating the black, inky demon and his white, grinning face. “You seem like a handsome young guy, huh?” his smooth, low voice slithered into Allen’s head, making his bloodied wings shiver with discomfort. “Good looking, athletic… I can see why Rosa hired you on staff. The ladies must love seeing you around the Inkwell, eh? Surely a guy like you though’s got someone special fawning aftah ya’.” Allen froze, his one working eye widening as a face flashed in his memory. “You seem like a smart kid, so I trust you’ll get the message across to Mr. Benny…” Mr. Benny? What business would Mr. Benny have with folks like these? And Lila? Why did this guy keep asking about Lila? “You’re gonna go back to that little charity runt and tell’im to give up Lovebird, or else your little lady’s gonna be next… Understood?”

Allen, who was normally picked on, mugged, and attacked for simply being what he was, was usually mildly intimidated and scared of folks, but he could at least stand up against them still. This man, however… never in the young man’s life had such a stranger put him through so much horror. No doubt about it, of everyone in the world right now, he hated and dreaded Don “Red” Macky the most…

There are only three rules at the Baker’s Dozen Burlesque Club. Enjoy yourself, no weapons allowed, and respect the Girls. Rule number one is easy, number two is handled by the bouncers at the door…but god help you if you make the mistake of breaking rule number three. Raise a hand at one of Dean’s girls, and it might be the last thing you ever do.

The conversation behind the office door spiked sharply, rising in volume as muffled shouting carried through to the hallway. Hanzel waited patiently outside, counting backwards from 10 on his fingers with a slightly amused expression on his face. The moment he reached 1, the door slammed open, the force of Dean’s kick sending it into the wall with a mighty crash. The towering toon stormed into the hallway, nearly biting his cigar in half as he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. His lone eye and cracked visage painted a picture of nearly unchained fury, and even Hanzel knew better than to get in his way right now. Instead, his face spun around, and sweet Gretel stepped into the office to comfort the girl inside, still weeping slightly with a fresh shiner on her left eye.

Dean threw open the double doors into the main area of the club, making a beeline through the room towards a table in the corner, where three businessmen sat. One angel and two demons, who all looked up as he reached across the table and grabbed the first demon by the collar, hauling him out of his seat and flinging him bodily into the next table with a cacophonous cracking of wood and shattering glasses. He stomped over to the broken table, and as the demon groggily tried to get his bearings, grabbed the man by his tail and hoisted him into the air, bringing him face to face with the unholy rage that was Dean Amos. “YOU THINK YOU’RE HOT SHIT, DON’T YA? COME IN TO MY FUCKING CLUB, ENJOY EVERYTHING I HAVE TO OFFER, AND HAVE THE BALLS TO HIT ONE OF MY GIRLS?” He roared, and as the man frantically tried to respond, Dean threw him across the room towards the exit, where he landed hard against one of the banisters. “GET OUT. GET THE FUCK OUT, YOU AND YOUR LITTLE SHITSTAIN FRIENDS HAVE THREE MOTHERFUCKING SECONDS TO GET OUT OF MY FUCKING CLUB BEFORE I BREAK EVERY GODDAMN BONE IN YOUR FUCKING BODIES AND TURN YOU INTO A FUCKING MEAT PIE!” To add emphasis, Dean hurled a chair after the first man he’d thrown, and it smashed to pieces against the wall as he scrambled out the door, followed quickly by his friends.

The silence that followed their exit hung in the air for several seconds, and Dean calmly made his way over to the bar counter. He reached over it and rummaged around, pulling out an un-opened bottle of whole milk that he promptly opened and took a long drink from. With that done, he turned to face the rest of his patrons with his usual charming smile, then motioned towards the door with one hand. “Broke rule number three.” He answered to the un-asked question, and there was a collective bout of understanding nods from his customers and staff before the music picked up and the night went on. Anyone who knew Dean would always tell you the same thing. Do not get on his bad side, and if he’s mad, stay out of his way.

[emdashfaggot]

wrote something for a friend and I's RP characters a while back. really proud of it, but it's not technically fanfic, so i guess i'm just gonna throw it out into the void.

cw: brief mentions of isolation trauma, PTSD, death/ghosts, and being outed. sexual themes, supernatural setting, alcohol use, unreality, pining and queer angst with a happy ending. (i think that's everything?)

you have to get back to being found

ONE Milo prefers it when he hears the call first. It doesn’t happen often, but it makes things a lot easier when it does. The Gate, for him

[emdashfaggot]

so i vaguely recall seeing a post of yours about writing some 👀 OC stuff so consider this a sign to share about those characters or share a snippet of your writing!!

Hello! Thank you sm for asking!

So! There are so many characters (and a handful of AUs to go with them), because I do a lot of RP and tabletop games with friends and that inevitably turns into words. Exploring characters and themes and just showing affection to my friends by smashing our little guys into each other on a page. It took me a minute to file down what I wanted to spew about today.

There's this game called galactic. It's basically a system that, to paraphrase the author (Riley Rethal) lets you tell the kind of star wars stories you wish you'd gotten to see in the theatre. This isn't especially important to today's snippet but it will become somewhat relevant if I keep talking about the other iterations of these characters in the future.

There's also a comic, Abyss Reflections by ZC_Coffee. It's a beautiful little story about a modern future and a supposed fantasy past that one character remembers but the other does not. It got me thinking about Vex Vincent, my Scoundrel from Galactic and the ever-present temptation to make a knight au. (He/him for Vex)

Of course I don't do things the easy way! Because the art reminded me of Vex, I really needed to figure out a kind of Knighthood that made sense for a man of his personality. Additionally, 'what if Knights were Different' is a take that will always hook me.

Excerpts of my early thought sketches into the discord void.

There's no Knight School. No one knows (remembers?) how the Swords came to be here. There are many of them, some of them will offer a name, many refuse. Less people ask than you might think, anyway. You can't hear a Sword unless it's chosen you to Wield it.

There's a lot of ways to come into a Sword. Sometimes you wake up with it in your hand. Sometimes you inherit it. Sometimes you defeat the owner in combat (not always the deadly kind).

It's hard to trace if it's a consistent Per Sword thing or if it really is all about the whim of the blade.

I know more now about several of the Swords and what their conditions/motivations are, but these things aren't widely known truths of the setting.

Knights are a bit busy with the Calling to sit around and participate in research. (Also, I don't think people are doing research. Swords just Do Things. They choose their Knights, or they unchoose them.)

Vex didn't ask for his. He won't tell you how it came to him, not even Gerard—not that a Prinxe would ask such a question. (He fell down a hole and into Knighthood, kind of literally.)

Venia Gerard is the runaway heir to the Saint, the largest authority figure in this dystopian fantasy setting. (she/he/they) But their relationship with Vex is a whole several other posts.

The Calling isn't just one blanket cause the Knights speak to. A Calling exists between the Knight and the Sword. The pair don't always agree, either.

There is no cohesive Order among the Knights, or the Swords. Some Knights band together as long as they're Called on the same direction. There's at least one pair of Swords that are inseparable, for better or worse of those they choose to carry them.

Knights are rather mysterious and often solitary.

bonus lore

My friend Solace asked:

what is a band of Knights called? a Vigil?

My answer:

it is now. a pair is called a Truce.

Thank you again for asking and reading. The lore is vast and I am constitutionally incapable of brevity when trying to Explain.

[emdashfaggot]

So with explicit invitation from @confusedlucifer to say more about the Knights from the Saintsbane setting, I'm taking an opportunity to talk about one of my favorite Swords: Desolation.

Desolation is the only Knight of the Saint's Vigil who does not carry a Sword Bent by her will. The Knight of Dawn was the first to be given his sword, and the first Calling Dawn gave him was to offer Desolation to the one he trusted most to wield this dangerous gift. Desolation took a liking to its new Knight, and the bond was struck. (Dawn and Desolation are the matched set of sorts that was mentioned in my last post.)

A lot of Knights get embellishments, or little tells. Marks on their body that indicate their Knighthood in some fashion.

Desolation gives its bearer desecrations instead, wandering red lichtenberg scars that travel across their skin as time passes. This is a warning.

Some Swords bestow unique abilities upon their Knight, while others simply enhance.

The Knight of Desolation has an ability called the boltpath, which means they can travel between one lightning strike and the next. In a great storm, especially during the rainy seasons, Desolation can cross immense distances in a few fleeting moments.

An arrival by the boltpath makes for a striking entrance.

The Saint knows some secret way to Bend a Sword to her will, and each Knight in her Vigil of the Bent (save for Desolation, her undefeated champion) bears a Sword that was assigned to them by the Saint.

The Knight of Desolation has been directly responsible in the recovery of many Swords for the Saint. Very few remain beyond her grasp. The only way to separate a Knight from their Sword is by death.

(A Sword can choose to divest itself from its Knight, stripping boons and bond away. This is called a Rivening. The Rivening alone may not be fatal, but losing the enhancements of Knighthood may make a survivable wound something more fatal.)

The Knight of Desolation brings death in their wake when they come for you.