#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."

[distinctlywhumpthing]

First Night Home pt. 1

Previous — Masterlist — Next

Aiden wishes he could know the way home by heart. Feel a sense of comfort, that indescribable pull, as familiarity marks the closing distance to the place where he belongs. It’s a foolish, naked yearning. One that hangs in the spotlight of his focus a moment too long, leaving him feeling just as exposed. 

He spreads his fingers on his legs to stop from curling them into fists. Curling his toes in his shoes is a cheap substitute for grounding himself but at least it keeps that look off Leo’s face. 

The one that confirms Aiden is a burden he didn’t sign up for, companion or not. 

“Almost there,” Leo says, pulling away from a stop sign and turning left. 

His stomach drops and he turns toward the window to hide his face. 

Just like the first night, he has no idea what to expect when they arrive. He should be able to grant Leo a fraction of the trust he has felt but is always unable to find when he needs it most. It’s overwhelmed too easily, road salt cloudy headlights on an unlit route, feeble light swallowed by darkness before it can illuminate anything more than the rush of pavement before it disappears. His catastrophizing is stunted by exhaustion but the longer they drive down the winding roads, the more his stomach knots and twists, anticipation-turning-to-dread the only mile marker he has. He worries about losing to his nausea, as much as a passenger in his body as he is in the car, heading toward the inevitable. 

When Leo turns off the road, Aiden panics even more, scanning the row of four identical condos, porch lights still casting a dim glow in the pre-dawn light. He doesn’t recognize anything, except Leo’s work van at the end of the shared driveway. Shame rises along with the bile in his stomach. It’s disrespectful to Leo and the invitation to share any part of his home––to entertain it as a place he could pretend to belong—if he can’t even recognize it from the outside.

For fuck’s sake, it’s the barest of minimums required to lay claim to any place.

He bites back his apology. Stutters won’t be the only thing that comes out if he opens his mouth just now. He wouldn’t be able to articulate the transgression anyway. Little progress he made earlier trying to explain he wasn’t trying to run from Leo at the hospital, that he was just trying to give him a shot at getting his life back. The one before he took on a damaged—

“Home sweet home.” Leo kills the engine and lets his head fall back against the headrest with a sigh.

Aiden lowers his gaze, guilt swirling in his stomach. Again, the apology is on the tip of his tongue but his eyes start to burn hot with tears. He will not cry again. He cannot. He bites the inside of his cheek and the taste of blood is a quick distraction. 

Worse than dissolving into a crying mess would be getting sick in Leo’s sister’s car. 

Leo’s on the move anyway. With another sigh, he gets out, leaving Aiden alone to clap his good hand over his mouth and force deep breaths in and out through his nose. He even closes his eyes to beg himself to be capable this time. Better for this second-second chance. Easier after everything. 

Little good it does. 

By the time Leo reaches his door, Aiden is resigned to ducking around him to throw up. The bar lowered to please just don’t get sick on Leo’s shoes. 

The cold air hits him in a blast when Leo reaches the door and helps him out. He blinks against the sharp sting of it, both hands gripping Leo’s forearm. Another lungful of brisk winter morning and the nausea settles. 

His next inhale is full of sky. Deep blue night softening with the light of day from one horizon to the other. A whisper of purple hinting at the brilliance of more colors soon to come. He could stay here forever, taking in the spectrum of dark to light, the stars fading out in the west and the sun soon to rise in the east. He watched the sunrise a few times from the bedroom window upstairs but he can’t remember the last time he stood under a sky like this. 

Or the last time he was outside in daylight at all. 

“Hon, you alright?”

Leo’s expression has probably passed concern because Aiden let a few tears escape. They��ve already slid down his cheeks, warm at the outset, their wakes chilled in the fresh morning air. 

He wipes his face with his sleeve, still looking up. “Thank you,” he hears himself whisper and somehow it comes out crystal clear. He wishes he could say more, thank Leo for this morning sky he had nothing and everything to do with. But he doesn’t trust himself not to ruin it. 

Leo doesn’t say anything back, just wraps an arm around his shoulders. 

As soon as they step inside, he wants to run back to the feeling he found under the sky. But Leo’s exhausted and he already waited with Aiden until the sun started peeking over the horizon. Watching the sun rise wouldn’t stave off the inevitable. It’ll be over in minutes anyway. 

Aiden winds up hovering at the edge of the kitchen, unsure if he should stay out of the way or help. The bags sit on the island, handles still standing at attention from being lifted there. 

Leo relieves him of any guesswork by setting a glass of water on the island. “Think you can drink this?” 

He nods, grateful for an easy opportunity to be obedient, and slides onto a stool, watching for any reaction from Leo out of habit, but he’s looking down. Aiden’s stomach knots when he realizes he’s reading the slip of paper from the doctors again. 

If Leo tells him to take any of the medicine, he should. He will. He’ll do anything Leo asks him to. Happily. If what Leo said about finding him is true, he owes him his life twice over, maybe three times if he considers—

“Aiden?”

He jumps and Leo quickly leans over to clamp a hand around his teetering glass.

“M’sorry.” He tucks his hands between his legs, apology not quite audible even to his ears. 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to spook you.”

“S’okay,” he whispers. 

Leo’s sigh makes him flinch before he can catch himself. 

Leo holds up his hands, one still holding the rescued glass. “Easy, sweetheart. We’re all good. It’s all good.” 

Aiden nods. He’s overreacting, reading into Leo’s every fucking exhale. He’s just overreacting but still, tears are building behind his eyes. He nods again, squeezing his hands into fists but the pain that radiates up his arms makes the tears fall. “M’sorry, m’sorry.” He shakes his hands out at his sides, swipes furiously at the traitorous tears, and refuses—refuses—to meet Leo’s gaze to see how completely exasperated and disappointed he is. “M’sorry, m’sorry—”  

“Aiden. Aiden.” Leo’s beside him now, warm hand on his shoulder making him realize just how much he’s curled forward. “Just breathe. That’s right. You’re okay, you’re good.” 

He nods, sniffling. He needs to pull himself together. “M’sorry, m’sorry.” 

“Hon, look at me.” 

He meets Leo’s eyes, letting himself shelter in the ease of obedience. 

“You’re good, it’s all good. We’ll figure things out together, step by step, in the morning—or, well, later today.” Leo’s soft chuckle, tired as it is, tempts Adien further into the lulls of earned safety and he doesn’t have the energy to resist. Leo rubs his shoulder. “Everything will look a little better after some sleep, yeah?” Leo goes to the sink to top up his glass. “Let’s head up.” 

His stomach drops and maybe even his lungs too because he can’t feel himself breathe anymore. He’s too busy trying to read Leo’s face. What about the mess upstairs? Should he get the bleach? Or is this the moment Leo finally punishes him? 

He follows Leo to the stairs, shoving his shaking hands into the pocket of the hoodie. He knots his fingers together as much as he can without it hurting too much. He’s not sure what they’ll find upstairs. He can only remember blurs and there’s no telling what happened after his memory stops. 

“Better get scrubbing, ‘359.” 

He shakes his head but the flashes of the facility tiles, covered in blood, are so bright in his mind. His hand gripping the banister feels far away, feet climbing the stairs even further. A few more steps and he’ll be able to see the bathroom. 

The blood, the tiles. 

“Aiden?” 

He flinches, attention snapping back to Leo a few steps ahead. “M’good,” he says, too quickly because Leo narrows his eyes. He walks back down and stops one step lower so they’re the same height. 

“There’s no–– there’s nothing to worry about. I asked Jesse to come over while we were out.” 

He nods slowly.  

“Everything’s clean, it’s all good.” 

Aiden hopes he hides his shameful relief better than his lack of understanding. “Mmm’thanks…” It’s not enough. He’ll never be enough. 

Leo holds out his arm. “All good, hon.” 

At the top of the stairs, he goes the extra mile and flicks on every light in the bathroom. The brightness hurts Aiden’s eyes but the bathroom is indeed spotless. 

Like nothing ever happened.

Leo walks him to the second bedroom, sets the glass of water on the desk and clicks on the little lamp. “I’ll get you some clean pajamas.” 

The pressure in the room changes when Leo leaves. 

Aiden’s breath comes easier, inhale and exhale deeper. The air no longer feeling finite to leave space for all the anticipation that accompanies Leo. 

But his relief is quickly spoiled by the discomfort of idleness. 

Using the desk chair for balance, he strips to his underwear, neatly folding the dirty clothes to be put in the hamper in the bathroom. He doesn’t want to see the bandages on his hand or arms, nor the gauze taped to his elbow and collarbone. Any visible trace of blood and Leo will want to check them, clean the stitches, change the bandages, ask him how he’s feeling, if he wants to take something for it and he can’t answer, he can’t look, he can’t handle having Leo examine him like that, so careful like he’s breakable when he’s done all this to himself and— 

He covers his face with his hands. Tries to pull in a deeper breath but the smell of betadine under the bandages makes his stomach churn so he lets his hands fall. 

There’s a smudge on his upper arm. Rubbing at it with his thumb does nothing. He turns to see it in the faint light coming through the window–– 

It’s blood. Dried blood, all over. A ragged stripe of it snaking across his upper arms and chest. He can see it spreading, hear the drip, drip, drip of the faucet he was shaking too much to turn off completely. 

He pinches his eyes shut and shakes his head but when he opens his eyes again it’s even worse. It’s everywhere, splotches up and down his arms, all over his torso. 

Splattered all over the bright, white tiles. 

He can’t get it off. He has to get rid of it. He has to wash away the blood. 

“Scrub those tiles good and clean, ‘359.” 

No, this can’t be happening right now. 

His breath trembles and he can’t fill his lungs anymore but it doesn’t matter because the sounds of his panic have already caught Leo’s attention. 

“Aiden?” 

He spins to face Leo, bumping into the door which hits the wall and makes him jump all over again. His apology comes out as more of a strangled whine. 

“Easy.” Leo makes his movements slow and deliberate as he sets the clothes down. “It’s alright.” 

Aiden nods along. Of course it’s alright. He knows it’s alright but he still can’t seem to catch more than tiny gasps of air at a time. It’s just Leo. He’s here with Leo. He’s––

“Hey, hey, look at me.” 

Leo doesn’t try to move any closer, just holds his gaze. “That’s good, just breathe. We’ve got all the time we need. There’s no rush. Just take it easy. Take some slow, deep breaths.” 

He hates how immediately possible it is when he can hear it as a command. 

“Good, that’s good. You’re good.” 

Hates even more that he sinks his teeth right into all the warmth and relief he can get from the shallow praise, a shiver running up his spine in its wake. But it helps and he can already stand a bit straighter, think, and see a bit clearer. 

Leo waits a few more deep breaths. “All good?” 

“Mhm, m’sorry—” He clears his throat. “I––I––” He steels himself and lets his arms fall, eyes locked on Leo’s expression. 

“Ah. I didn’t think of that.” 

Leo’s frown makes his heart start to race. He crosses an arm over his chest, as if there might be a chance Leo can actually see the hair-trigger reactivity he’s got tonight. 

“I’ll get a washcloth with some soap, I can––” 

“Please––” he chokes out, calves hitting the bed frame. He blinks away Harrison, standing over him, cold and indifferent while he begs and cries. 

“Okay, never mind.” Aiden is still holding his breath so Leo softens his voice. “Hey, hey, easy. Not that one, okay? Forget I suggested it.” 

He drags in a strained breath. “M’sorry.” Forces himself to take a step back toward Leo.

“It’s alright, don’t be sorry. I need to know these things, it’s good you’re telling me.” 

He swallows and looks down. Unsure if he’s more ashamed that Leo has to spell it out for him or that it’s necessary at all. 

“Well, I guess a shower is the next option. What do you think?” 

Aiden nods, trying to look at least a little more composed to face the bathroom. 

“Okay,” Leo says but he doesn’t move. 

Aiden looks down again to let him think. He wants to shake out his arms, and his legs too while he’s at it. Just because he can and that’s why it helps. But he doesn’t want Leo to think he’s impatient. He’d probably tip right over anyway. 

“Sorry, okay, yeah. Just a quick shower, I’ll help you.” He turns and Aiden follows. 

It won’t be as simple as that but it’s a lie of solace they’ll cling to like a life raft. 

Previous — Masterlist — Next

@octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @nicolepascaline @whumpy-writings @cracked-porcelain-princess

@meetmeinhellcroutons @briars7 @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @jo-doe-seeking-inspo @neuro-whump

@painsandconfusion @wolfeyedwitch @skyhawkwolf @haro-whumps @onlybadendings

@peachy-panic @fillthedarkvoid @rabass @crystalquartzwhump @dont-touch-my-soup

@mylifeisonthebookshelf @hold-him-down @guachipongo @creetchure @leyswhumpdump

@aseasonwithclarasblog @catawhumpus @magziemakeswhatever @espresso-depresso-system @pigeonwhumps

@batfacedliar-yetagain @whumpinthepot @dustypinetree @whump-in-progress @pirefyrelight

@whumps-and-bumps @i-eat-worlds @hellodecisionparalysis @heartfullofhoney

[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

[i-eat-worlds]

Stab O’clock

Phoenix gets stabbed, whump ensues.

Thanks to @snaillamp and @whumpy-daydreams for helping with the medical stuff in this! Aaron and Phoenix belong to @pigeonwhumps

cw: medical whump, dubcon medical care, past medical abuse, graphic depiction of medical procedures (tube thoracostomy), needles, blood, implied current abuse, fear of punishment, wound fingering, immortal whumpee, wishing for death, past death, comfort believe it or not

“Firebird!”

Phoenix rolled away from the voice calling their name, trying to drag themselves deeper into the alleyway. If they were discovered like this, it wouldn’t end well. You couldn’t fight if you could barely breathe.

“Firebird!”

A black, blue, and orange uniformed hero rounded the corner, and Phoenix shrunk back further. Absurdly, they wished they could bleed out and die quicker, so they could heal. Being found like this was sure to end badly. Injured heroes were useless heroes, and useless heroes got punished. The hero called out for them again, moving towards the alley way.

They held their breath, hoping the hero would walk by and ignore them.

They didn’t.

Instead, the hero turned into the alley, dropping to their knees in front of them. He mumbled something into his coms before he looked at them. “Hey Firebird, I’m Exhale, I’m a medic.” He gestured to the patch on his left arm. “I’m here to help you, yeah?”

Medics? Who had sent medics out for them? That was a gross waste of resources. Phoenix shook their head. “ ‘m immortal.”

Talking was hard. Every word stole precious, precious air that was getting harder to take in by the second.

Exhale nodded. “Good to know, thanks for telling me.” He quickly located the wound on their chest and started quickly cutting the fabric away.

“No, ‘m immortal.” Phoenix whispered, pushing his hands away. “You don’ need to do that.”

“Not how that works. Let me help.” Exhale pressed a clear, sticky bandage over their chest. It was clear he wasn’t planning on arguing.

His hands wrapped around them, checking their backside for another wound. “ ‘m sorry,” they wheezed.

“It’s alright.” His hands pulled away. “I need you to lay down. I’ll help, yeah?” Phoenix let him gently set them down on the ground. This moved them out of the shadows, casting streetlight over their upper body.

Their chest still felt heavy and tight, even though the weird bandages he’d put on helped a little bit. It did nothing for the pain, every movement of their rib cage extending the burning ache. In the distance, they could hear sirens. Stupidly, Phoenix wondered if the sirens were for them.

That was silly, though. Why would they need an ambulance? It wasn’t like they were going to die.

“I’m gonna need to decompress your chest,” he said. He was holding something in his gloved hand, but Phoenix couldn’t really see what it was. “It’ll probably hurt, but it’ll also make it easier to breathe.”

They whimpered as Exhale pressed his fingers next to their sternum, only a few inches away from the wound, then slid them across their chest. In the corner of their vision, they saw light glint of of a very long needle.

They didn’t have time to really process what it was until after it was driven through their chest.

Shocked, they gasped, breathing hitching and head popping off the ground. Exhale didn’t seem so surprised, pressing his hand onto their shoulder to keep them from moving too much. “You’re alright, you’re going great.”

It certainly didn’t feel like that.

“The ambulance is on its way, they’re a few minutes out.” For some reason, he was still gently squeezing their shoulder. It wasn’t that they minded, it was just odd.

It was easy to tell that the ambulance was coming, sirens screaming through the night. Phoenix closed their eyes to try and get away from bright flashing lights as it parked. It was so easy to keep them like that.

“Phoenix, can you open your eyes for me?” He shook their shoulder a bit, but when they didn’t respond, he switched to grinding his knuckles into their sternum.

Their eyes popped open, and they raised the arm on their uninjured side to try and push his hand away. “I need you to try and stay awake, for me, yeah?”

The ambulance ride passed in a blur. So much was going on. While Exhale was starting an IV, another paramedic was attaching them to a monitor. An oxygen mask was looped over their face and then they were covered by a blanket. They felt a strange coolth running up their arm, and they realized that they’d been given painkillers.

It was too much, really. All the care and attention would've been better spent on someone who wouldn’t live anyway. The thought of having to pay for this made them nauseous. Hopefully Kai will believe that they tried to say no, because Abbie wouldn’t care.

Phoenix heard the arrival alarm go off as they were rolled into HAL’s medbay. Aaron, along with a cache of other nurses met them by the door. They clumped around the stretcher, and Exhale started rattling off a long list of words and numbers that they didn’t understand at Aaron.

“ ‘m sorry,” they mumbled to them, but he was too busy talking to hear them. “I promise ‘m sorry, sir.”

Nobody responded. Of course they didn’t. They were being annoying, and they needed to shut up.

“Three, two, one, lift!” Somebody called, and they were hoisted off the stretcher and set back down on the table. The movement caused pain to flare in their chest, and they groaned loudly. The assault of hands returned as they were attached to the medbay’s monitor, nurses swarming around them.

“You with me, Phoenix?” Aaron was standing at their head. His face looked weird upside down.

They nodded, feeling the tears starting to build. “Yes, sir.”

“Good, good.” Aaron’s eyes flickered up, watching as their blood pressure cycled. “We’re gonna take an x-ray, okay. Just lie still for us.”

Someone pulled an x-ray machine over the bed, and Aaron backed away. There was an awkward moment of quiet as the machine hummed and wirred, and then everyone briey stared at the radiograph that Phoenix could neither see nor interpret. Aaron rattled o a list of stuff he needed done, and the room descended back into organized chaos.

“I’m gonna need to place a chest tube. You’ve got blood in your chest, so we're going to put a tube in and drain it out so you can breathe better,” he explained as he rubbed cleaning gel on his hands.

Phoenix swallowed nervously, giving up on holding back tears. They could feel the pain of the scalpel slicing through their chest, of cold metal pushing their ribs apart, of hands digging around inside them as they died and resurrected and died again.

“You’re lucky someone is willing to help you at all. You know you don’t deserve it.”

A nurse pulled the blanket all the way to their belly button, revealing the myriad scars that covered their body. Burns, several GSWs, an old wound from a spear, and the long, thick, almost keloid scar from the thoracotomy.

“If you stopped fucking moving I wouldn’t need to paralyze you. It’s not like you need to breathe.”

Their attention was drawn by Aaron’s voice. “Phoenix, I need you to keep breathing for me. In and out, in and out.” He looped a mask around his face, then plunged his arms into the sleeves of a waiting gown. While he spoke, the nurse wiped the skin around their chest and up their arm with a stinky orange solution.

“Please, ‘m sorry, sir,” they gasped. The monitors screeched as their heart rate spiked. “I promise, sir, ‘m sorry for getting hurt.”

Aaron’s eyebrows furrowed. “I’m not mad at you for getting hurt, Phoenix. I’ll never be.” Cold flared in their arms, but they were too scared to recognize it as pain medication. Latex snapped as he donned a pair of sterile gloves.

The squelching of viscera echoed in their brain.

“If you don’t stop screaming I’m going to cut it. I can literally see your aorta. Don’t test me.”

He started to unfold a drape on their chest, looking up at a nurse on the other side of the table. “Can you get Joseph in here? They need more support than I can provide while I’m doing this.”

Phoenix whimpered, tears rolling down freely down their cheeks. They’d known that Aaron’s kindness wouldn’t last forever, that it was too good to be true, but it still hurt. And Joseph as well? Was he going to hold them down while Aaron cut them open? Or would they just slit their throat and be done with it?

“I told you I wasn’t fucking around. You could’ve prevented this if you would’ve just kept still.”

“I‘m sorry, please, I promise, I’m sorry, sir.” They tried again, desperately. “I didn’t mean to get hurt. I know I don’t deserve it, sir. I know. I promise, sir, I know.”

They gasped for air, hand clawing at the tide of the table.

“Can someone gag them please? I don’t want to hear them breathing like that. It’s annoying.”

Joseph appeared in the entryway to the room, quickly crossing on the side away from Aaron. He was wearing his full INSUPA uniform, med patches and all, same second in command stripes as the person in the alley had. Was Joseph Exhale?

It didn’t really matter now. He was going to hurt them anyway.

“Can someone hold them down? They move too much when they resurrect.”

“Hey Phoenix, can you look at me?” He was smiling at them, but he still looked terrifying.

They tore their eyes from the needle in Aaron’s hand to look at him. “That’s good. Eyes on me, eyes on me.”

“Don’t look at me like that. You know it's your own fault.”

Joseph kept talking to them, voice low and calm. “Is it okay if I hold your hand?” They nodded, knowing their answer didn’t really matter anyway.

“We’re gonna take care of you. I know it’s scary.” His hands were calloused and hard, and he gently started to massage the top of their hand with his thumb.

Why hadn’t he killed them yet? What was he waiting for?

“Stop crying. It’s distracting me.”

Aaron touched their chest. Fear exploded in their gut, along with boiling waves of nausea. Even though they knew they’d come back, they didn’t want to die.

“Aaron’s starting the local now.” Joseph said, squeezing their hand a little.

“I don’t care that it hurts. Just keep still.”

The needle punctured their skin, and they did their best to not wiggle away. There was an acidic burn in their chest as the medication took hold.

“I know it burns, but it’s nearly over,” Aaron said, grabbing another syringe. “That’s the first round of local anesthetic in, you’re doing great.”

Joseph smiled at them again, and Phoenix wondered what the point of the medication was. Weren’t anesthetics supposed to make things hurt less? That couldn’t be right.

They were supposed to be dying.

“Pain meds? That would be wasted on you. I don’t think it’d even work.”

Aaron swamped out the syringe for a scalpel, and their eyes went wide with fear. This was how he was going to kill them then.

“Eyes on me, remember?” Joseph’s voice was commanding, and their eyes snapped back to his face.

“I’m sorry sir,” they said, voice filled with fear.

“I didn’t know you were too stupid to follow even simple instructions. Stop. Squirming.”

They prepared themselves for the pain of being sliced open, waiting for the agony to spread along their ribs.

“Tell me if it starts to hurt,” Aaron said. There was a strange pressure on the side of their chest, and the metallic smell of blood filled the air.

It was strange, but it didn’t hurt. It was supposed to hurt.

“It’ll go faster if you don’t cause problems.”

There was an uncomfortable tugging and pulling sensation, and then Aaron’s finger slid inside their chest. They suppressed the urge to cringe away.

“They need more local.” Joseph said, his tone switching from soft to business when he talked to Aaron.

“ ‘m okay,” they insisted. They didn’t need any more superfluous medication wasted on them. It already wasn’t as bad as they’d thought it’d be.

“I wouldn’t have had to do this if you’d just behaved.”

Joseph kept holding their hand as Aaron reached for another syringe. “You’re doing great, keep it up,” he assured them.

The burning sensation returned, and then they were being spread open again. A rush of blood splattered onto the floor, splashing on Aaron’s gown.

“What, are you afraid of a little blood?

He stuck his finger into their chest again, rotating it around inside them. “Any pain, Phoenix?”

“No, sir.” They were crying more now than before.

He snatched the tube off the tray. “Give them another point-two of Eropental.”

“If you complain that it hurts one more time, I’m going to just leave the rest of the shrapnel inside.”

Joseph let go of their hand to administer the medication, and for some reason, Phoenix didn’t like it.

Meanwhile, Aaron was deep in concentration. He carefully threaded the hard, plastic tube into their chest, then quickly connected them up to the strange looking drainage machine and opened up the clamp. “Tube’s in.”

It was quickly filled with blood. “Now all we gotta suture it in place. You’re nearly done, Phoenix.

“It’s kinda useless to stitch them, since they'll heal up anyway.”

This, at least, they were familiar with. Aaron had stitched them up way more times than was justied for any one person.

Joseph was back to holding their hand now. If they’d made it this far, the punishment would probably come later. “You did great, Phoenix.”

They didn’t believe him, but they weren’t going to argue.

“Just catch up after you heal. We don’t have the time to carry you back. You have to pull your own weight.”

Aaron dosed the wound liberally with another round of anesthetic before he covered it with several layers of gauze and tape.

The blood was practically flowing out of them, out of the tube and into the pump. “We’re gonna get you scanned next,” he said as he tore off his blood flecked gown and gloves. “Hopefully your healing is doing a good job of patching it up.”

Joseph squeezed their shoulder. “We gotcha.”

For a brief moment, Phoenix let themselves entertain the thought that they weren’t going to be killed at all. If Aaron was expecting them to heal, then maybe they’d be okay. But the anxiety settled in there chest again.

Now they had to do was survive what Abbie would dole out to them.

Aaron and Joseph had let them off easy.

Abbie wouldn’t.

Taglist: @/pigeonwhumps @rainydaywhump

[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 --