#vampire lance

Trick or treat? 🎃🎃

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO OUR FAVE LONE WOLF

(LOL get it??)🐺🦇

Made art for a fanfiction called "blood bath" on a03 cause its really good 😭

Bodies have been turning up in the tiny town of Garrison. For almost 3 weeks, people have been going missing only to turn up a day or 2 later, throats slashed, drained of blood, hearts gone. There's never any evidence left behind, or if there is, it's not enough for a solid lead. Smudged footprints, unknown animal tracks, at one site a few strands of fur were found, but didn't belong to any identifiable animal.

No one knew who was behind the murders, and at that point people were afraid to leave their homes after dark. No one wanted to be the next body found bloodless and mauled.

Lance sat on the the sofa swing on the front porch, enjoying the crisp autumn evening air, wine glass in one hand, his phone in the other, scrolling through the police report from the latest victim. As usual, no real evidence, a few footprints in the soft, muddy ground, but nothing to identify whoever left them, tracks from an unknown animal, and the body of a local retired farmer and wannabe politician, universally loathed in Garrison. Town gossip was mostly wondering if anyone would bother claiming what was left of the body. Lance was in the "absolutely fucking no one" camp. The killings were brutal, but still no one was sorry to see him gone.

There was one detail in the report that caught his attention, but had been dismissed by police. As usual, the victim's throat was slashed, body drained of blood, and heart torn from the ripped open rib cage. But by the shredded edges of the deep cut, a puncture wound was found in the neck, but had been assumed to be a missed attempt by whatever weapon had been used.

Lance kept scrolling, barely looking away as he raised his glass, savoring deep red sweetness. he nearly knocked the glass to the floor in setting it down on the side table at the familiar sound of boots clomping up the steps heralding his husband's return from his shop, the only auto mechanic in town.

Keith saw the discarded phone on the seat beside Lance, and the open police report on the screen.

"Anything interesting?" he asked.

"Still nothing," Lance answered. He hooked his fingers into Keith's belt loops, dragging him in. "They have no idea who could be behind this."

His tone was light, but there was a dangerous spark in his eyes, lips curling into a devilish grin that showed sharpened canines. Keith straddled his waist, sclerae turning gold, thick, sharp claws digging into the back of the sofa.

"I guess we'll just never know."

He dipped down, capturing Lance in a kiss, moaning at the taste of salt and iron on his husband's lips. Lance's hands slipped under Keith's tank top and flannel and ran his fingers through the thick, soft black fur sprouting from his back. He pulled away, deep blue meeting violet and gold.

"I suppose it'll just have to stay a mystery."

“Argh!” Pidge threw up her arms, exasperated, and then she stomped over to the corner to his travel bags. His tacsuit helmet sat on several stacked crakes of old junk. She picked it up and thrust it at him. “You’re going. End of discussion.”

“Pidge, if Carsten realizes I survived that explosion—”

“—he’ll be coming after you.” Pidge crossed her arms over her chest and glared up at him, big brown eyes pummeling him with determination. Her tacsuit had been replaced with a green jacket with flowering vines embroidered down the sleeves, black pants and short black boots. She still wore a bayard at her hips.

Lance, no.