Dark Writings

CW: Emeto (brief mention, not actively described), blood, biting, murder/death, forced to eat, branding, intimate whumper

Over the next four days, Aven was made to drain and kill five more thralls— one a day, plus an extra on the third day when their nausea had gotten the better of them and they finally had thrown up. They had stopped trying to protest anymore... what was the point? Victor only punished them for their protest and eventually coerced them into drinking anyway.

It was the seventh day, now... Seven days of being a vampire. Seven days of hell.

The door creaked open and Aven pressed themself into the corner of the empty, bloodstained room as if it could do anything to protect them from the elder vampire and the thrall that trailed in behind them.

"Please," Aven pleaded, sliding down the wall until they were sitting, knees in front of their chest like a shield. "How many times are you going to make me do this? I-I don't want to— I can't keep doing this!"

"Until I'm satisfied you've had enough." Victor smiled, their voice honey-sweet. They weren't really mocking— it was more like a grotesquely false attempt at comfort. They turned to the long-haired thrall that had followed them in. "Sit."

The thrall sat in the chair Victor gestured to, a look of intoxicated ignorance on their face and their all but blank eyes. A look Aven was sure had been plastered on their own face far too many times in the past. God... that could've been them in that chair. Why not them in that chair and whoever this thrall was as a newly fledged vampire? Why Aven?

They had been a hunter, once. How now had they fallen so far..? Become the thing they so desperately hated?

"Turn around, my darling."

Turn around? "What?" Aven asked, confused. This had not been a part of their routine the last six days.

"I asked you to turn around, darling." Their voice was still so syrupy sweet... it seemed to have taken on a slightly darker tone, now though. Less comforting and more... demeaning.

Aven hesitated, but turned. If they refused, Victor would simply turn them around by force. The young vampire tensed as Victor ran a finger down from the nape of Aven's neck to the center of their back. Despite Aven's lack of a shirt, the touch was cloaked in fabric. Victor was wearing gloves? Aven hadn't noticed that when they'd come in...

"Hold still, darling." With one finger still resting lightly in the center of Aven's spine, Victor placed their other arm firmly across the back of Aven's shoulders, pinning them firmly against the wall.

Before Aven had time to question what Victor was doing, the finger had left their back, only for a white hot pain to replace it half a moment later. Whatever metal was pressed to their back now was cold as ice yet burned like fire—

Silver. That had to be silver. And that was why Victor was wearing gloves?

Why? Why? What was the purpose of this?? Aven hadn't even refused to bite the thrall!

They choked on a scream as it caught in their throat, trying desperately to twist away despite the firm press against their shoulders. In their panic, Aven almost managed to persuade themself that the struggle was doing something— that they could feel Victor's strength give slightly.

But... no. The silver didn't move a centimeter from where it had initially been pressed. And Victor's arm remained steadfast pinning them to the wall.

Finally, the cold of the silver retreated, although the burning sensation lingered several seconds longer. Victor let up on Aven's shoulders, allowing the younger vampire to finally whip around to face their sire.

Aven felt a sheen of sweat, cold and damp across their forehead. In shock, they realized the same was mirrored on Victor's face. They thought for a moment they saw... no, it was gone, then. Although seemingly a bit out of breath, sweat dampening the loose hair that framed Victor's face, the elder vampire was as composed as ever.

Victor held up the small piece of silver for Aven to see as the younger leaned heavily against the wall, panting. It was more than just a simple silver piece. It had been shaped into two cursive words: My Darling.

A spike of anger and anxiety shot through Aven's chest. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Victor slid the silver piece back into their pocket. "Just marking my creation. So you don't forget. So no one forgets."

"I'm not 'your darling'!" Aven shouted, sliding along the wall to move away from Victor, half afraid of the elder vampire's reaction to their defiance, half too angry to do the smart thing and shut up.

"You are more 'my darling' than you could ever understand just now." Victor didn't sound upset. That only served to fuel Aven's anger.

"You're sick! You are everything I hate about your kind!"

"Our kind." The correction was sweetly insistent, refusing to allow Aven to separate themself.

How had they become the thing they hated?

Victor seemed to take Aven silence as meaning they could speak again. They nodded towards the thrall in the chair. "Drink."

"I don't want to." Aven spat.

"Shall I make another?" Victor's gloved hand slipped inside their pocket once again.

"No—" And Aven hated how quickly their resolve crumbled to ash. "No— god— fine."

They stepped up to the thrall, who still stared in vacant longing at Victor, and tipped their head to the side... leaned in... bit... drank.

The thrall fell to the floor when Aven let them go, body pale and lifeless.

Submitted by Anon - thanks!

I am looking for good yuri/GL to watch. I have crunchyroll, netflix, and hulu with hbo max. Or youtube, ig, but that is far from preferred.

I am looking for good yuri/GL to watch. I have crunchyroll, netflix, and hulu with hbo max. Or youtube, ig, but that is far from preferred.

Spin the wheel again. That’s who’s trying to protect you.

(If you have zero idea about a name you got, spin until you see someone you recognize.)

The FBI cut the phone lines during the 1977 disability rights sit-in. Then they turned off the hot water.

They locked the doors from the outside. One hundred and fifty people were trapped on the fourth floor. Half of them used wheelchairs. The government assumed they would leave.

Kitty Cone was thirty-three. She had muscular dystrophy. Her muscles were failing, but her logistics were flawless. She knew how to organize people.

The federal government had promised to sign regulations protecting disabled Americans from discrimination. The policy was known as Section 504. They printed the promise on paper. Then they stalled. Without a signature, it was just typography.

The protesters entered the regional Health, Education, and Welfare building in San Francisco on a Tuesday morning. They took the elevators to the director's office. They brought sleeping bags and catheters. They informed the staff they were not leaving until the law was signed.

By sunset, the police surrounded the exits. Kitty sat near the windows. She organized the floor plan. She assigned committees for security and sanitation. She kept her medication in a small cooler.

According to federal memorandums released decades later, the strategy to end the occupation relied on medical attrition. The building was not equipped for long-term habitation. The FBI calculated that a population requiring ventilators, specialized diets, and daily medical aides would voluntarily evacuate if the environment became sufficiently hostile. They instituted a blockade.

The blockade went into effect immediately. No food deliveries allowed. No medical supplies permitted through the lobby. Guards stood at the main doors checking identification.

Kitty's muscles deteriorated faster under the physical strain. She couldn't walk. When the phone lines went dead, the fourth floor lost contact with the press. The government waited for the quiet.

Kitty dropped to the floor. She realized the barricades were designed for standing adults. The police had blocked the hallways at waist height. They hadn't blocked the linoleum.

The floors were covered in cigarette ash and spilled coffee. She dragged her body through it. She crawled under the barricades to reach the restricted elevator shafts and unguarded offices.

She carried notes in her pockets. She found a single working payphone the FBI missed. She called the local news desks. She called the mayor's office.

She crawled back. When her arms failed, someone pulled her by her ankles. The Black Panthers heard the news reports. They crossed the police lines with hot meals. The FBI could not stop them without a riot.

They shut off the elevators, so she crawled.

The occupation lasted twenty-five days. It remains the longest non-violent occupation of a federal building in American history. On April 28, the Secretary of HEW signed the regulations without a single alteration.

The protesters left the building the next morning. They went back to their apartments. The Rehabilitation Act regulations laid the groundwork for every accessibility law that followed. The HEW building still stands on United Nations Plaza. The elevators run on a schedule. The doors are heavy glass.

Kitty Cone: the woman who crawled under the barricades.

Source: Kitty Cone's oral history, Bancroft Library.

Verified via: National Museum of American History.