#there will be blood and also caretaking

[nothingenoughao3]

Is there a dream fanfiction project you've always wanted to tackle but haven't had the chance to yet?

Actually, uh, yeah, I do! I even have an esoteric title!

The dream project is called "a wonder and a terror", in reference to Keanu Reeve's answer for how it feels to grow old. I want to go back and revisit most of the worlds I used to visit in fanfic. That would include Final Fantasy 7, Sorcerer Hunters, Revolutionary Girl Utena, Hellsing, Slayers, Gensoumaden Saiyuki, Gundam Wing, Cowboy Bebop, Evangelion, Trigun, Gargoyles, and Generation X--aaaaaaaaall stuff I once obsessed over.

The thing is, I was writing/reading fic for those works when I was a teenager. And most of these works also feature teenagers, or very young adults. In a lot of cases, these shows are literally about child soldiers, or extremely young/inexperienced adults being forced to take on The Good Of The World.

The theme I'd take on in all these fics will be threefold:

What happens to child soldiers when the war ends and they grow up?

What happens to folks who thought they'd die on the battlefield who live long enough to experience aging?

What happens to characters who became powerful/famous under one gender identity who try to transition?

In addition to flipping characters' genders or their cis status, I plan on doing a LOT related to characters having chronic disabilities, physical as well as mental. And there will be a lot of shipping, many of it for ships I never explicitly wrote for in the past. (Specifically, I'm very glad that Barret/Cloud's time has come 'round at last.)

Some fics are already released on my account. "Entering King" is where I introduce the idea of trans man!Sanzo, which ties into some of the stuff I wanted to do for the Gensoumaden Saiyuki fics. My Gen X work is going to take place in the same canon already established here. Not a lot has been completed yet, but I do hold out hope that I'll get there!

[charlietheepicwriter7]

Talia found Yasmin's hide out only two days after the bomb.

It wasn't easy. Yasmin had hidden herself well - her monthly reports had never mentioned an acquaintanceship with Vladimir Masters, the absolute gall of that girl - in the middle of nowhere Wisconsin. She bypassed the few security measures with ease, eventually finding her daughter sitting at a kitchen table, hyperventilating.

"What happened?" Talia's voice was cold and demanding.

"The-" Yasmin gasped before stealing herself. "The Fentons are dead."

"I know the Fentons are dead." Talia circled the girl. "One split navel to throat, the other strangled. What. Happened?"

"The Fentons discovered their son was a Meta. Specifically, they thought he had been replaced with the extradimentional species they study." She took a deep breath. "By the time I had discovered their actions, Daniel was... dissected on a table."

Talia closed her eyes. She knew from Yasmin's reports that she'd been acting as the Fenton child's primary caretaker since her adoption and a fondness had developed. "Yasmin-"

"Don't, Mother." She snapped. "Don't act like this is anything less than a tragedy."

"I know-"

"He was a child-"

"Everything's been taken care of," Talia said. "As far as the authorities are concerned, Jasmine Fenton died in that explosion you caused. You need to return now-"

"No!" Yasmin bolted to her feet, glaring at Talia. "He's dead, Mother! An innocent child, the child I raised as my own, is dead because I couldn't protect him! Don't you dare try to sweep this under the rug like... like Danny was something shameful! I'm not leaving! I have to-"

Time Out.

Yasmin shut her mouth mid-sentence, giving Talia time to convince her off her self-destructive path.

"What happened to Daniel is a tragedy, Yasmin. But wallowing in grief and what-ifs only leads to further pain." Talia sighed. "The Fentons and the research you were so fascinated with are gone now. You made sure of that. It's time for you to return home and put that knowledge to use."

Yasmin stared down at her hands. Odd that Talia hadn't noticed, but Yasmin's hands cradled a small, dark blue jewel, polished into a smooth, oblong oval. It glittered under the candlelight, like stars in the sky.

Yasmin swallowed the rock and spoke, refusing to acknowledge what she'd just done. "You are right, Mother. The time of Jasmine Fenton is gone now." She stared straight at Talia, no trace of fear in her gaze. For a moment, Talia wondered where her child had gone. Yasmin never met her eyes unless prompted to when she was growing up. Now she was met with a younger version of herself with cheap dyed-red hair, with the same level of determination that made Talia the Right Hand of the Demon Head. "I will mourn for Danny... on my own time. For now, what is my mission?"

Talia studied her daughter. There was a reason why she'd hidden the girl so far out of the way of her Father and her son. Yasmin was a strong fighter, but had her father's heart, despite her willingness to kill. She'd always reminded Talia of a bodyguard rather than an assassin, but Yasmin wanted to go her own way, wanted to study everything. For years, Talia had indulged her daughter, but now it was time for her to return to the fold.

"For the next month, you will be training to remove any weakness the Fentons may have left in you. After that, you will be guarding an ally for me."

"Which ally?"

"A boy a few years older than you, a son of the Bat." Yasmin didn't react to the mention of her father. Good. "His mind is infirm, but by the time you finish your training, he will be ready to strike a blow against Gotham. You will act as his guard during his training and act as my spy while he's in Gotham. Do you understand?"

For a moment, Yasmin's hand brushed her stomach before she forced her fists to her sides. "Yes, Mother. I will do as you ask."

[drag0nagedatingsim]

I love how people's response to critiques about the companions not noticing or being supportive of Rook's mental health is "you're too stupid" and "you don't understand the game like I do" and "here's my headcanon why you're wrong."

Why are y'all doing all the heavy lifting for the writing and then giving all the credits to the writing.

"Emmrich is taking you to the graveyard to help with Varric's death."

WHERE IN THE TEXT DOES IT SAY THAT. Does Emmrich even know how close Rook was to Varric? That's a nice headcanon to infer, and it would make a LOT of sense. But this is literally the "tell don't show" game, where they tell you everything three times, unless it has to do with Rook's mental health, and then it's suddenly secretly an understated genius story that I just don't understand because I'm too stupid? Okay?

No, it's once again the framework of something great that is ultimately unfinished and underutilized and a lot of people are doing the heavy-lifting for the plot and seeing their heavy-lifted headcanons propelled across the fandom, and then thinking that's just what the text says. When it does not.

I do think this is also a result of the later half of the 2nd act and all of the 3rd act being really good. Like, the later parts of this game are so good that it has me doubting my sanity about the first parts, but then I replay it and go "lol no it was bad."

[whumperofworlds]

Whumpee and Caretaker cuddled together after a rescue/escape/fight. Both are bloodied and bruised, but feeling each other's body heat relaxed them both.

"I'm so glad you're safe," Caretaker whispered in Whumpee's ear, a small, exhausted smile on their face.

[echo-goes-mmm]

Mob Boss Whumper with a pet Whumpee; a pretty little thing they slap around for fun

And then Mob Boss Caretaker finds out that Whumper is infringing on their territory...

Caretaker takes Whumper out, and every mafiso knows it.

Because Whumpee is sitting pretty on Caretaker's lap now, and looking much happier for it

[reginamillls]

having vampire Eddie thoughts

[notonlymice]

rumbelle + bluebeard au moodboard

[whumble-beeee]

A New Enemy Has Entered The Arena

The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping | Cont'd from Part 6

Content: disabled whumpee, trans whumpee, tied up/handcuffs, (brief) dissociation, noncon partial undressing, noncon touch, attempted noncon

* * * * * * * *

Except from: The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping; a self-help guide for villains and bounty-hunters Dr. Vaughn Verhulst

["Make them fear the wrath of god, then remind them the only god they should fear is you."]

* * * * * * * *

“So, this is the capture, huh?” The new voice drawled. Despite the exhaustion and the agony lacing throughout every part of his body, Stan's managed a look up at the new situation. Directly into a pair of steel blue eyes that made his breath stutter. “Not much to look at, huh?”

Stan scooted backward, but Deeby seemed to beat him to the same idea, stepping in front of the man and completely blocking him from view.

“There's no way you're the one doing the pickup. What are you doing here?”

The new man tried to side-step Deeby. “Don't worry, I'm not trying to interrupt your smooch-fest, just wanna make sure you aren't breaking our new toy–”

Deeby stepped in front of the man again, the man barely stopping short of crashing directly into him, just long enough for Stan to gather his scattered bearings and realize there was a new person here and all the distinct possibilities of what that meant for him.

And suddenly he felt lightheaded again.

“Dude…”

“What.” Deeby insisted slowly. “Are you doing here?”

This new guy… honestly, not much to look at himself, from what Stan saw. He couldn't have been too much older than Stan, fluffy light brown hair, an accent he couldn't quite place, but… probably European? He also wasn't wearing any sort of mask or anything to hide his face, which was only vaguely concerning, Stan decided to believe. Not to mention, this new guy had been wearing a knit sweater vest? It looked soft. Stan almost had to remind himself that the guy must be a threat, just like Deeby, or why would he even be here?

He just looked so corporate.

“I told you, checking on the capture, getting some intel. Making sure you didn't crap up the very simple plan, or kill him. It’s a real concern with you, I'm sure you understand.”

The man tried to side-step Deeby once again, and once again the mercenary blocked him. Stan started to scoot back away from the two, his ankle chain softly clanking as it dragged across the floor. Whatever was going on between them, he wanted no part of it.

“He's secure. And alive. Not fatally wounded, and will continue to stay that way.” Deeby stated. “You can leave now.”

Sweater-vest ventured an exaggerated glance over Deeby's shoulder, just barely giving Stan another view of his steel-colored eyes. Something about them made his heart skip a beat.

“You sure about that, big man? Kid doesn't seem to be doing so hot.

“Yup.” Deeby didn't even entertain a glance back. “Buh-bye now.”

Stan could practically hear the eye-roll that accompanied the groan that Sweater-vest let out. “Well excuse me for not trusting you as far as I can throw you. Look, I'm not just here to mess with you, I'm here on Lana's orders. She wants you to call her.”

Stan stopped scooting dead, an icy coldness surging through his chest, a sudden darkness swirling around his head. Lana. That sounded like a real name. Why was this man using real names? Deeby didn't use a real name, he was very dead set on that! Why was this new man using real names?! Real names were bad why was he using real names–?!

Deeby also stiffened at the name. He hand clenched for just a fraction of a second. Then he shook his head and brought his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Why didn't she just call me instead of sending your sorry ass to deliver the message?” Deeby finally seemed to settle on.

Sweater-vest's eyes flicked over Deeby, up and down, before an unnerving grin spread across his face. “I know something you don't know~” he sang slowly, like some sort of horror movie villain.

“You planning on telling me? Or you just gonna stand there like a skin-walker.” Deeby look just about ready to blow.

“Soon as I verify the little super lives up to our wildest hopes and dreams.”

“Y’know, technically we’re supposed to be on the same side.”

The man sidestepped Deeby one last time, and this time, the mercenary just let him pass by. Stan shrank back as the piercing gaze of Sweater-vest appraised him, looking him up and down as he slowly walked closer.

“A bit worse for wear, no?” Sweater-vest noted, almost to himself.

“Yeah, little shit tried to escape. Got pretty far too, he's stronger than I thought. Got me right–” Then he noticed Stan had backed up halfway across the room instead of stayingin place on the floor right behind him. And sighed. “Kinda a wuss though…”

“Die.” Stan growled, scowling at the mercenary even as he clutched his knees to his chest.

“Oooooh” Sweater-vest cooed, and Stan nearly jumped out of his skin when he realized how close the man had gotten to him. “Feisty little guy, huh?”

Stan kicked out at him and skittered back, only to realize he was almost out of room to skitter. So he reluctantly stood his ground. Well, sat his ground. “Get away from me!”

“He's mostly talk,” Deeby called again. “Mostly…”

Stan barely even registered what Deeby said. His vision completely tunneled on Sweater-vest as he slowly advanced on Stan, like a predator stalking its prey.

“Dang, Dick Biscuits, you really got a handle of him, don’t you?” Sweater-vest's eyes never once left Stan's. “Leashed and collared, like a little puppy dog… “

Stans cheeks turned a bright red. He glared at the man as hard as he could, jaw clenched so hard it could have broken, because honestly, how dare he?!

Deeby sighed, like he'd rather be anywhere but where he was now. Stan could relate.

“Yeah… It's necessary.”

“Oh, I agree wholeheartedly.”

The man crouched directly in front of the trembling Stan. “Hi,” he said softly, disarmingly, giving Stan just the slightest tilt of the head. “My name's Vaughn, its–”

“Christ man, would you cut it out with the names!” Deeby yelled, causing the both of the smaller men to jump as he marched over. Stan reflexively curled up into a little ball, gut swirling with a new and terrifying form of dread and suddenly very aware of his restraints once more, while Sweater-vest–... Vaughn… sprung up to face down Deeby.

As much as Stan was absolutely terrified of Deeby, he had to admit he agreed with the bounty hunter on this one. The way Sweater-vest threw out names like that felt… Dangerous. On a visceral level. He hugged his legs closer to his chest.

“Why?” Sweater-vest taunted. “It's not like he's gonna live to tell anyone.”

“Nothing's ever 100% with these things,” he growled. “Unless you want to get fifty to life here as well. You'd be doing me a huge favor, honestly, and bring Lana down with you while you’re at it. But leave me out of it.”

Sweater-vest hummed, considering. Glanced Deeby up and down. Then scoffed. “Don't you have an important phone call to get to, Deeby? I’d hate to have to tell Lana that her least favorite ex disobeyed her direct orders and needs to be dealt with.”

The mercenary stared down Sweater-vest. The intensity of it almost entranced Stan, it seemed to go on for an eternity. Then, finally, Deeby let out a small grunt, and took a slow, deep breath.

“Stan!” he yelled. Stan nearly yelped. “If he tries anything, kill him, he deserves it. And you.” he turned his attention right back to Sweater-vest before Stan could stutter out some sort of question or affirmation. “Don't fuck with him.”

“Aw, so protective, falling in love already?”

“I'll be back in a few, don't try anything!” He yelled as he made his way toward the door. Then, only slightly under his breath, “Pinche pendejo.”

The smile on Sweater-vest's face immediately dropped and he whirled around.

“Krijg de tering, vuile teringleier!”

The door slammed shut, the crack of metal against metal deafening in the sudden silence. And they were alone. Together.

Stan stared at the floor and clenched his fists, trying to calm his racing nerves. Did his best to keep his breathing even. Be still, not show weakness while also not challenging the man he was now alone with. He never thought he would ever actually miss Deeby's presence. But here they were.

“Brute.” Sweater-vest seethed under his breath as he sauntered back over to Stan. “Should've just put him out of his misery years ago, swear to God.”

Then his demeanor completely shifted once more as he stood over Stan. More professional, more cold, more demanding.

“Anyway, stand up, let me get a look at you.”

“Are you ‘The Guy?’” Stan blurted out before he had time to even realize he was doing it. Anything to break the sudden unbearable tension.

Sweater-vest tilted his head with a raised eyebrow and a small laugh. “The Guy?”

“Yeah…” Wow, suddenly he wished he never said anything. “The uh, the guy. You know the guy…” Stan's voice wavered as the man scrunch his nose at him. As if Stan was speaking an entirely different language. “Like. Like the guy. The guy who, uh, who…”

He took a deep breath, and blurted out “The boss guy who had me kidnapped!”

A brief pause. The man stared at him.

“No,” he snorted. “No, I'm not ‘the guy’, as you so eloquently put it. And your ‘guy’ is actually a lady, the lovely Ms. Lana who I mentioned earlier. And I'm Dr. Vaughn Verhulst, you can call me Vaughn. Pleasure to meet you.”

Stan shrank into himself slightly. “Oh…”

Again with the names. They made his skin crawl, like tiny ants crawling up and down his arms. The full name this time too, Dr. Verhulst. And Lana. Where had he heard that name before? Lana...

Stan didn't have time to ponder the question, though, as the man surged forward and reached down toward Stan's vulnerable neck, and Stan screeched and jolted back trying to get away.

But the man was surprisingly fast for a guy who could be mistaken for an office drone.

“Alright now, stand up.”

Then suddenly Stan was choking as the two fingers looped under his collar and dragged him upward, squeezing Stan's windpipe fully shut with Stan gasping and clutching at the collar trying to free himself and allow his body the sweet air it so desperately begged for the whole short distance up. And when he was finally standing and the collar loosened just slightly, Stan coughed and wheezed and tried to double over on himself to lessen the pain, if only the man wasn't still holding him straight up by the collar. He finally managed to get his own fingers under the collar just enough to pull it away from flush against his throat, his body shifting from world-shaking coughs and gasps for air to shuddering wheezes and shivers, and only then did he realize that Vaughn’s other hand wasn't just sitting idly by. No, instead it settled on his arms and ribcage, pressing into the tender bruised flesh that marred his entire body.

He felt a sudden sharp pain at his side and twitched away from it, only for a steadying hand to fall on straight onto another bruise on his waist and press in, clutch at it, holding him in place and sending jolts throughout his entire body that made him dizzy. All the breath left his body. He froze.

“What– What're you–?... Stop, let go…” It felt almost taboo to break the sudden stillness. He tried to pull away, but the grip on his collar just tightened, knuckles pressing harder into his neck as Sweater-vest continued to press into his side.

“Shhhhhh, dropje. Just let me do my work.”

“Your work?...” The hand pressed into his broken rib, and Stan yelped out and shoved the offending hand away from the tender area.

“STOP! Stop touching me! Stop!” Stan cried. This was too much. What was even happening here?

Vaughn's dark gaze fixed on the place that had made Stan cry out, calculating, jaw set. Stan withdrew into himself sightly before he remembered himself, and stared defiantly right back. Then the gaze drifted slightly lower, softening with an almost mischievous smile and a low hum before he finally, finally, looked Stan square in the eyes.

“Take your shirt off.”

Stan's heart turned to ice.

“WHAT?! No! You’re insane!”

Stan managed to rip free of his grip and launch backwards, only for his back to slam directly into the wall. Damn it. He saw stars, and the world rocked around him.

He pressed into it regardless, held his cuffed hands up in front of his torso as some sort of measly defense. “Get– Get away from me! I'm not taking my shirt off! You're crazy, get away!”

He scowled, then reached into his pocket with a deep sigh. A glint of steel gleamed in the light as Vaughn pull out a pair of very sharp-looking scissors and waved them lazily at Stan's chest.

“You are.” Sweater-vest stated simply. “I'm a doctor, dropje, I have to take a look at your body, make sure that ass didn't leave any lasting damage. You worry too much.”

Sweater-vest suddenly went to reach around his arms and get at the top button of his shirt, and Stan slapped them away, earning himself a glare from the man as he stepped closer once more and boxed him in completely.

“Stan… Schatje…” he spoke lowly, voice sickeningly sweet. The scissors drifted so close to his throat. “I'm going to make this so simple for you, yeah? I'm cutting your shirt off now. If you make things difficult, then your shirt won't be the only thing cut, got it?”

Stan squeezed his eyes shut and tried to become so small. Small enough that the threat wouldn't see him anymore and he could run away and never have to deal with it again. This was insane. This was insane, right? This guy was insane!

“No, no, no, no, no, don't, get away from me, get away from me.” He tried to inject as much hissing venom as possible into the words, but they still didn't come out much above a squeaking, shaky whisper.

Vaughn reached for his top button, and though Stan pressed into the wall as much as he could, arms up and ready to strike at any moment, this time his fingers weren't stopped from undoing the top button. Then continuing down from there. Then he gently grabbed Stan's wrists and moved them downward and continued unfastening, all the way down until the front of his shirt was completely open, the cool air giving Stan goosebumps.

“Oh.” Vaughn said, almost to himself, running his finger over the strap of Stan's chest binder. “I didn't realize you were transgender, Stan.”

The swirling mass of thoughts in Stan’s head finally meet the one overwhelming his gut and crashing down upon him, breaking the fragile spell keeping him paralyzed.

“DEEBY! HELP!!” Stan cried out, loud as he possibly could. As if Deeby would ever help him. As if he would save him. All Stan knew was that in that very moment, he would prefer the physically abusive mercenary a hundred times over this guy, the guy who looked at him like a lion at an antelope, the man who feigned kindness, whose smile seemed just a bit too perfect, who made weird cryptic comments and who threw names around as if it didn't matter whether or not Stan knew them. As if Stan would never live to escape. As if the horrors Stan would endure were cursed to echo the walls in which they occurred, never to be heard by another soul.

“Oh calm down, Stanny, he's not going to come save you.” Vaughn dismissed, quickly pulling down the sleeve of his shirt and cutting it open down the seam, the quick repetitive snip snip snip of the scissors filling the room completely. Stan's weak attempts to slap away the scissors or otherwise stop his disrobing were all but brushed off by the ‘doctor.’ A quick but very intentional blade to the neck was all he needed to freeze Stan up and allow him to continue.

Very soon, Vaughn had the shredded fabric that used to make up Stan's shirt sprawled across the floor at their feet. Stan didn't even feel the coolness of the room goosebumping his skin anymore, not with the burning red in his cheeks and the again wandering hands of Sweater-vest to keep him unbearably warm.

He could scarcely breathe. His brain started to feel farther and farther away from his body. His hair was standing on end, shivers running throughout his entire body making him twitch. And he wondered if he should even put in the effort to ground himself. Maybe it would be easier if he was far, far away for all of this anyway.

“It's not like I care, Stan. It doesn't matter to me. I'll even let you keep your chest binder thing on, if that’d make you more comfortable... Hey.”

He snapped a few times in front of Stan's eyes, and Stan despairingly snapped back to reality. So close too. Just for Sweater-vest to smile his weird creepy smile at him. There was no way to misconstrue the malicious gleam in his eyes, the one that made Stan's own eyes go wide and his breath halt entirely as he stared into them. His other hand was on Stan's back now. He was practically holding Stan in a facsimile of a hug. Pressing in his lower back. Lower. Just a bit too low for comfort.

“I'm serious, I can work with that,” he reassured, hand now dipping under Stan's waistband, and before Stan could react, he pulled the captive in close to him, pressing his pelvis securely into Stan's lower stomach while brushing to closed blades of the scissors along Stan's jawline and up his cheek. “It's not what I was expecting, but it doesn't change what I'm going to do to you.”

And that's when Stan pulled back and punched him square in the jaw.

* * * * * * * *

Next

Taglist: @flowersarefreetherapy | @pirefyrelight | @cakeinthevoid

[mad-hunts]

so... i've been thinking about auriel again because i actually did have an account for her once upon a time (just on another platform) + all i can remember is doing this roleplay on there with barton immediately asking the person whom told him they saw her was whether she was okay because she had went missing with no trace for years after all. and additionally, this was also while shedding tears like there was NO tomorrow, which is 😭 like he isn't a good person, y'all, but he does have his moments where it actually seems like he genuinely cares about people

[handsomethrowrug]

OOC:

Oh god. The curse of having a strong British accent isn't even an inherited one.

[writereleaserepeat]

Blood of the Sun - Chapter Two

Previous // Next

CW: hypothermia, frostbite, blood mention, scar mention, drugging

“Clear off our bed, and get the spare blankets,” Percy instructed as he carried the human into the cabin. Jasper gave a curt nod before darting up the wooden stairs that led to the loft. 

“Don’t die on us now,” Percy whispered to the body clutched in his arms as though it could hear him. It was nothing short of a miracle that they had made it back to the cabin with the boy still breathing. Whether he would make it through the next twenty-four hours, well, that was another question entirely. 

Percy made his way carefully up the creaking steps, taking care not to jostle the frail human body too much, and entered the master bedroom. Jasper had already pulled back the blankets and pillows so there was a flat surface to work on, and Percy wasted no time in getting down to business. 

Once the human was laid out on the bed, Percy began to remove the clothes he hastily pulled on to the naked body just forty minutes earlier. In the bright lights of the master bedroom, and out of the dark haze of snow, the severity of the boy’s condition became apparent. 

Fang marks littered his paper-thin skin, each wound in a different stage of healing. The ring of purple around his neck spoke to where his former keepers preferred to drink, but the deep gashes across his thighs demonstrated a more eclectic taste. Percy’s stomach churned as he continued his inspection, noting the severe frostbite on the boy’s fingers and toes, and he observed the signs of nascent infection in one of the deepest wounds. 

“We need to get him warmed up,” Jasper said with urgency, and Percy was pulled out of his momentary stupor. When he turned to look at his companion, he saw a mound of blankets clutched in Jasper’s arms, the fleece and down stacked in billowing folds. 

“Right.” He stood to help, and began by pulling a downy quilt up to the human’s neck. Jasper followed with another blanket, ensuring that the body was covered evenly, so as not to warm the extremities before the core. 

“I’m not sure we can save his hands,” Percy said as yet another blanket was laid on the body. It was much too early to know definitively, but from the scent of tissue death that clung to the back of his throat, and the blackened blisters that extended to the boy’s wrists, the prognosis was grim. 

Jasper gave a solemn nod as he layered another blanket. 

“It didn’t look good out there. He’s going to be in a lot of pain when he’s finally lucid, that’s for sure.” 

“Not if I can help it.” Percy already had some solutions in mind, tucked away in the cabin’s medical bag, and in the depths of his own body. 

“There’s no way we have enough morphine to get him through this,” Jasper said with a look of incredulity in Percy’s direction. “The kit has enough to set a broken arm or two, that’s it. And there’s no way we can get him out of here before he’s either awake or dead.” 

“I wasn’t going to use morphine.” 

Jasper’s eyes widened, and flicked between Percy and the boy with a sense of alarm. 

“We don’t have a lot of blood here to spare. It’s another three days before Tobias is due in with the next shipment, and I know you’re hungry.” 

“I’ve been hungry before, and I’ll be hungry again,” Percy growled. “Do you think I’m an animal, incapable of controlling my instincts, my desires? You should know me better than that. I have this human’s blood on my hands and I haven’t so much as licked my lips.” It was true - the open wounds had wept crimson onto Percy’s palms. 

Percy was already rummaging around in his nightstand by the time Jasper made another sound of protest. Percy’s hands were hunting for the familiar leather sheath he always kept stashed in the top drawer, usually buried amongst the other personal necessities. It never hurt to have a knife within arms-reach in the Alaskan backcountry. 

But before Jasper could speak again, and before Percy ever found the knife, the body in the bed let out a piercing cry. 

--- 

Cold. 

It was a word in his mind as much as it was a feeling in Shiloh’s very bones. He ached under the cold, and he worshipped it, gripped by both fear and awe the same. It was what he would have expected to feel if he had seen an angel and been forced to bow to its might. 

But instead of resting with angels, Shiloh was conscious. He was staring up at timber ceilings, so similar to those of his prison, and he was weighed down by blankets. Blankets. It was a sensation he had almost forgotten. 

The next thing he saw was two pairs of red eyes staring down at him. 

He screamed as fangs pierced his skin. Two powerful arms held him down alongside his shackles, but Shiloh thrashed against them nonetheless. His legs fought for purchase on flesh, on cement, on anything that could leverage him away from this blood-sucking leech. All he could see were those god-forsaken wooden planks above him, his sole facsimile of a sky. 

And still the monster purred in the crook of his neck, lapping up the hot liquid that dripped across Shiloh’s collarbone. He was sticky with sweat and with dried blood. He was sticky with rage, anger, molten fury that resonated with every heartbeat. But then his head began to spin, as it always did. It told him that he was soon going to teeter on the brink of consciousness, and the beast would finish its meal, leaving Shiloh’s body to replenish its stock. 

“Fuck you,” he grumbled as his lucidity slipped away, merely grateful that he could curse without the leather gag in his mouth. 

“With pleasure,” Griffith murmured into Shiloh’s soft skin, and then he resumed drinking.

The present returned to him, and the red eyes came into focus once more. Shiloh hadn’t seen these two vampires before. No, even among the fleeting guests among the orgies and dinner parties, these two faces were new. New was never a good thing. 

He tried to sit up, but a strong arm planted itself in the middle of his chest. Shiloh found himself pinned to the bed, a soft mattress beneath his back. He couldn't remember the last time he laid on something quite so soft. His mind floated in a thousand directions at once, but he couldn’t feel any restraints on his limbs. 

Focus, he thought to himself, the chills gradually transforming into body-wracking shivers. Even though there was fabric between himself and the vampiric hand that rested on his chest, Shiloh swore he could feel the unforgiving claws. This was all too much. 

“Human, please,” a soft voice pleaded. It was as close as Shiloh could imagine to one of those monsters pleading, anyway. They were beasts incapable of mercy, so this was likely nothing more than their usual monstrous trickery. 

“Get of’a me,” he grumbled, but his tongue felt heavy in his mouth. The words came out slurred, and when he tried to grab at the hand on his chest, his arms didn’t move. He couldn’t feel his hands at all. And again his heart was pounding against his ribs, begging to be let out, pushing a thunder of blood into his ears. 

“What th’ fuck’ve you done t’me,” he slurred, his voice cracking as his body was seized by shivers. Pain and cold coalesced in a cruel symphony of pain. Shiloh tried to curl his hands into fists, but there was no response. He couldn’t feel anything below his elbows, nor below his knees. Neither responded when he tried to move them. 

“Young human, I can understand you’re in distress.” This was a second voice, coming from the vampire whose head was ringed in thick brown hair. The red eyes glittered like rubies. Shiloh loathed it. 

“I- I’m-” Shiloh stuttered as he came up short. Consciousness was slipping away again, a sharp heat prickling across his extremities until it grew cold, and his old wounds were set alight by some invisible hand. His lungs were gripped by an unforgiving iron hold that made it impossible to draw a breath. If he could have died in that moment, Shiloh would have gone forth eagerly into the afterworld. 

“Get me the knife,” one of the voices said. Shiloh’s head was spinning too severely to pinpoint which of those creatures was speaking, or to whom it made the request. Shiloh also knew that he wasn’t going to survive another bloodletting. 

“This is dangerous.” 

“I don’t care. It’s his best shot. He’s going into shock, and he’s going to die if we don’t do something. I’ll be fine, Jasper, just hand me the knife.” 

The tears were involuntary, as were the spasms that pulsed through Shiloh’s core. The vampire holding him down was the only thing that kept him still beneath the blankets. Perhaps it would be for the best if he was still, so the knife could find its target, and so Shiloh could leave this world and find something that resembled peace. 

At least I tried, he thought to himself as a flash of steel glinted in the low light. At least I outsmarted them, at least for a little while. I hope they all burn in hell. 

His mouth parted in one last scream, his body no longer able to contain the pain, and arched his back with the last of his core strength. If Shiloh ever had control of his body, he had surrendered it now. The angel of death contorted his muscles and commanded them at will. 

And then his scream was cut off as flesh was shoved between his teeth, blood pulsing hot across his tongue. 

--- 

“You’re choking him,” Jasper said, his voice barely above a whisper, but the younger vampire made no move to stop Percy’s haphazard feeding. 

Percy felt his own strength waning the moment he split his skin. His healing factor was already inhibited by days without feeding, but his own blood spilling into the human’s mouth weakened him instantly. Blunt teeth grazed his own pale skin, and he stared down into two wide eyes, their brown depths glittering with fear and hatred in equal part. 

“He’ll be fine,” Percy said. A moment later the boy swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and his muscles began to relax shortly thereafter. The human swallowed three more mouthfuls of blood beneath Percy’s watchful eye, and only then did the vampire pull his crimson-streaked arm away. 

“Get me some gauze,” Percy commanded, his eyes still transfixed on the human. The agonized thrashing had been reduced to twitching. Bright and wild eyes had dulled, eyelids slipping shut as the human was pulled towards a healing slumber. 

“You’re an idiot.” Jasper’s hiss came to Percy’s ear as his partner pushed white gauze down on Percy’s pulsing knife wound. 

“He’s comfortable now, isn’t he? I think that’s worth a few drops of my blood.” 

“He’s unconscious, again, I might add.” There was silence, and then Jasper sighed. “Okay, maybe this was a mercy. We still don’t know if he’s going to make it through the night.” 

Percy looked down at the human, now entirely limp, his limbs immobile beneath the blankets. It would be hours before the human’s core temperature would return to safe levels, even with all the blankets in the world. The next twenty-four hours would reveal just how much damage winter had done, and whether any of the decay-tinged limbs were salvageable. 

“I’ll feed him more blood if I have to,” Percy swore softly. The knife wound was already pulling itself together in a patchwork of white scar tissue. In a few more minutes, it would be as though the wound was never there in the first place. 

Jasper’s hands soon found their way around Percy’s waist. It was all he could do to not surrender to them entirely, to simply sink into that comforting warmth and forget the human-shaped disaster he had dragged into their home. 

Percy closed his own eyes and leaned back into Jasper’s chest. God, what he would give to stay there forever, warm against his lover’s steady heartbeat. Eventually he mustered the courage to speak again. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. 

“Don’t be,” Jasper responded, a soft breath in Percy’s ear. “This is what I love about you. You are selfless to a fault. We’re going to do all we can for this boy.” 

“We’ll keep him safe until sunrise,” Percy said. Jasper held him tight, and Percy could feel those familiar wisps of curls bobbing with a nod. 

“Until sunrise.” 

[futurefind]

" at least i have you to look after me, eh? " from cyrillo for sa :’ ))

“𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘯 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥” 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘴. / accepting // @tvrningout

She sees red— literally— and her mind goes white. She focuses on what's important— what actually matters— and squashes everything else— the worry, the panic, the terror, the urge to cry and scream and throw up, the ghosts suddenly suffocating her— into a far off corner of her mind so she can get to work.

She doesn't remember much after that, but also remembers every breath with an eye-seering clarity. The reek of blood. How he was colder than he should've been. Crimson embedding itself in the cracks of her skin, under her nails. Every single stitch and plaster and bruise and scrape.

How she can't close her eyes, for even a blink, lest she see the life drain from his. Keeps checking and double checking and triple checking his face to make sure it isn't so, no matter how briefly.

After an eternity, after a blink of an eye, she's done.

She excuses herself to the bathroom (she thinks she says to clean up), and regrets it immediately. It hits her like a horsekick to the chest, she can't breathe she can't breathe she can't breathe— and she barely keeps herself from sending her fist through the mirror (and, changes are, into the wall behind it). She hates looking at herself, on a good day, and now—

Now she'd failed. Again. There's blood on her hands and it's not hers, because it's never hers. It's all for her but it's not hers, and it should be hers, it should've always been hers, the blood on her clothes and the eyes going lifeless. Why isn't it hers?!

Why is she—

She shoves the wind back into her lungs like gathering broken glass with naked hands, and pulls herself back outside. She doesn't think she actually got to cleaning. She just knows seeing Cyrillo again, like this, rips her heart out of her chest. But him still being here, gaze alive, lets it continue to beat — no matter how atrocious and gorey of a thing it is. That she is.

Sasume feels about as old as Cyrillo presumably is, maybe older, but without any immortality or undeath to keep her going. Like a puppet with its strings cut and joints rotted and clogged still trying to drag itself through its cues as if there's any audience left.

She sits at his bedside again, silently. Doesn't remember doing it. Can only stare at the spark in his eyes until she's seeing through them, seeing nothing at all, as if pretending to keep him out of her nightmares could ever keep him from joining the graveyard at her feet, pumping through her veins. Keeping her alive, no matter what she says or wishes or wills otherwise — because she's never had a choice.

" — at least i have you to look after me, eh? "

And she wheezes, chest crushing in on her ribs and heart and soul so suddenly and so fiercely once more that the world starts to spin. Heat floods her skin even as her blood runs ice cold, and acid creeps up her chest. Her vision blurs, and she isn't sure if the world is shaking or if her bones are.

"Don't—" she chokes on a sob, wetness leaking out of her eyes, and presses the hand she'd been gripping tight against her forehead instead of her own. She gasps, a keening, pathetic thing, and sees more than feels the tears pouring out.

It's not fair, she thinks, both distantly and as deafening as a thunderclap. She's not sure if she means this, or all the bodies piled up in her heart. If it's his being hurt, or that she's not hurt, or that taking all the gods damned blades and bites and bruises in the world can't spare those closest to her even a single one— no matter how much she wants otherwise.

"Don't—" she can't get anything else out. Doesn't even think there'd be a point. Even if, already, it feels like she's begging. For him to not play light, maybe, but also for the gods to maybe— maybe— show her even the slightest of favor and make it so this wasn't so. That maybe—

"I should've been there," she chokes out, nonsensically, world blurring again, pressing the back of his hand even harder against her own skin. If she gives even the slightest inch, even now, who's to say he won't slip through her fingers a final time?

"I should've...—" and finally, curled over herself like that, at Cyrillo's bedside as he warms her own damned bed, she weeps.

[icewindandboringhorror]

Daily Log 2

Trying out (probably just temporarily) making short daily-ish notes about things, in an attempt to see if it helps me be more reflective or productive lol.

Activities: Much less than yesterday, felt sick and sleepy so barely got anything done. It was also warmer inside today.. Very much dreading summer. I still feel like the people who ~~ love warm weather sooo much~~ must also have central heating and air and are able to escape the warmth, or at least have cool airy houses where they can get cross breezes or something.. I just fail to see how ANYONE could enjoy sweating all day because it's like 75F indoors, etc. grrbb,,, the headaches, sleepless sweaty nights, constant physical discomfort, etc. The next few days look cloudy and rainy though so.. yEs.. haha HA

Got a new charger for my old 2004 nokia phone so it actually turns on now, and recorded myself going through the ringtones and games. I might add the footage to a currently not fully edited video of me also looking through other electronics (old phones, turbo twist math, etc.). I love old ringtones actually and if I were rich, I would love to collect old phones specifically just to have a catalogue of what they're like and all of the sounds they contain.

Managed to have a tiny burst of energy and take photos of 3 outfits before my arms and shoulder started hurting and I got too warm.

Sent email to one doctor.

Translated like 3 words for the Avirrekava poem thing I mentioned yesterday. My language document is not organized very well at all so I've kind of lost my flow of working on it. I've heard about people making searchable dictionary type things for their conlangs, so I'd like to look more into that maybe. As well as making a custom font, though I don't know if that's more difficult for syllabaries (so wouldn't be directly linkable to a plain english alphabet keyboard?? eh?). Anyway, I need to finish the tapestry/painting thing/etc. soon though since I have no good place to put it. The canvas is warping a little just laying haphazardly on my closet floor lol.

Made one quick mspaint background image for the next batch of song snippet things for my jokey music youtube.

Edited like 10 minutes of the Giant Worldbuilding Slideshow Project.. couldn't focus on that either since being at the computer today irritated my shoulders and arms.

Notable sights: Saw 6 baby ducks and their parents swimming in a nearby pond!! It's interesting how their colors seem to change so much, and the young ones have the little spots on their back. Not much else, I was not very active lol..

Goals moving forward: Still working on consistent sleep schedule. Focus on social activities, finding new friends in the places I want to move, communicating with ones I have. Physical therapy exercises. Plant nasturtiums. Finish and upload videos, edit pictures, post the poll adventure thing that has been sitting in a draft for weeks (I thought I would get it done today, but alas.. I don't even have to do much, just proofread and post it, I just keep having no energy/being preoccupied with other things/hurts to be on computer.. grrr.. I want to continue the story lol >:T).

Notable foods: HAD ASPARAGUS YEaaaaaghhhHHHH!!!!!!!!! Asparagus SQUAD!!!!!!!!!! ... Also a few pieces of smoked gouda with lunch, one of my favorite cheeses.

[sick-bay]

i usually prefer dark hair on characters but hear me out! blood in blond/white/grey hair hmmhmmhhhmmh 😍

[eclipsecrowned]

you ever have that one recurring motif in your writing you didn't think was a personal trope until you really sit and think about it --

[pygmi-says-hi]

STOP DOING THIS IN INJURY FICS!!

Bleeding:

Blood is warm. if blood is cold, you’re really fucking feverish or the person is dead. it’s only sticky after it coagulates.

It smells! like iron, obv, but very metallic. heavy blood loss has a really potent smell, someone will notice.

Unless in a state of shock or fight-flight mode, a character will know they’re bleeding. stop with the ‘i didn’t even feel it’ yeah you did. drowsiness, confusion, pale complexion, nausea, clumsiness, and memory loss are symptoms to include.

blood flow ebbs. sometimes it’s really gushin’, other times it’s a trickle. could be the same wound at different points.

it’s slow. use this to your advantage! more sad writer times hehehe.

Stab wounds:

I have been mildly impaled with rebar on an occasion, so let me explain from experience. being stabbed is bizarre af. your body is soft. you can squish it, feel it jiggle when you move. whatever just stabbed you? not jiggly. it feels stiff and numb after the pain fades. often, stab wounds lead to nerve damage. hands, arms, feet, neck, all have more motor nerve clusters than the torso. fingers may go numb or useless if a tendon is nicked.

also, bleeding takes FOREVER to stop, as mentioned above.

if the wound has an exit wound, like a bullet clean through or a spear through the whole limb, DONT REMOVE THE OBJECT. character will die. leave it, bandage around it. could be a good opportunity for some touchy touchy :)

whump writers - good opportunity for caretaker angst and fluff w/ trying to manhandle whumpee into a good position to access both sites

Concussion:

despite the amnesia and confusion, people ain’t that articulate. even if they’re mumbling about how much they love (person) - if that’s ur trope - or a secret, it’s gonna make no sense. garbled nonsense, no full sentences, just a coupla words here and there.

if the concussion is mild, they’re gonna feel fine. until….bam! out like a light. kinda funny to witness, but also a good time for some caretaking fluff.

Fever:

you die at 110F. no 'oh no his fever is 120F!! ahhh!“ no his fever is 0F because he’s fucking dead. you lose consciousness around 103, sometimes less if it’s a child. brain damage occurs at over 104.

ACTUAL SYMPTOMS:

sluggishness

seizures (severe)

inability to speak clearly

feeling chilly/shivering

nausea

pain

delirium

symptoms increase as fever rises. slow build that secret sickness! feverish people can be irritable, maybe a bit of sass followed by some hurt/comfort. never hurt anybody.

ALSO about fevers - they absolutely can cause hallucinations. Sometimes these alter memory and future memory processing. they're scary shit guys.

fevers are a big deal! bad shit can happen! milk that till its dry (chill out) and get some good hurt/comfort whumpee shit.

keep writing u sadistic nerds xox love you

ALSO I FORGOT LEMME ADD ON:

YOU DIE AT 85F

sorry I forgot. at that point for a sustained period of time you're too cold to survive.

pt 2

also please stop traumadumping in the notes/tags, that's not the point of this post. it's really upsetting to see on my feed, so i'm muting the notifs for this post. if you have a question about this post, dm me, but i don't want a constant influx of traumatic stories. xox