#FebuwhumpDay14

[linecrosser]

Febwhump 2024 - Day 14 - Blood-stained tiles

Shen Qingqiu (the original goods) having a minor qi-deviation (probably following right after a visit of Yue Qingyuan)

[scratchandplaster]

🫀Happy Valentine's Day💖

@febuwhump

[kabie-whump]

♡ Febuwhump Day 14: Blood Stained Tiles ♡

@febuwhump

Content: Post-kidnapping, recovery, blood, worried caretaker, careless whumpee

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

Whumpee must be in the gym again.

That’s where they’ve always ended up in the days following their kidnapping and subsequent rescue. Despite Caretaker’s orders to rest, dammit, Whumpee insists on pouring themselves into training, into making sure that if this ever happens again they’ll be strong enough to prevent it.

“You’re plenty strong,” Caretaker had explained. “Whumper took you by surprise, and it was like five against one. It’s not your fault they had the upper hand from the start.”

But Whumpee never fucking listens and now Caretaker’s on their way to the gym to drag them to bed where they belong.

Except… there’s no one there.

“Whumpee?” Caretaker’s voice echoes through the empty gym.

No reply. Caretaker wanders for a moment, and upon nearing the locker room door they pick up the sound of a shower running.

“Whumpee? You in there?”

Nothing.

“I’m coming in.”

Caretaker enters the locker room and makes their way over to the shower stalls. Underneath the sound of running water that can hear faint, labored breaths. The their eyes lock onto the floor, and their veins run cold.

Red stained water streaming out from one of the shower stalls and into the drain.

Blood.

“Whumpee!”

Modesty be damned, Caretaker throws open the shower curtain. Whumpee is slumped on the floor, their back against the wall and their eyes squeezed shut. Their hands are pressed to the source of the blood: the stitches on their side that Caretaker made them promise they wouldn’t tear.

“You idiot,” Caretaker mumbles as they turn off the water and kneel in front of Whumpee. “I fucking told you to rest.”

“ ‘M sorry,” Whumpee gasps, hissing as Caretaker pulls their hands away from their freshly opened wounds.

Caretaker’s glare softens. “It’s… It’s fine. You’re fine. I’ll take care of it.”

Whumpee gives a weak smile. “You always do.”

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

[whumpinthepot]

@febuwhump 2024, Day 14. Blood-Stained Tiles

Happy Valentines Day folks 🤗❤️🩷❤️

Mature art tag list: @frogkingdom @coppercoyoti (let me know if you’d like to be added)

[simpforchuchu]

Sweater | Happy Valentine’s Day 💖

Prompts: DAY 14 - blood-stained tiles @febuwhump Characters: Tsuji x reader Fandom: High and Low Summary: Tsuji coming back after a fight, again

A/n for prompts: Hello guys! This is my first time trying a prompt challenge. I hope you like the short fics I wrote. I will finish them by writing some of the requests I have. I love you 💜

Sorry for the grammer or spelling mistakes.English is not my main language so...

Thank you and love you 🥰

Warnings: mention of fights, blood, scars but mostly fluffy

“Oh, fuck!”

The young boy had barely crept into the house and wanted to take a quick shower. But finding the bathroom door in the dark was harder than it seemed. Also, the wound on his shoulder was really aching.

He turned on the light and closed the door. He took off his dirty jacket and trousers and threw them into the dirty basket. It wouldn't be easy to take off his beloved sweater.

He had returned from a fight at midnight again. But this time something went wrong. He had a large cut on his shoulder and he was sure it was bleeding.

Even though it hurt a lot, he managed to take off his sweater. When he looked at his shoulder in the mirror, he saw a deep cut, although not too bad. And there were a few drops of blood on the bathroom tiles. He had to clean the wound.

Also, the cut on the sweater he was holding really upset him.

“Y/n is going to kill me.”

The sweater he took off was an expensive sweater that his girlfriend had given him as a gift for Valentine's Day last year. He knew she bought that sweater thanks to her part-time job. It was also a sweater he really liked. If he had known he was going to fight, he would never have let it get damaged .

He didn't know how long he stared at the sweater in front of the mirror, but he immediately realized who the person calling him at the bathroom door was.

“Tsuji?”

The young man slowly turned to his girlfriend. Since his wound was on the back of his shoulder, y/n hadn't seen him get hurt yet. But she sounded worried.

“I didn't hear you coming, why didn't you wake me up?”

The young girl was sleepy. Tsuji was still happy that she didn't notice what was going on. He hated upsetting her.

But this happiness did not last long. When the young girl turned her head and saw the dirty jacket and trousers on top of her dirty basket, she understood what was happening.

When Tsuji turned to where she was looking, he had already forgotten about the wound on his shoulder. He wanted to close the lid of his dirty basket, but he realized his mistake when y/n screamed.

“Baby, please listen to me first”

"This! When did this happen? Tsuji sighed and shook his head when Y/n asked in fear. He sat on the toilet and extended his hand to the young girl. He really hated seeing her sad.

Y/n grabbed her boyfriend's hand and moved closer to him. The tall boy looked at the young girl's face and showed her the sweater in his hand.

“I'm really sorry, I would have been more careful if I had known it would happen.”

Y/n looked at the sweater in her boyfriend's hand in surprise. She was even more scared when she saw the blood stain on the sweater. The boy in front of him must have been stupid for actually worrying about the sweater...

“Are you crazy? Do you really think I thought about that sweater? You’ve got a big cut on your shoulder, damn it! Who did this ?"

Y/n spoke breathlessly. Tsuji held her hand tighter to calm her down and smiled.

"I am okay. I'm really fine. It's not that bad."

"But-"

“I'm really okay, baby. I know it looks scary, but I'm okay."

Y/n slowly lowered her head and gently hugged the sitting boy's neck. Tsuji could feel how scared the young girl was.

Y/n had lived the same life as him. She knew that fights were a unique part of their lives. That's exactly why he could understand why she was afraid.

He wanted to clean his wound and sleep as soon as possible. But he quickly pulled away when he felt tears soaking his neck.

When he saw the young girl's red eyes, he wanted to punch himself. He wiped the tears from her cheeks with his big hands

"I am sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. But you are crying because of me again. I’m sorry y/n.”

Y/n shook her head, her eyes getting more teary.

“I don't want an apology. I just want you to always be with me.”

Tsuji smiled and brought the young girl's hands to his lips and kissed them.

"I am not going anywhere. You can't get rid of me that easily, love."

HnL taglist : @straysugzhpe @tiddly-winx  @ninamarie1994 @emperorsnero @koala-yuna @little-miss-naill

[em-writes-stuff]

blood stained tiles

day 14 of @febuwhump

whumpee and caretaker

584 words

warnings: cursing, stabbed character, caring for a wound, mild cursing

~

Whumpee stares at herself in the mirror. Her lip is busted, eye bruised, and cheek cut. No wonder she feels like she was run over by a bus. 

Caretaker pounds on the door and tries to turn the handle. “Come on, Whumpee! You need to let me in!” 

Whumpee ignores his shouting and peels the back of her shirt up, revealing a nasty stab wound. She sucks a breath in through her teeth and pulls her shirt off the rest of the way, discarding it on the floor. She takes her pants off and throws them on top of the shirt. 

Caretaker’s pounding had slowed down enough for Whumpee to think that he’d forgotten all about it and had gone to make dinner. But, just like the rest of the day she was wrong. 

The door pushes open and Caretaker barges into the bathroom. 

Whumpee covers her chest with her hands and backs up against the wall. “What the fuck?!” 

Caretaker stutters for a second before taking in the blood slowly trickling down her leg and rushes over to her. “What happened?” 

Whumpee pushes him away and takes her towel off the wall and wraps it around herself. “Nothing I can’t handle.” 

“Bullshit.” he says, digging around in a drawer. “What happened?” 

She ignores his question and takes the gauze he holds out to her and presses it to the wound. She hisses and pulls her hand away quickly. 

Caretaker glares at her and she sighs dramatically, “I ran into an old friend. Turns out she isn’t as fond as she used to be.” 

He rolls his eyes and spins her so she’s facing the wall and he can address the wound. “I just can’t believe that after all the work you’ve done to get…better you just go back and get stabbed.” 

“Right. Because it’s my fault that she stabbed me.” She waits for a response and feels his annoyed expression boring into her. “Ok, fine. I’m not not to blame, but she found me with a knife, so why’d she have it if she wasn’t planning on stabbing me in the first place?” 

Caretaker sighs and shakes his head, deciding to stay quiet while he wipes away the last of the blood on Whumpee’s back. He rubs a salve into the wound and covers it with gauze. 

“Get me some tape?” He asks, motioning to the open drawer. 

She makes a show of taking it out of the drawer while saying, “Sure, I’ll get it. Not like I have a stab wound or anything.” “It’s shallow.” Caretaker snaps. “Barely deep enough to warrant worrying.” 

“And yet…” Whumpee says, handing him the roll of tape. 

He takes it from her and tapes the gauze down, “Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” 

He finishes with the tape and tosses it on the counter, exchanging it for a small washrag. He runs it under warm water and starts to clean the blood off of Whumpee’s back and leg. 

She stands there awkwardly as he rubs the rag in circles against her skin, gently working the dried blood off. Before too long, he’s scrubbing on her heel and she lifts her foot up. 

He pulls away, tapping her back to let her know he’s finished and she takes a small step forward. She looks back and sees the red-stained tiles. 

“Sorry about the floor,” She says tentatively. 

He almost laughs and dismisses her with a hand wave, “Nothing to worry about. I’ve been thinking about adding a splash of color.” 

[comfort-questing]

14. "blood-stained tiles"

it wasn't hard to find him, in the end. she only had to walk, and look for the darker splashes on the slates of the floor, among the dusty shadows of this strange forgotten place. where the faint blue-white magelight caught the stains they were dark red at first, but then brighter and damper further on, like blazons on the pathway.

"what did you think you were doing?" she said, to the general empty air around, where only the spiders and moths listened. only the spiders and moths, she hoped; whatever had done this to him might well still be there, lurking. which would be - annoying, if not inconvenient.

suddenly the hall opened around her, into a wide empty place, the dimness shot through by sunlight from somewhere high above. the small, skittering things that lurked in old places scattered as she raised her hand and the light cupped within it, fleeing from their curious investigation of the limp body there on the floor.

he was still breathing. she ascertained that in a moment, dropping down next to him, warm crimson soaking through to her knees as she knelt. the long vicious gashes laying his shoulder open to the bone, the horrid clammy chill of his skin as she cupped a hand under his cheek, all spoke clearly enough of the disaster now past.

he spoke, with her hand there on his face.

"be careful. the - the beast - "

"beast be damned," she said, "I'm here to pick you up. your girl was ringing her hands outside my door first thing this morning. said you'd gone into the old fortress against all advice... if I see any beasts, you'd best expect I won't be the one who needs to be careful."

with an effort, his eyes focused on her face above him, and recognition fluttered to life.

"master. you came - to find me?"

"of course I did. what, did you think I spent all that time training you to let some misshaped demon-spawn take you out?"

"I'm - sorry. for the trouble."

she sighed, shortly, one thumb tracing an invisible sigil on his bare skin. a faint shivery light, not too unlike the magelight, twined around the wounds on his arm and shoulder. he winced, gritting his teeth at the sting of it.

"there - that'll stop the bleeding till we get to the village." then - "you're always trouble - you odd little humans always are. but - I'll keep an eye on you anyway. just do be more careful next time. I have a very complex spell waiting back at home, and if it's fizzed in my absence I don't know if I - "

but as she spoke she was wrapping him in her cloak, where he lay on the floor, and with a short sigh and a floating sigil she hoisted him up across her arms.

"now what kind of beast was it, by the way?"

his eyes were closed, teeth still clenched. "drake... I think."

her robes shook across the dusty floor, the magelight bobbing gently ahead, sigils dancing now and again half-visible on the air.

"ah. well, I'm sure next time you come after it you'll bring reinforcements. maybe the girl. what's her name again?"

a sigh, into the folds of her hood. "...Ketri. she's... an archer."

"very nice. you always did have difficulty with aiming a ranged spell at speed. she'll be a good second for you..."

"master."

"don't get that tone with me, youngster." but she was chuckling a little, as she said it, and smoothed a hand through his tousled hair. "easy now, I'll have you back home soon."

[nade2308]

Nothing like some good blood stained tiles for a Valentine's Day prompt.

@thethistlegirl

@febuwhump

A03 link

[lightenupcowboy]

Summary: Leon can barely sleep, and when he does sleep, he has nightmares, and when he's awake, the nightmares follow him. One morning it all falls apart for Leon. Chris loves him anyway. Rating: M

[alicewritingstories]

Febuwhump Day 14: Bloodstained tiles

CW: Blood, injury, aftermath of battle, underage whumpee (Wind)

AO3

---

Warriors had always had a routine of counting after a battle. Counting keeps taken and held. Counting enemy leaders slain or captured. Counting casualties. Those could all be done through reports, but there was one thing he had to count for himself: how many of his closest friends had survived.

It was selfish and didn't help the resentful looks he could always feel on his back, but he had to know for himself.

There was Wild helping to scour the battlefield for useful materials. One. Twilight and Sky helping the medics with triage. Two and three. Time talking to Impa and Zelda. He should be with them, but he waved a greeting and kept walking and counting. Four, five, six. He'd join them when his count was ten or when he was sure it wouldn't be. Four directing a group of men as they moved some rubble. Seven. Legend and Hyrule sitting on a fallen wall, Legend bandaging Hyrule's arm. They both waved and Hyrule gave a reassuring thumbs-up, so Warriors gave one of his own and kept going. Eight and Nine.

As he criss-crossed the battlefield, he couldn't find Wind. When he saw the others again, he asked them, but none of them had seen him either and the search spread as best it could.

Warriors tried to be clear: he wasn't saying Wind's safety should be prioritized. He wasn't saying that small shoulders he'd slung his scarf over in camp and bright eyes that shone with admiration at his stories were inherently worth more than any of his men who had families who loved them. But in his heart he knew that there was a lot of loss he could bear more easily than a gap by the Chain's campfire. Especially if that gap came from the death of Wind, who was so much too young.

There was one place he hadn't looked yet. They'd not needed to call on the nearby Great Fairy for this battle. Her spring lay dark and dormant a little way away and Wind wouldn't even necessarily have known what it was; there hadn't been much time for sightseeing before the Chain was caught up in combat. In fact, he didn't think he'd even pointed it out to any of them.

All the more reason to check it himself.

He hardly dared to hope as he hurried over to the hidden spring and ducked through the entrance. He didn't much like coming to these places and only came when he had to, but this definitely fell into that category.

It was lit by a dim glow that seemed to come from the walls and ceiling themselves. The light was just bright enough for him to see something dark smeared on the tiled floor. He gasped and rushed forward, following the stains down the dark corridor.

In the doorway, there was a much larger puddle. He looked at it for a moment with his heart in his mouth, then followed a smeared trail with his eyes. It led towards the pool at the far end of the room.

He swallowed hard and followed, eyes on the shimmering, ever-moving water, looking for any stain.

Any sign of someone lying at the bottom of the pool.

That had been a lot of blood, especially considering Wind's size. If he'd fallen in…

"Hey, Wars…"

He'd been so focussed on looking for a body under the surface that he'd not even noticed the figure propped up against the side and when Wind's voice broke the silence Warriors startled, his hand going to his sword. Only then did he see the half-shadowed face just under the lip of the pool. Wind was almost entirely submerged, but he was sitting up, smiling weakly.

"Wind!" Warriors dropped to his knees by the side of the pool. "Are you OK? We're searching all over for you!"

"Better than I was…" His voice was weak and hoarse. "I remembered about fairy fountain water having healing powers. I made it to the door and then fairies dragged me the rest of the way." He grinned. "Your fairies are incredible."

Warriors grinned back through the tears in his eyes. "They certainly are."

[thethistlegirlwrites]

Blood Stained

Joey unzips the blue canvas duffle bag that’s sitting on her coffin-bed, ignoring high-pitched singing from the hallway bathroom and the sounds of someone in the next room over slamming drawers. She’s one of five vampire mentees living in this halfway house, eligible now that she’ll be participating in an apprenticeship. She’s one of the lucky ones. Her counselor said before Chimera got grants for halfway housing options, vamps in the mentor program were stuck finding their own accommodations. And places that will take vampire tenants at all often charge exorbitant rates for the privilege.

Inside the bag, on top, is the folder that holds her copies of the mentor program agreement, the list of expectations and terms, and her visitation plan. She pulls out the plan and pins it to the corkboard over the head of her bed. The first three weeks are solid red, but there’s a yellow bar halfway through week four. Conditional potential to see family members in a controlled environment. 

She’ll take it. Video calls with Mauri and Via are more contact than she thought she’d ever be able to have again, but now that she knows there’s the possibility of more, waiting three weeks’ probation feels like an eternity.

She tacks up the stained, creased photo of her family beside it. Over the years and miles, the corners have gotten blunted, the color has flaked away on the fold lines, and the faces have changed. But she’s held onto it this long, and it’s a reminder of what she’s going through all this for. She’s absurdly grateful someone chose to tuck it into her coffin with her. 

Everything Josefina Quintero has done for the past six years has been to protect her siblings.

Even, if necessary, from her.

There’s another folder in the duffle bag, this one with a company’s logo on the front. The same logo that’s on the azure sweatshirt and t-shirts folded up inside below it. Even on the pen clipped to the front.

Joey sits down on the bed and starts filling out the employment papers for Nico’s Custodial Service. She can even answer the work authorization honestly for once. Chimera’s legal team got her provisionally cleared to work while Carmen Stoker of all people is using Joey’s case to make an argument for citizenship status for vampires based on location of home earth. 

As far as starts to an un-life go, this isn’t the worst. 

She isn’t counting the two weeks she spent locked in a crypt trying to keep herself from feeding on humans after her first fledgling hunt, or the next ten days in Chimera’s infirmary with their medics treating her blood-starvation and throwing her a lifeline in the form of the synthetic replacement. 

She takes two easy-open packs from the mini-fridge in the corner of her room and tucks them into the insulated lunch bag that was folded under the shirts. Eventually, she’ll only need one, but her body is still riding the peaks and valleys of the newly fledged. 

By the time a blue-and-white van with the cleaning company’s logo pulls up in front of her building, she’s checked off nearly every item on the paper at the front of her personnel manual. 

Long hair out of the way; braided in a single tight French style down her back.

Wearing the company t-shirt and sweatshirt (if desired, and apparently most vampires appreciate the extra warmth), as well as the grey cargo pants that were folded up below them, and the sturdy ankle-high work boots she found in a box under that. 

Copies of her work authorization documents to be filed with her I-9, made at Chimera’s office this morning. 

Signed front page of the personnel manual.

Signed technology policy and her new (very basic, very locked down) cell phone in one pocket. There’s only three numbers in it right now. The cleaning company’s office line, her mentor’s personal cell number, and the Chimera number that will take her directly to the department that deals with anyone in the mentor program.  

She’s met Nico Pontevecchio a couple times before this. Once in one of the interview rooms at  Chimera when they were determining if the two of them were a good fit for each other, then again in Huntmaster Lawson’s office when they signed the mentorship agreement.

The vampire in the driver’s seat is wearing the same sweatshirt she’s seen every other time, a faded version of the one she was just given, with bleach stains (that seems like the wrong word, but she can’t come up with anything else for it) on the stomach pocket and grimy, frayed wrist cuffs.

He’s chomping away on another of what seem to be ever-present sticks of gum as he reaches across the front seat and opens the passenger door for her. Joey climbs in, looking for a place to set her paperwork. There’s invoices stacked on top of the dashboard, and the console is a clutter of rubber gloves, empty sanitizer bottles, and gas receipts.

She’s not sure how much faith she has in the professionalism of this cleaning company.

“Sorry for the mess,” Pontevecchio says, grabbing the invoices off the dashboard and setting them down somewhere between the backs of the seats and the grating that keeps the cleaning supplies from coming up into the cab with them at any red light. “I’ve been keepin’ all my stuff on the passenger seat. Haven’t had anyone in here in a bit, and last night was crazy. Wish it was cleaner for ya.”

“I don’t mind.” Joey sits down and straps in, and they pull away from the curb. 

“Nervous?” Pontevecchio asks as they make their way through evening traffic.

“Kind of. I’ve never done this before.” It sounds like cleaning for a janitor service has a lot of different responsibilities.

“Don’t worry about it. You’ll catch on quick. Once you learn your building layouts, you’ll get a feel for it. You can start making a sort of pattern.” He hands her a flat plastic clipboard, also blue, with a stack of papers on it. One is a list of addresses. One is a list of tasks. “Some of our clients have in-house janitors that they’re just supplementing, and we do a little less at them. Those are the places we’re going to start with.” 

He reaches across the dash and opens the glove box. “There’s a pack of gum in there if you want some.”

“No thanks.” Her stomach is tied up in enough knots.

“Ok, so here’s the deal. My first mentee said it was just me being an enthusiastic Italian, but I will talk your ear off today if only to keep your mind on something other than getting overwhelmed by a new job. You can be getting overwhelmed by my inability to shut up instead.”

Joey actually laughs at that one.

“So ask me anything you want. Otherwise I’m just going to start rambling about weirdest work stories.”

“Why did you start a cleaning company?” She’d sort of figured a former hunter would have opened a private investigation service or done something similarly…cool.

“My great-great-grandmother cleaned rich people’s mansions in New York City after my family came over from Italy. If it was good enough for her, it’s damn well good enough for me. Runs in my blood. And it’s a good job for young vampires. Little to no interaction with humans on shift, and all night hours.”

“That makes a lot of sense.”

“We advertise we’re 100 percent vampire owned and staffed. Bleeding hearts who wanna put their money where their mouth is are honestly competing for contracts right now. There’s more people on our side in LA than it feels like sometimes.”

It takes Joey a few seconds to remember that ‘bleeding hearts’ isn’t an insult to vampire supporters anymore. They’ve sort of commandeered the term, deciding it’s pretty accurate, and made it a rallying cry instead.

He digs around in the tangle in the console, pulls out a cigarette-lighter phone charger and tosses it up on the dash, and eventually comes up with a pen and a small rectangle of label paper. “Your ID’s got all your info on it, but if you don’t want anyone you bump into knowing your last name and all, you can just make your own nametag. We had some trouble with one of our employees getting harassed, so now I offer everyone this option. As long as we still have the work IDs to show building security, no one minds.”

Joey wouldn’t have thought of that issue, but she’s glad her mentor did. She unclips the badge with her whole name, photo ID, and a little strip like a credit card on it, slips it into her pocket, and starts writing her nametag out.

“We’ll get you a real nameplate ordered, just let me know what name you’d like on it.”

She looks at his own, a plain white plate with smallish blue letters spelling out Domenico P. 

“Is it better to use our full first names?”

Pontevecchio laughs. “I just do this so no one knows I own the company. They don’t usually bother readin’ all the way to the end.”

“Why, less people harass you about how you’re doing the job?”

“Actually more like the opposite.” He shrugs. “I work the first few nights at any new location. They can be perfectly respectful when they’re talking to the company owner, but what matters to me is how they’re gonna treat my people.” He taps the nametag. “But you can call me Nico.”

“In that case, I’m Joey.”

He pulls into the parking garage of a tall office building. Joey feels like panicking for a second, until she realizes the garage is shared with the low building next door that advertises itself as the HR software company whose name is on their list. Okay. One floor. One building. She can do that. 

They climb out of the van and start unloading the equipment they need. 

“Three pairs of gloves, in your pockets, at all times.” Nico hands her a box of bright green ones. “You didn’t indicate any known allergies to the supplies we use, but tell me right away if something starts bothering you.”

She nods and tucks the gloves into one of the big leg pockets. She’s starting to understand the specific clothing choices whoever put together her work bag made. 

He talks her through the rationale behind every other piece of gear they collect, and then they’re headed in through the back door.

“This one’s easy. We deep clean once a week, but that’s not today.”

Joey picks up her clipboard to double-check what her checklist for this building will be, and then realizes this isn’t her clipboard at all.

There’s a photo of a kid with braces, floppy hair, and a lopsided model volcano taped to the back of the clipboard under the list of addresses, checklists, and cleaning supply order forms. 

She’d known Nico had a kid. She was told upfront that the best mentor-mentee matches share something deeply personal in common. Wanting to get their lives together to be part of their families’ again, well, it doesn’t get a whole lot more personal than that.

“That’s Ricky,” Nico says. There’s an undercurrent of hurt in his voice.

“He’s sweet.”

Nico just nods. She has the feeling there’s something there that hurts. Something that, for all his enthusiastic rambling, he can’t bring himself to talk about.

She doesn’t talk about her family. She never has. It was safer for them all. No one knew she had younger siblings unless it was absolutely necessary. Not when they were trying to cross the border, and definitely not when she was trying to pay for Via’s seizure meds with her bookie gig. 

Nico folds the papers back over the picture, tucks the clipboard into a side pocket of the trash cart, and reaches for the trash can near the door while Joey unwinds the vacuum’s cord and searches for a wall plug.

For a while, the whine of the motor is their only background noise, and then Joey shuts it off and fights with the catch holding the dirt cup in place so she can empty the astonishing amount of grit and hair it’s collected into the trash cart.

“I bit him,” Nico says, out of what seems like nowhere.

But Joey knows exactly who he means.

“My family knew what I was gonna be, and buried me anyway. I guess they wanted another chance. They were there waitin’ to help me dig myself out. And…I attacked them.” He looks down at the gloves on his hands. “I almost strangled my wife, and when Ricky tried to pull me off her I bit his arm. I’m just lucky I didn’t infect him. But…he’s been terrified o’ me ever since. For good reason.”

Joey knows fledgling hunger. She knows what it did to her, what she was afraid it might lead her to. He’s lived her worst nightmare come true.

“I’d just gotten my feet back under me and started figuring out how to control myself when I found out he’d gotten himself accepted to an oceanography program in San Diego. I had to get out of New York anyway. My old agency was hunting me down, and they were closing in. So I moved out here. It was about as far away as I could get from my old life.”

“Have you two reconnected?” Joey asks. 

“We’re still…workin’ on things. This is the best compromise, gives him some distance but if he wants to get together on weekends, I’m close enough for it. And Lawson and I had crossed paths a few times before this. I knew she was starting a mentor program here, and I figured I might as well be useful to someone else. No one should be doin’ this alone.”

“Yeah, it kind of sucks.”

He laughs. “Lawson helped me get this business started on the condition I’d be another mentor for people when she needed it. It’s worked out pretty well so far.”

“How many mentorships have you done?”

“Two so far, you’re my third. It’s picking up now, I guess, after everything with your friend Barrett.”

Joey nods. She’s still shocked he went to the trouble to track her down. They’d been friendly enough when he was an underground fighter and she was taking bets on the action, and she’d never believed what the news had said about him killing those people, but she’d never expected him to remember her, much less realized she’d been infected. 

Apparently, according to his partner, he’d put her name at the top of a list of likely candidates for a pilot program the agency is running with people who are infected, but haven’t turned.

He found her too late for that one, but at least there was still an option.

If it’s working for him, she’s pretty sure it’ll work for her too. 

“Okay, that’s it for this place.” Nico hauls the trash cart out back, and the two of them reload their van and pull out.

The next location is a resource center that caters to people recently released from prison, connecting them to housing, food, and employment options. It isn’t so different from the office Joey was sitting in just this morning, getting the keys to the halfway house, her few possessions she’d had on her when she was brought to the clinic, and the blue duffle that contained everything else she currently owns in the world.

She walks into the bathroom to start cleaning, and stops cold.

The floor is covered in red smears.

There’s a coppery scent in her nose, a ringing in her ears, and a tingling in her jaw.  

Blood. Fresh blood. 

Someone touches her shoulder, and she spins with a snarl. This is hers. She found it. Her food.

“..ey? Joey?” The threat to her meal resolves itself into Nico’s worried face, accompanied by the strong smell of wintergreen, overpowering the metallic tang of blood.

“I told them to stop using kill traps,” he says apologetically. “They’ve been having issues with rats since they set up the food pantry in here, so they’ve been setting traps, but these kind make a mess.”

A rat. A rat is what bled all over the floor.

And she’s so out of control that the blood from some dead vermin would have been enough for her to tear into Nico over.

She chokes, pushes her way out the door, and rushes into the corner behind a rack of business suits with a faded sign that says “Interview Closet” on it. 

She’s not sure how much later it is that Nico wheels aside the rack and crouches down beside her.

“It’s all taken care of,” he says gently. “I threw the rat out, cleaned up the floor twice, sprayed the whole room with wintergreen, and threw out every kill trap I could find in this place. They can bill me for it if they want, and I’ll bring by some live traps tomorrow.”

Joey doesn’t answer him. She can’t.

“It’s okay. You’ve barely been a vampire two months,” Nico says quietly. “Nobody expects you not to react to blood.”

“What if I never get better?”

“You will. It just feels impossible right now.”

“But I thought I was controlling it, and then this happened. What if I only think I am when they let me see my family?”

“No one is going to let you hurt your family. I promise. We know what we’re doing.”

“I was only ever trying to protect them,” She whispers. “My mother was a reporter, back home in Venezuela. She went after a powerful man with dangerous friends. When he had her killed, I was afraid to stay in the country. My aunt had married an American businessman years before and gone to live with him in Los Angeles, and my sister needed good medical care. I thought Tía Patricia could help.” What none of them had known at the time was that the marriage had lasted three years, and ended in a messy divorce that left Tía Patricia barely scraping by on an office assistant’s salary. They’d only found out after they made it to the city.

Our family isn’t really much for sharing our failures.

“We didn’t have enough money for most of the coyotes making border runs. I was told about one man who would do it for cheap, but he wanted more than money. I thought I knew what he was asking for.” 

She still remembers that night like it was yesterday. The blood-red semi. The flickering halogen lamp with moths fluttering around it. The sting at her wrist and the chill in her blood.

The last thing she remembers from her human life is a pair of bright headlights, coming straight for her.

“He was a vampire. Did border crossings for blood.” They were lucky he wasn’t one of the sort who kept his human cargo as a food source. She was in the Chimera infirmary when a raid team brought in some victims of one of them. “He must have lost control and infected me when he fed on me.” She shakes her head. “Mauri and Via didn’t know what he was. I should have told them but I didn’t want them to know what I’d done. I didn’t want them to think it was their fault. It was stupid. I was stupid. I thought there would be time, when they were older, to tell them everything. So they’d know what to do when the time came. But I was wrong.”

Red lights reflecting off the hood, painting the car the same blood red as that semi.

And in the split second before impact, the oddest feeling that she’d seen moths clustering around the lights, narrowing them down to searing pinpricks of brilliant death. 

“They didn’t know I was going to turn, and they buried me.” She chokes back a sob. “I made some bad decisions. Some really bad decisions. But I was nineteen and I was scared and I didn’t want to lose the only family I had left.” She looks down at the floor, seeing those smears of red all over again. “But it didn’t matter what I did. I lost them anyway.”

“You haven’t lost them yet.” Nico puts a hand on her shoulder. “Come on. We’re done here. Let’s go out to the van and eat. Even I’m not immune to smelling blood. I feel like I’m starving.”

She’s not sure if he’s just trying to make her feel better, or telling the truth, but it sort of helps.

Maybe he’s right. 

Maybe, someday, she’ll be okay.

(You can read this story and more from this universe on my WorldAnvil here!)

@catwingsathena @nade2308 @the-one-and-only-valkyrie @telltaleclerk @ettawritesnstudies  @writeouswriter

[inquisimer]

whatever sins you've committed

for @febuwhump day 14: blood stained tiles

At the end of a trail of bloody footprints, Cullen finds Hawke and anger finds Cullen. Post-Act III ;-;

read it on ao3 here

Female Hawke & Cullen Rutherford | Rated M | 1122 words | CW: blood, injury, guilt, self-hatred, grief

-

Cullen tracked the bloody footprints with his sword drawn. Ashes and gore had obscured the trail since the recruit reported it, but his trained eyes easily found the outlines and imprints against the street. It was a relief to focus on something as simple—hah—as potential blood magic. It was a relief to do something right.

He followed the footprints from the docks up through Lowtown, past the Merchant’s Plaza and into Hightown proper. At one point they stuttered, pointing in different directions. Indecision. Cullen squatted and examined how they overlapped, then continued on toward the estates.

Not the Keep and not the Chantry, or what was left of it. Small mercies, as they’d repurposed both into hospitals and makeshift refuge for the displaced and frightened. His relief was short-lived, however. The bloody trail grew increasingly clear and it led straight to a familiar door.

The Hawke Estate.

A bead of sweat slipped down Cullen’s neck and his hand clenched on his sword. Maker, he wouldn’t have thought—Hawke was a mage, though. And she’d been at the center of the hell they’d just come through. Her and the abomination, her friend, who’d started all of this. Perhaps it wasn’t such a far-fetched idea after all.

Steeling himself, Cullen knocked on the door. It swung open at the first touch of his gauntlet—unlatched and unguarded. Not a good sign. He stepped into the foyer.

The bloody prints continued here, stark against the polished marble tile. Neither the dwarves nor the elf girl were anywhere to be found. By the Maker’s grace there were no obvious signs of demonic activity, nor the regurgitated ichor that would indicate they’d been eaten. Both Cullen and the footprints carried on into the living room and up the stairs.

“In here, Knight-Captain.”

He flinched, and frowned. Her voice, exhausted and weary, sounded otherwise normal. But how had she known it was him?

“You can’t walk around in plate metal and expect to sneak up on people,” she said as he rounded the corner into a small washroom. “And you have a very distinctive stride.”

She perched on a small stool, one foot propped against the edge of the tub. Cullen understood, then, and sheathed his sword with a wince.

Blood coated Siobhan’s legs like a pair of gruesome stockings. Various cuts and gashes decorated her skin from the knees down and they’d left streaks of blood all the way to her heels, congealed to varying degrees. The bottom of the foot that he could see glittered with shards of glass embedded deep in the skin. Based on the blood seeping from under the other, it must be in a similar state.

The small, dark part of him roared with vicious pleasure. Whatever she’d done afterwards, she brought him here, protected him, gave him the window to tear their precarious balance to shreds. She should be hurting.

“Lost my boots at some point,” Siobhan said. She bent forward and used a pair of tweezers to free a piece of glass. It clattered into a small bowl, alongside a dozen just like it. “Did you need something?”

“I—no.” Cullen shook his head. He couldn’t quite bring himself to tell her of the report that led him here, or his fleeting belief in her corruption. “I apologize for disturbing you, Serah Hawke.”

“You’d be the first.” Another piece of glass removed, a rivulet of bright red blood flowing in its wake. When she dropped it in the bowl, the tweezers slipped from her blood-slick grip and fell as well. She clenched her shaking hands into fists.

After a moment’s hesitation, Cullen picked the tweezers up. He removed first one gauntlet, then the other. With the ragged corner of his gambeson, he wiped blood and gore from the metal handle.

“May I?”

Hawke’s sharp face was unreadable, but she nodded. Cullen knelt at her feet and braced her heel against his palm. Her jaw tightened around a hiss as he jerked a large fragment from the arch of her foot; unbidden, that dark, shameful monster roared in Cullen’s chest.

Her pain felt good. It felt like justice and retribution and catharsis, all rolled into one. Whatever blame lay at his and Meredith’s feet—and a great deal of it did—Hawke was the only one who had even a glimmer of chance to prevent this. Instead she’d played the field, toyed with Orsino and Meredith and Elthina like pieces on a chess board.

Like a true politician, he thought bitterly. And there were already murmurs of making her Viscount. Well, he hoped she was happy.

Removing the last of the bigger shards from her skin, Cullen scraped the flat of the tool down her sole to catch any small, unseen remnant. Siobhan’s gasp aborted into a sob, her knuckles gone white where they clenched around the lip of the tub.

“Don’t need an infection caught under healed skin,” Cullen muttered. “Sorry.”

Siobhan exhaled, slow and shaky. Even with his head bent in focus, her keen gaze burned into him.

“Not as sorry as I am.” His head snapped up and he found her cracked-marble eyes burning with the same anger and regret that fed this ill-advised escapade. Ashamed, he looked away.

“Don’t be,” she said hollowly. “Take it out on me. Your ire and anger, and the rage of every person in this city. I deserve it.”

She swiped a damp towel over the freshly raw skin and the fluffy whiteness of it went pink with her blood. She wrapped it around the wounded flesh and secured it with a knot.

“Only three people bear as much responsibility.” She pulled her other foot up with a groan and the torchlight glinted off the chips of glass like diamonds. “And they’re all dead.”

Cullen didn’t speak. There wasn’t anything to say: he agreed. A better man would shift the blame, soothe her self-loathing with a balm of forgiveness. But, Andraste would have to forgive him, because he was not that better man today. Maybe not ever.

“You could have stopped him,” Cullen finally whispered, barely audible. He gripped Siobhan’s other foot and his trembling hands shook all the way up her leg. Then, louder, “You should have stopped him.”

He was not gentle. A waterfall of glass poured between them as he jerked shards free. The rough extraction tore the skin further and each one removed added to the growing puddle beneath them. Siobhan tilted her head back, face screwed up against the pain.

Good, Cullen thought again, savagely. And as tears slipped between her lashes and crept down her cheeks, he realized she was nodding.

You should have stopped him. You should have stopped this.

She agreed.

[batrogers]

Febuwhump Day 14: Blood-Stained Tile

Artwork of a brief scene mentioned in my fanfic, Breaking the Faith, in which there was a war with the Gerudo in his adult life and he was forced to kill Nabooru against his will.

All kinds of fun.

[the-truest-sentence-i-know]

The Hotel Intel

Fandom: The Nancy Drew/Hardy Boys Mysteries (TV)

Character(s): Frank Hardy x Nancy Drew

Rating: T (cw: blood)

Summary: “Do you really think this is the first threat that I’ve dealt with?” Nancy interrupted.

“And how many times have you almost gotten hurt or killed for your sleuthing?” Frank demanded.

Wordcount: 883 | ao3

Prompt: blood-stained tiles (from @febuwhump ’s Febuwhump 2024)

“Maybe you should stay in Joe’s and my room,” Frank suggested.

“There’s no need for that,” Nancy said. “I’ll be perfectly safe in my own room.”

They were in the hotel elevator headed up to their floor.

“But the note said–”

“Do you really think this is the first threat that I’ve dealt with?” Nancy interrupted.

“And how many times have you almost gotten hurt or killed for your sleuthing?” Frank demanded.

“I wish someone would kill me right about now,” Joe said.

“And you think I’d be safer with you?” Nancy asked, ignoring Joe. “From this dangerous murderer?”

“Yeah, obviously,” Frank said, also ignoring Joe. “Three is more than one, Nancy.”

Nancy rolled her eyes. “I’ve handled myself this far,” she said. “You guys are just paranoid. It’s a wonder you’ve solved a single case if a note like that gets you scared.”

“Don’t lump me in with him,” Joe protested. “I don’t want you in our room any more than you do.”

Frank glared at him.

“Then I’ll have to share a bed with you,” Joe said, raising his hands. “Blanket-hog.”

It was Frank’s turn to roll his eyes. “Please, Nancy. I won’t sleep a wink if you’re alone.”

“Then take a sleeping pill,” Nancy said as the elevator dinged, and the doors opened. “See you in the morning, boys,” she called, walking down the hall.

Frank and Joe stepped out as well, Joe turning to head in the other direction. Frank grabbed his arm before he got far.

“Frank,” Joe said. “You can’t argue her into agreeing with you. In fact, I think you arguing with her makes her agree with you even less.”

“We can’t just let her–”

“Nancy will do what she thinks is best,” Joe said. “C’mon, I thought you two had a ‘special connection’ and everything.”

Frank smacked his shoulder but started down the hallway. “Fine.”

Frank woke with a start. The clock read 1:27 am. Joe slept soundly in the other bed. He wasn’t sure what woke him, but whatever it was made him uneasy.

Nancy was probably right about his paranoia, but nevertheless, he got up. He pulled on a pair of pants and grabbed a flashlight. Quietly, he slipped out into the hallway and padded toward Nancy’s room on socked feet.

Immediately, he could tell something was wrong. Nancy’s room’s door was slightly open.

He rushed inside, the door slamming against the wall with a bang as he entered. Crouched by the bedside table was a figure that definitely was not Nancy. It was a burly man in blue overalls, who rose and turned quickly when he heard Frank.

A glance at the bed told him Nancy was not there.

“Where is she?” he demanded, brandishing the flashlight like a weapon.

The man’s eyes flicked to the bathroom and when Frank’s eyes followed, the man charged at him. He shoved Frank to the ground and took off out the door. Frank was on his feet in a moment, ready to run after him. But then he saw a flash of red in the bathroom.

He clenched a fist at the sound of the man thundering down the hallway. Then he rushed to the bathroom and flicked on the light.

The pure white bathroom tiles were splattered with blood – so vivid it looked fake.

But Nancy was very real.

Nancy, unconscious, hair matted with blood, lay sprawled against the side of the bathtub.

“Oh, god,” Frank breathed, stumbling to her side. The flashlight fell forgotten from his grasp, clattering and echoing in the small room. The blood soaked into the knees of his pants as he knelt beside her. He reached out and held her face, gently tapping her cheek.

“Nancy?” he said. “Nancy, wake up.”

When she didn’t so much as stir, he felt panic set in. Head wounds always bled a lot. He knew that. They always seemed worse than they were. His heart hammered in his chest.

“Oh god, oh god,” he muttered. He closed his eyes tightly. Get a handle on yourself, he ordered. He took a breath, opened his eyes, and hollered. “Joe!” As he called for his brother, he ripped towels from the shelves and packed Nancy’s head wound with them.

Joe appeared at the door in his shorts and a t-shirt. “Frank, what’s– Oh.” He was on his knees too in a moment.

“The guy– He was here, he ran, I– I couldn’t leave her,” Frank babbled.

“Did you call for an ambulance already?” Joe asked.

Frank shook his head.

“I’ll do that then,” Joe said and rushed out of the bathroom to the phone on the nightstand.

Alone again, Frank looked at Nancy’s face, which was still except for the slight movements in her breathing. He repositioned her so she leaned against him, propping the towels between his shoulder and her head. As he reached for her hands, he realized one of them was loosely clenched around something. He gently opened her fingers to find a cloth patch of some kind.

He smoothed it out and read the text: Mac’s Auto Repair. Bits of fabric were still stuck to it – torn and the same blue as the intruder’s overalls.

Frank almost laughed. “Damn it, Nancy,” he said. “Never let it be said you’re not determined.”

[pigeonwhumps]

Demonstration

Bug and Company masterlist

Taglist: @littlespacecastle @flowersarefreetherapy @whumplr-reader @whumpinggrounds @den-of-whump @painful-pooch @i-eat-worlds @a-funeral-romance @rainydaywhump @febuwhump

Febuwhump day 14: blood-stained tiles

493 and her handler take part in a discipline demonstration as part of an Ofpets inspection.

(493 is Maria during training)

1.8k

CWs: BBU, pet whump, no holds barred beatdown, implied past assault, shock collar, electric shocks, dehumanisation, biting, blood

"In this room is 134493, or 493 for short, a trainee Romantic," says Poppy Locke to Inspector Smythe, the Ofpets inspector, some rooms away where they're watching 493's room through camera screens. It's an Ofpets inspection, David's first, and he's been chosen as the example Romantic handler for the duration. He's not sure if that's a compliment or not. "I believe she's doing acceptably, although Handler Baines will be able to explain further the conditions of her training after this demonstration, should you require it."

Romantics today, Domestics tomorrow, Platonics Wednesday, Guard Dogs Thursday, combinations Friday, and any extra tours and miscellaneous paperwork on Saturday. It takes a whole damn week. At least he knows his trainees' medical charts and files are up-to-date and scrubbed clean, though.

493 might be doing acceptably, but she'd be doing better, of course, if she hadn't been left with O'Byrnes, her secondary handler, for a week while David was off on medical leave, and if David hadn't been shoved into this by Poppy, sending his trainees scrambling. 493's starting to obey willingly, and he hates having to discipline her when for once, she hasn't done anything wrong.

She won't disobey. He knows that. But even so, it's not fair.

"493 and Handler Baines are going to demonstrate the most common discipline technique. The trainee is in position two currently, if there's anything additional you need to see for your inspection let Baines know through your earpiece."

David enters 493's room. His trainee is kneeling, eyes fixed on the wall or perhaps somewhere far beyond. Her attention snaps to him as he shuts the door behind him.

"Good morning, trainee 493."

_

"Good morning, trainee 493."

493 bows her head. She's not restrained, she could fight. She'd like to. Tell the Ofpets inspector exactly what it's like here, in minute detail that will make them ill. Or maybe just run.

But she can't. She can't, because she won't make it, and Handler Baines has promised that if she tries anything this demonstration will feel like a reward. So she swallows heavily.

"Good morning, sir."

"I'm going to punish you. What have you learned about punishment?"

"Discipline is a necessary and humane event ensuring the continued obedience and wellbeing of a pet," she recites automatically, words leaving her mouth without her even thinking them. She still hates that.

Handler Baines lifts her chin and checks the fit on the shock collar. He doesn't usually do that, it must be because of the inspection.

"I'm going to use it on all three settings, a ten second burst for each. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir." How could it be anything but?

Handler Baines presses a button on his remote and 493 grits her teeth as everything shakes. Ten seconds, she can stand ten seconds. The second shock she collapses to the floor, trying to claw at her throat, forgetting in her pain that she can't. She just want it gone.

In between each shock, he says something. Some explanation of the uses of each setting. That's what he said he was going to do when he explained the demonstration, anyway. All it does for her is increase the pounding, clenching anticipation.

On the third shock, the highest, her vision whites out. All that's left is the writhing, squirming pain. Even after the initial shock's gone, aftershocks reverberate around her body, and she twitches and spasms, in no control of herself.

She's slow to return, and as soon as she can track Handler Baines' movements he cups her chin in his hand, mopping up the pooled saliva. Someone's changed her trousers, they're drier and cleaner than they were even before this started – were they changed in front of the inspector?

"Position two, 493," murmurs Handler Baines, and she scrambles to obey, feeling clunky, head woollen. Handler Baines says something about the rules of the last setting, the use of it only for severe infractions and when she's a danger to herself or others.

Someone should tell Handler O'Byrne that rule. She's not a danger when she's already restrained. Shocking her to mock her and send video to their friends is not following the rules.

She doesn't think that many people do though.

Handler Baines is listening to something through his earpiece now, and looks quite unhappy about it. She'd like to be pleased that someone else is unhappy too but it'll probably just lead to pain for her. "Are you sure– very well, inspector. But this will be the last discipline you see out of 493 today, for safety reasons. Handler Abadjiev, bring in trainee 278569. Inspector Smythe wants to watch the most extreme punishment."

Handler Baines reaches down and pulls 493 to her feet, strange concern in his eyes that catches her off-guard. "Come on," he says, very quietly. "You know what's about to happen, trainee, even if you don't want it to. Make this look good and I'll make sure O'Byrne isn't allowed near you on her next day off."

There's a catch, there must be, there always is, but 493 nods anyway. She doesn't want to see what happens if she disobeys. For Handler Baines to look worried, this must be a severe punishment, and she doesn't want to make it worse.

The thing is, 493 *doesn't* know what's going to happen. She doesn't know. She doesn't know why she should know.

The door to 493's room opens and a woman walks in, holding a muscular young man by a thick leash. He's so much bigger than 493, and her heart pounds.

Presumably, this is Handler Abadjiev and 278569. Is he here to be punished alongside her?

569 wears a shock collar, same as hers, and as the door shuts behind the pair, Handler Baines stands back, in the corner. 569 almost seems to vibrate as he stares at 493, empty eyes boring into her. Measuring, calculated. 493 shivers.

The leash is unclipped, falls to the floor. Now it's just the collar in Handler Abadjiev's hand.

"That's your target. Pathway two. Attack."

Handler Abadjiev lets go of the pet and he leaps. 493 yelps, jumping backwards, but she soon hits the tiled wall, cowering against it, down, down, down.

No. She's not going to die here. It's been years since she learned how to do this, it's only a vague whisper in a memory that shouldn't be there, but she stands, trembling. She clenches her fists, punching up and forwards with one, pivoting on the spot.

569 watches 493 carefully, tracking her, before grabbing her arms and slamming her against the wall, face-first. She see the white fleck with red as her nose splits against the tiles, head bursting with pain.

She think she'll pass out then, but she doesn't. This pet hurts her, just keeps hurting her, she's not sure if he wants to or not but that doesn't really matter because he is, punching and biting, hard enough to leave a mark but not enough to scar.

She knows how hard a bite mark has to be to scar.

569 punches her everywhere, drawing blood with bites and scratches, and 493 draws into herself. It's been a lifetime of learning how to do this, she's an expert at it now, watching detachedly as 569 throws her around, her back slamming into the wall more than once. She slides down the tiles, a red smear on white following her down.

If she'd thought about it at all, she'd have expected to be unconscious by now, but she didn't. Her heart pounds in her chest. Detaching herself isn't working as well as normal, and she cowers against the tiles, screaming hoarse, desperate apologies because they're all she has left.

A whistle blows, and 569 stops, halfway through his next approach. He falls back, and Handler Abadjiev grabs his collar tight. The pet goes docile as he attaches the leash, saying something that 493 can't make out. She doesn't want to make it out, she doesn't care, curling up on the tile with a whimper and a smear of blood. She didn't even disobey, why... why was she punished like this? What has she done?

It's not fair. Or it is, because she's a pet and fairness isn't her decision, but it's still not fair.

She twitches, curling into herself. Everything hurts. Red smears on white tiles, red spattered and smeared over light skin. Red and white, red and white, black hair and black shorts.

Most of it's red, though.

She knows this, she thinks. This pain and this red, although there was no white then. But she doesn't know where from.

_

David bites his lip as he looks over trainee 493 angrily. This is why he didn't want to demonstrate this particular punishment on her. There's related trauma somewhere in there that he'd rather avoid at this stage of training.

"If your insistence on this demonstration means my trainee becomes unusable I want it noted I was against the idea," he mutters into his earpiece. He thinks they might want to go over 493's fighting skills, though. Maybe send a clip to her prospectives. They might want something done about it.

"Noted," replies Poppy. David ignores anything else that is said. His priority is his trainee now. He picks up his radio.

"I need medics with a gurney in room 45. And cleaners."

493 needs proper treatment to make sure she doesn't scar. And they need to clean this room, it's absolutely covered in blood. He probably has some on himself, too.

He approaches his trainee and crouches in front of her. He lifts her head gently by the chin, studying her eyes. She looks down quickly.

"I'm sorry."

"No you're not," she breathes. "What did I do wrong, sir? Please, I don't remember disobeying so badly, please tell me what I did wrong."

"Don't disagree, don't talk back, and don't ask for things. I'll forgive the infractions today as you're so clearly out of it, but that won't be the case as your training progresses." He pauses for a beat, and then adds, "But you did nothing wrong to warrant that. You're a good girl, 493. Inspector Smythe just wanted a demonstration of the discipline methods, and you were the subject."

"Yes, sir."

He stands as the medics enter the room, letting them do their job. As they're about to wheel her out of the room, he stops them.

"Treat her gently. Give her a blanket. This punishment was a demonstration, she's done nothing wrong, and I don't want her taking the wrong message away from this."

After all, she needs to learn that good behaviour will be rewarded, and bad behaviour will be punished. She needs that drilled down to her bones. And if she's punished like this for no reason and then treated as a disobedient trainee in medical, that could set her back a long way.

[writersmorgue]

Febuwhump Day 14 - Blood-stained Tiles

TWs in tags || read on Ao3 || wc: 363

short one because I need to catch up on stuff hehe. can u figure out which horror movie I borrowed this from teehee

◈━◈━◈━◈━◈

Uraraka’s screams echo off the walls as blood splatters on the tile

“Please- please PLEASE SHINSOU!! STOP IT!” She begs, hands pulled to her side as she tries desperately to pull herself free with her upper body. Her wrists are bleeding with the effort, and her socked feet are slipping uselessly on the floor, unable to gain traction. 

It’s too late to stop and they both know it. 

Hitoshi grunts, snapping the last of his wrist bone to finish off his hand—the knife clatters to the ground, covered in blood. 

His cuff acts as a good tourniquet, the puffy, irritated skin pushing up against the metal, making his wrist look almost comically prop-like. 

Pushing his foot out from beneath him, he leans back and thumps his head on the wall. 

Fuck. 

The disembodied voice of their captor echoes through the shitty bathroom, praising him for his effort, and going on some rant about true heroes and sacrifice. 

One of Uraraka’s hands for one of his? Like it had ever been a question. His quirk hardly relies on his arms to activate. She would have been forced to quit the hero course. 

“Hitoshi, I can’t believe-”

“Shut up, Uraraka. It’s fine.” He huffs, pinching his elbow to try and divert some of his body’s attention. 

He feels a small crunch and sticky, hot blood attaches to his fingers. 

Looking over to his discarded hand, he watches it turn pale purple. A wave of nausea surges in his stomach. 

It’s just like that movie with the guy in the rocks, you did what you had to do. Don’t be a wimp about it. 

His eyes sting and he tucks his head to his chest. 

“I- I’m so sorry.” Uraraka whimpers, still trying to reach him. 

He knows he probably fucked her up. After their captor gave him the ultimatum, he barely gave her time to breathe before he sprung into action. 

“Don’t apologize to me. Just kick that guy’s ass when we get out of here for me, ‘kay?” He smiles weakly. 

She nods, full of resolve. 

The lights in the bathroom flicker, and the locked door creaks open. 

Don’t let me down, Uraraka.