#mildly dark

[cluelessatthispoint]

Dragon's Hoard pt. 6

Warnings: mentions of force feeding, possible cannibalism, kidnapping mention, and hybrids not knowing to to parent a human child properly.

~enjoy~

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Grumbling from your place under Price's thick arm. The none to suble rocking motion of his gait has you swinging from one side to the other. Despite walking as slow as he can without causing you much injury, he is massive compared to the average human male. A soft pout makes it to your features as the allure of being carried under a large arm, like a sack of potatoes looses its allure. Looking down nit too far you can see your feet dangling as he carries you with his muscular forearm around your middle. If you had any food in your stomach there's no doubt in your mind that you would have been throwing up your stomach contents.

"Let me down...hey! Let me down." You're tone is almost breathy with the way you feel your lungs being squished.

Kicking weakly for good measure, the dragon huff. His massive chest heaving out a lumbering sigh as if you were a toddler throwing yet another tantrum. With a slow swing of his tail, he wraps the end around your feet as he slowly sets you down. Gathering courage, you set him with the nastiest glare you can muster. In return all you get is a deep, rumbling purr.

"Cute, kid. Real cute."

The hand that comes your way nearly hits the side of your head with the way you flinch back. Price however ignores your action as he seems unbothered and used to such things. Placing his hand on your head and ruffling your tangled locks, he smirks as if pleased with himself.

"Tiny thing you are, well. Don't worry your lil head poppet. I hunt you a nice boar-"

"A boar?!"

The alarm and surprise in the tone of your voice makes the crows feet at the edges of his eyes crinkle into view. It almost makes him look more human. With the flare of his one wing, your surprise diminishes. Of course he would hunt you something to eat. A dragon has dragon instincts after all.

"Yeah, a boar. Unless you want a bear instead. Now I haven't had bear in a long time kiddo. Boar and bear are both quite tasty."

Despite his warm tone of voice, the tail around your legs that's keeping you in place seems to grow only the barest hint tighter. Swallowing up the whine in your throat, you cast a weary glance down. As if asking without verbalizing, if he intends to relinquish the hold of your legs now. The notion of running away would be ludicrous. If there was only one hybrid in the cave, then the idea of running away wouldn't be too outlandish. But with four hybrids total? It's impossible. Even with this thought in mind, Price seems bound and determined to keep track of you and your whereabouts one way or another. Too busy in your musings to notice, it doesn't come to your attention that he moved his tail up to your wrist. The very end of it wrapping around your tiny wrist, as if holding hands. Gently tugging you along, you follow Price deeper into the cave as he asses and checks the food supply. The darkness only grows, and the echoing of two sets of footsteps dance across the cave walls. The stalagmites glitter prettily off to the sides, as if the space in the middle were cleared out, no doubt by the dragon hybrid himself.

"What's bear taste like?"

It's almost strange to hear how your voice echoes faintly off the walls.

You can hear in the tone of his voice how Price is smiling as he speaks. The darkness doesn't seem to bother him as his eyes pierce through the inky black with relative ease.

"Ah, bear..let's see...depends on how you like it. Gaz like his bear as a jerky. It takes a while to make, but it's the best food he makes. Soap like his bear fresh as they come, almost as good as a shephar-..sheep. Yeah, almost as good as sheep."

The way Price stumbles over his words make you furrow your tiny brows, but other than that you say nothing. Your mind races. 'Sheep, Bear, Boar, what haven't these monsters eaten?' As if sensing that you were dangerously close to connecting the dots, Price shakes your arm lightly with his tail.

"Hey now kiddo, think any harder and your face will get stuck like that."

Prices words cut off your train of thought. Suddenly the muffled voices of the others waft from the nest. They sound like they're having a good conversation, but specifics are hard to make out due to the echo and the distance. Their amalgamation of voices sound so strange when mixed together. Their accents blending wonderfully to create a concophany of vowels and consonants that sound so human, and yet so uncanny. Squeezing onto Price's tail a bit tighter in return, the feeling of hot, scaled skin and its rough texture serve to soothe and ground your mounting anxiety. From above, the low tone of the Dragon's drawl clues you back in on your purpose here, so far away from the others and your controversial opinions of the safety of the warm nest. 'At least it was bright in there' You think ruefully to yourself.

"Now then, I think we have enough meat stored here. No need to go hunting." Comes the crooning voice of the dragon hybrid as he scoop you up once more. Placing ypu held firmly in his arms, the sudden swaying motion of him taking a seat has you clinging to his broad shoulders for deer life. In the dark, everything feels such more potent. The sounds as soft as some are, almost feel deafening.

"Open up treasure, try some boar." The feeling of cold, salted meat against your lips beckons a half shriek of alarm from your throat.

Within that split second of opening your mouth, a small morsel of said meat is ushered inside with little to no tact. The result, is a mighty grimace of distaste coloring your youthful features. Turning your head away, you find some room to spit up whatever parts came loose withing your maw. The taste of unflavored, too salty meat is pungent to your senses.

"Ugh! Ack-ah...it's gross! I don't like it!" With your cry, Price only holds on tighter.

"Easy now hatchling, it's good. It's good for you. It'll help you grow big and strong." His words sound like a bitter balm as he gently turns your face back and presses a large scaled finger to each side of your jaw. The pressure on your temperal mandibular joint coaxes your mouth open with such ease that it has you seeing red. The choked off noises of insult and anger seem to spur him on. His tone is chiding as if scolding a child much younger than you.

"Ah, ah, ah, don't give me that. The sooner we feed you, the better you'll feel. I promise."

A stray thought briefly crosses your mind. 'Eating in the dark? Why? What am I eating? Isn't boar supposed to be gamey or tough? This meat is soft- even salted and dried.' Closing your eyes, you eat reluctantly. Morsel after morsel, mouthful after mouthful. Price feeds you with a firm, but gentle hand. After each morsel is swallowed down his praise, as unwanted as it is, fills you with pride. As if all the times of missing out on what other children have with their parents is now coming back to you. 'Better late than never' the voice in the back of your mind chimes in.

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Here we are my friends! Chapter 6! I'm so sorry about the delay. And soon I'm going to have the master list up and running. No more searching and scrolling, I promise!

[andromacheofappalachia]

Do you have headcanons on dark! Booker & dark! Andy relationship?

I do! (NSWF warning for below):

When they finally find Booker, hanging from a tree for days with a burlap bag over his head, he is (understandably) a mess. Physically, he is filthy, and mentally, he isn't quite all there. So once they get to an abandoned farmhouse, with a tub and access to a well, it is Andromache who takes it upon herself to clean him and whisper in his ear that he's safe now. The mortals won't take him from them again.

It is Andromache who manipulates him into leaving his family during the first few decades of his immortal life. Yusuf and Nicolo are content to wait it out, but Andromache has always been selfish and possessive. She doesn't want Booker to go back to his wife or his children, no matter how much it pains him.

In truth, Andromache sees too much of Quynh in him.

It is Andromache who gives him the name 'Booker', an English form of his surname Le Livre, at least in meaning, when they are in America during the Civil War. Napoleon III favoured the Confederacy, despite France's official declaration, so Andromache felt it safer for him to not carry his name.

In turn, due to her disguise as a male Union soldier, Booker proceeds to name her Andy (a rising nickname at the time).

Some time after naming each other, once another war comes to an end, Booker finds himself killing for her. Of course, he has always killed for her, but this time it is different. There isn't a reason for the man before him to be dead other than the fact that he had followed Andy around after his life was saved. So fascinated with the short-haired woman who wielded an axe. It made something awful curl deep inside Booker and...well...he wasn't seeing an end to it that didn't end in death.

It doesn't help that Andy enjoys Booker being her shadow. She seems to thrive on him being jealous and possessive of her just as much as she is when it is Joe or Nicky acting in such a way. The pleasure of being worshipped as a Goddess once never did go away.

It goes both ways. Once the twentieth century rolls around, speakeasys and nightclubs form into existence. Booker has always enjoyed music, smoking, and drinking, and people gravitate to him. More than Andy would like. She takes to tying him up every night that she has to kill another mortal for getting too close. She reminds him that he doesn't belong to anyone that isn't immortal. That he belongs to her. She even threatens to leave him imprisoned, even though they both know she would never do such a thing.

They always commit espionage together. Which usually ends in a game of cat and mouse, predator and prey, once the job ends. Andy is always the better hunter, yet Booker enjoys being found, even if it means feeling her blade cut into him as she rides them both into a climax.

Andy steals books for him. Collectables and antiques that once would have been just out of his reach during the French Revolution. In turn, Booker risks the constant dreams from the bond being strained in order to travel across countries and continents. All to bring back oils, perfumes, and spices close enough to what she would have enjoyed in her original home (Andy is a lover of things she can smell and taste, as those senses hold great memory, even for immortals).

[onemoreword-writesmore]

It's been a very, very long time since I posted anything. I'm sorry for the rust, but hope you enjoy. This small oneshot is available for the general public for a limited amount of time before I restrict it to just ao3 users only. :)

It's a mildly dark Shikamaru x Sakura. :) As usual, it's explicit, lol.

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[cluelessatthispoint]

A Dragon's Hoard

Pt.2

(Inspired by bluegiragi and docdudo)

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The walk back to wherever the hell the hybrid has in mind is tediously frustrating. Each time you think you feel space enough in his strong hold to wiggle yourself free, the tighter his grip becomes. It's not like it hurts or anything, it more so only hurts your pride at being teased in such a manner. One minute there's a gap between his arms and his hold grows lax. Then the very second you deem it safe to move, he tightens his grip. Over and over he does this. Gritting your teeth in anger, your palms resume slapping his forearms.

"Calm down now treasure, I'm not going to hurt you."

Just hearing the way his grumbling voice rumbles so close to your ears makes you shiver. His arms tightening and jostling you gently to adjust you in his arms. The feeling of his unnaturally warm exhales ghost over your scalp rhythmically. It's warmth reminiscent of a hot summer's day. Or the day you got sunburnt so badly that even sleeping was painful. With a scowl etched on your lips you can't help but bite out a snarky retort.

"Going senile old man? I'm not treasure! So let go!"

With a burst of energy you flail your arms and legs once more. Your legs kicking widly as you do your best to kick backwards to hit any part of him that would spur him to release you. Undeterred however, the hybrid lets out a soft growl. The sound almost akin to a mountain lions chuff and a warning hiss of a jaguar.

"Keep still you naughty hatchling."

He says with no real venom in his words. Not that he needs to say anything more with with tone of displeasure lacing his words. His massive tail swinging back and forth in amusement as he once again adjusts his hold on you as if holding a misbehaving hatchling. His right arm taking the bulk of your weight as his left arm secures your limbs to his chest.

"Cheeky lil thing aren't you?"

He says with a quick glance down at you. You can see how his eyes twinkle with satisfaction.

"Hatchlings are supposed to behave."

His voice as grumbling as it is is laced with a mirthful purr. Your words not having offended him in the slightest only confirmed to him that you've been on your own for far longer than he initally guessed.

"Not me, I'm human not a hatchling."

Your retort bouncing off his eardrums as if he never heard you in the first place, his mind seemingly already made up. His piercing eyes roaming over your small form for only a moment or two before he settles his gaze ahead of him, eyes fixed on a trail only he can see.

Passing by low hanging branches, and gnarled trees, the air in this part of the woods feels drastically different compared to how it felt near the city's walls. The air feels heavier, the silence more oppressive. The only thing breaking it at the moment being the dragon hybrid’s heavy, even footfalls. Practically being suffocated against the creature's broad, muscular chest. You can feel bitter tears gathering, almost threatening to spill over from frustration.

"John."

Blinking owlishly up at the hybrid’s weathered face. You almost miss what he said.

"What?"

The look of confusion on your face surely present, must have spoke volumes as the hybrid pulled you closer.

"Name's John."

Pouting up at him heavily, you nod in understanding, you could honestly care less about the name of your kidnapper, but it was a good thing to know, you reckon. Introductions were never your strong suit. Always too quiet, too meek or to awkward. Blinking away tears, too tired to do much else. You relax once again against the hybrid’s strong chest. The body heat he gives off soothing your weary limbs.

"Don't got much of a name..."

The sound of your high pitched voice almost sounds grating to your ears as it cuts the silence. It was meant to sound tough, nonchalant. But instead it sounds so small, so tired. A flash of heat rises to your face, the tips your ears turning red from embarrassment at how young and small you sound. Compared to his low, grumbling tone, you sound even younger than your actual age.

"Well now, I can't have a nameless treasure now can I?"

Whipping your head up to face him, you can see the way his beard bristles when he talks. How there's a spot on his throat that glows from under his skin. The veins, both small and large showing faintly from where his dragon's fire lies dormant in his neck.

"Almost home."

John says with a relieved grin as he catches sight of you staring at his neck. Such a small thing as you, all bundled up and held closely to his chest makes his dragon instincts flare with pride. It's been far too long since he's had a hatchling of his own to care for. Lost on thought. He misses how you shiver once he crosses the threshold of his lair. His nostrils flaring as he takes in the scent of home. His safe haven, far away from the prying eyes of humans. And filled to the brim with riches. Most humans would tell the tale of dragon's guarding their horde of gemstones and jewels. As soon as he spots his nest a soft purr rises from his vocal chords. The sight and scent of his mates all laying together and relaxing warming his heart. In the middle of his nest is a beautiful harpy. His wings wrapped around the others shoulders as they sit around him. His deep brown eyes lighting up instantly as he sees John in the nesting room.

"Jesus John, we were worried about ya."

The harpy says with a relieved grin. His eyes now settled on the small creature against his mate's chest. The others a wraith and a werewolf perk up at the sight of a small child nestled against Price's arms. The werewolf almost vibrating with excitement at the sight. His tail wagging furiously, almost hitting the harpy everytime.

"Who's the wee bairn for John? We all did so good you're letting us eat a tender thing like tha."

Stilling instantly at the werewolf's words, you narrowly miss how the wraith slaps him upside the back of his head. The warning look that John sends the werewolf has you shrinking smaller. For almost a moment. However fleeting, it was as if all these hybrids were just human. The way they interacted with one another seemed human enough. But the way Price's eyes glowed ominously at the werewolf, it broke whatever allusion to human normalcy there once was.

"Soap, Gaz, Simon...say hello to our new hatchling."

John says warmly as he sees how Soap visibly deflates just a bit before his excitement returns full force. No doubt excited at the prospect of raising a wee one once again.

"A hatchling? Cannae go a single century without a wee one."

Gaz smiles softly, a mix of worry and tenderness traced on his expression. Soap's words only spurring him on. Immediately setting to work he moves about the nest making sure a corner of it will be comfortable for their new family member. Grabbing Johnny by the scruff, Simon drags him back to bed as the Scotsman looks on at Price and you with a loving gaze. His tail wagging softer now as he's led by the scruff by Simon.

As John makes his way to the nest. He groans tiredly as he sets you down in the center of the nest. Rather than being made of sticks and hay as birds would make it. The nest is made of the finest silks and cottons one could buy..or steal. Plush pillows line the edges of the nest and layers upon layers make up the foundation so as the hardness of the floor wouldn't be felt from underneath. As John settles down into the nest, his mates all gather closer. The sight of a small human child in their nest almost amusing to them. But seeing the scared expression on your face, they resolve to simply lay around you and John. The hope being that their combined warmth would lull you to sleep. The wraith; Simon, presses up closely against John's back, carefully so as to not disturb spot where his partner's missing wing would be. The werewolf; Johnny, curls up by your feet, your eyes wide as you tuck your feet in. The comment he made about eating you sticking in your mind like glue. The harpy; Gaz, at your side. His wings tucked in against his back as he coos quietly. Feeling overwhelmed and frightened, you curl up tightly and grasp at John's front with all your strength until eventually your mind starts drifting and your thoughts become quieter. The heavy hand of sleep overtakes you in a matter of minutes.

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It's hard trying to write so many people all at once. But now the 141 is all together. :)

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[cluelessatthispoint]

A Dragon's Hoard pt 4

Poly 141 x child reader

Inspired by docdudo and bluegiragi

Warnings: none

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The feeling of an intense, almost smothering heat was the sensation that first came to mind when you fluttered your eyelids open. The second sensation that popped to your awareness was the feeling of being immobile. With sleep lingering in the corners of your eyes and a prickly tingle resting in the back of your throat for want of water, there nit much you can do save for wiggling. Even with your eyes open, at least, you think your eyes are open. It's hard to tell in all the darkness that surrounds you. It's so dark in the cave, your eyes strain and soon small colorful dots and squiggles zip by and fill your vision. Being immobile in the dark was never a good thing, even back in your lean-to out in the forest you knew that.

Sometimes sleep paralysis would occur, or more often than not a wild vegetable would produce the same side effect when cooked incorrectly. With a soft exhale passing through your uncomfortably chapped lips, you can tell it's neither sleep paralysis or an uncooked piece of food. The way you can feel your fingers and toes flexing are a sure sign of that. Biting back an audible groan, you can feel how a heavy pout downturns the corners of your lips. And how your forehead almost hurts from the furrowed brow you're sporting. Thinking back as hard as you can, the memories from the day or possible days prior flood your head. As disorganized as your thoughts are for so early or late in the morning.

Your mind is clear on only one thing: Danger. 'A dragon...there was a dragon...right? Or a man? Or men?' Even your inner voice sounds way beyond fatigued.

Gently placing your palms down against what you hope is the bottom of the nest. You arch your spine and tuck your knees in slowly, before flexing your feet. The feeling of stiff joints popping and ligaments stretching after so long of being stuck in one spot is both a blessing and curse. With each move you make to get untangled and unstuck form the heavy blankets surrounding you only makes you aware of some other part of your body tingling with pins and needles from the lack of circulation. 'It's way too hot.' You repeat in your head. 'It's way, way, way too hot.' Wiggling and kicking your amrs and legs as carefully as you can, you can feel how the blankets give way somewhat to allow you more space to move. The feeling of that one small freedom allows for a nice flow of air to waft onto your sweat-soaked skin. The feeling of it sends a rush of goosebumps up your arms and the hairs on the back of you neck to stand up straight.

It feels good, but not as good as a nice drink of water would be. At the very notion of water, a pang of thirst makes itself known to you. With renewed vigor, you set to keep wiggling for freedom.

With now one arm free soon to be followed by the other. The rustling of blankets from your small, careful movements fills the otherwise quiet atmosphere of the cave. Each move you make is a gamble, it's a soft, quiet motion, but a gamble nonetheless. The fear of waking up any of the strange hybrids lingers at the forefront of your mind. But it doesn't stay long as you soon free your other arm. Once again spurred on by the rush of cool air on your exposed skin. The next course of action that seemed the best to take would be to crawl slowly forwards and hopefully, out of the nest. Moving carefully, you reach your right hand forwards, your palm facing down. Then, your one half trapped leg followed as best it can by the other before you move your left hand. Over and over, you move one limb and wait. Your ears straining for any sounds to suggest wakefulness from the hybrids. Moving, waiting, and listening. Moving waiting and listening. Over and over.

As soon as you feel the edge of the nest, you know that now more than ever requires you to be more than careful. Moving your right arm slowly, you can feel the cool, mostly cold stone floor of the cave. The ground almost marble smooth beneath your palm. Then slowly moving your one knee up, you let it rest against the ground as well. Then reaching your left hand to meet your right. The feeling of freedom at your very fingertips leaves a very heavy stifled exclamation of success to escape your nostrils in a soft exhale. Just as soon as you lift your other knee up from the nest a heavy, broad hand clamps down on tour ankle before swiftly dragging your body back into the folds of the nest. There's a ringing in your ears that is either the blood rushing to your head out of panic, or the round of your shrill screams. If no one was awake before, they certainly were awake now.

"Easy, easy muppet. Calm down now. You're safe. Shhh."

The hot gravelly voice against your ear does nothing to quell your rising fears. 'The dragon, that's the dragon' your mind vaguely registers before a burly set of arms scoop you from the blankets and cradle you against a broad, hairy chest.

"Aw hush now wee bairn, we ain't gonnae hurt ye."

The soft drolling of the Scottish accent from above instantly clues you in on the identity of the one holding you close: the werewolf.

Writhing and kicking and clawing as hard as you can. Your growing dismay and fear only serve to hinder the strength of your kicks and claws. Your small human hands and soft skin are no match for any such creatures, but even more so now with the want of thirst plauging your mind.

"Ach, easy youngin. Be still. Easy. We got ye, I got ye. Yer safe now....no clawin or kickin. Save it for blokes who deserve it, aye?"

Calming instantly at the werewolf's tone. You can be sure if it was the soothing quality of his voice that lulled you into a hesitant calm. Or if it was the small amount of menace that made its way into his tone. Either way, you knew better than to continue on fighting against a creature more than half your size and nearly triple or quadruple your weight.

"Don't eat me...dont...I..I taste bad." The sound of your voice echoing in the cave makes you wince. Never before have you ever heard your voice sound so terribly small.

Through the darkness you can just faintly make out the expression on the werewolf's face. It seems he was surprised as well. A solid beat passes, followed by another before his thick arms relax enough to allow you more breathing room. But not enough room to allow you to escape. The soft sound of fabrics rustling and a heavy groan signals that one of the other hybrids decided to make a show of waking up rather than butting in. With Price already awake, he rolls his head to the side in the darkness. The stiff muscles in his neck protesting to the suddenness from sleep to wakefulness makes a deep growl eminate from his vocal chords. Shrugging his shoulders to feel that nice stretch, Price lets out a deep belly yawn.

Your eyes widen as you can see some form of light showing from within the dragon hybrid’s throat, presumably where his body is able to produce the ever dreaded fire breath. Getting up with a small, but deep grumble. The wraith-Ghost, manuves out of the nest with a swiftness that makes even the quickest rabbit look slow. Before you know it you're squinting at the brightness that illuminates the cave from the oil lamps that are placed along the walls. The soft sounds of Ghost's footfalls on the cold cave floor make for a good distraction from the eyes of the other hybrids on you. Their gazes are heavy with sleep and protectivness.

"Hey now chickadee, no one's gonna eat you." The smooth voice of the Harpy breaks you from your trance, his voice dragging you back to reality. Your wide eyes dragging from man to man before looking up at the werewolf holding you. His mohawk is clearly tussled from sleep, but his baby blue eyes are anything but sleepy.

"I'm sorry pup." His words, carefully chosen are slow and heavy with double meaning. Sorry for waking you, sorry for scaring you, or sorry for something else entirely.

Regardless, the hybrids are awake.

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Work has been a little stressful this week. My boss has been changing my already set schedule...so my writing time has been cut significantly shorter.

Stay awesome yall.

[all-truths-wait-in-all-things]

A sort of dark drabble that I wrote about Merrill/vague f!Hawke while listening to Seven Devils by Florence and the Machine. Feat. Merrill the hardened badass, who still remains loving.

Merrill clenched her jaw tightly, willing her mind to close to the whispers.

The mirror was calling to her again--or something behind it...or someone.

The demons wanted more--always more--never sated.

Anders said he was different, and that he had a spirit of justice within him.

But the Chantry was wrong. They were all wrong.

The People had the right idea; all spirits are dangerous.

All are not of this world and will try to lead you astray. The rest was semantics.

So she built her walls ever higher.

She could see them, even make trades, but she knew the score--nothing is given without a price exacted in blood and soul.

And she was willing to pay a high price indeed to see their history restored, even if no one acknowledged the sacrifices she had to make.

Hawke...she knew, Merrill guessed, or knew in parts. But she supported her, regardless. It’s hard to love someone, and despite that, sleep with a knife under your pillow, but Merrill was glad of it.

It wasn’t a matter of trust, or belief, but rather in case the Keeper lost her way.

Merrill clenched her jaw tightly and dared any to lead her astray. She knew her own strength and took courage in it--the parts the demons could never quite reach.

It was time.

She placed the last shard of glass into the mirror and waited.

Gripping her staff, she raised it high.

[vaguelydoomed]

Transition is always a relief. Destination means death to me. If I could figure out a way to remain forever in transition, in the disconnected and unfamiliar, I could remain in a state of perpetual freedom.

David Wojnarowicz - Close to the Knives: A Memoir of Disintegration