#tw bedside vigil

[serickswrites]

When in Rome

Warnings: capture, public humiliation, torture, restraints, whipping, blood, unconsciousness, bedside vigil, defiant whumpee

"I can be a kind and benevolent ruler," Whumper said as they circled their captives. "I think you will find I am a much better ruler than your former monarch."

Caretaker hated listening to this. Hated that they were all in chains while Whumper and their traitorous band walked free. But worst of all, they hated watching Whumpee struggle in the chains that had been thrown on all of them.

"The only thing you are capable of is evil," Whumpee hissed.

"You could give me a chance, Whumpee. If you give me a chance, if you bow, the others will follow suit. So many subjects have already pledged their loyalty."

"I'd rather die." Whumpee thrust their chin out.

"Whumpee, you were your former ruler's most trusted warrior. If you bend knee, needless violence will be avoided. Surrender and pledge fealty or you shall suffer greatly." Whumper's kind, gentle tone began to fray. Their true nature slowly eating away at the facade that Caretaker knew they were putting up.

"Death first!"

"That can be arranged." Whumper said with a sigh. "Tie them to the pole in front of the castle," they ordered one of their minions. "And take the others with you. I want everyone to see what happens when you do not conform to my law and order. What happens if you defy me."

Whumpee struggled valiantly against the many hands that grabbed them. Caretaker tried on their part, too. But it was to no avail. Whumper had too many followers at hand to fight. The rest of their squad was hauled along with them to the castle square.

"Whumpee, Whumpee, whatever they are planning is far worse than surrendering," Caretaker tried to reason with Whumpee. They could not stand to watch Whumper butcher Whumpee.

Whumpee shook their head, drawing themself up to their full height, head held proud. "If we give in we are complacent with whatever atrocities Whumper commits. The people need to see that some one is willing to stand up in the face of evil."

"You will be killed, Whumpee. Please," Caretaker tried again.

"Then that is the price I pay. I will not bend knee to evil. I will stand strong. Perhaps my death will be what one person needs to realize they must fight. That they can fight."

Caretaker opened their mouth to reply, but Whumpee was pulled away as the group reached the central square. A tall post had been erected in the center atop a tall dais. Whumpee was hauled roughly up the steps and chained with their arms above their head, back to the crowd.

"Citizens, gather round," Whumper said as they climbed the steps of the dais, "and see what it means to refuse me." Whumper held a whip in their hand. Caretaker's mouth went dry.

"I am a benevolent ruler," Whumper said as a hush fell over the crowd, "and I will give you one more chance, Whumpee. Swear fealty and you will be spared."

"I will never bow to you. No matter how much you hurt me, I will never bow before you." Whumpee spat at Whumper, their contempt and intentions clear.

"So be it, then. We will start with ten lashes and see how you feel." Whumper raised their arm and brought the whip down across Whumpee's back. Whumpee's skin split and flowed from the wound.

But they did not cry out.

With each crack of the whip, Caretaker flinched. With each crack of the whip the fearful faces of the crowd became more apparent. And with each crack of the whip, Whumpee's blood flowed, but they did not cry out.

After the tenth crack, Whumper stopped. "Anything you wish to say, Whumpee?"

"Fuck you," Whumpee said weakly.

With a growl, Whumper raised the whip again. "Such insolence shall not be tolerated."

Caretaker lost count of how many times Whumper brought the whip down. They lost count of how long Whumper whipped Whumpee after Whumpee went limp in the chains as they slipped into unconsciousness. They lost count of how many times they begged for Whumpee's life. Because they could only see Whumpee's limp, bloody body slumped over at the whipping post.

"Throw them in the dungeon with the rest of their squad. Offer them no aid. See if that's enough to change their mind," Whumper said when they finally grew tired of whipping Whumpee.

Caretaker didn't fight as they were dragged to the castle's dungeon. They watched in horror as two men grabbed Whumpee by the arms and roughly dragged them along to the dungeon. Whumpee didn't so much as groan or raise their head as they were dragged along.

"Whumpee, please, say something," Caretaker said as they were all tossed in the dungeon.

Whumpee had landed in a heap and hadn't made a sound. "Whumpee, please," Caretaker tried again. They weren't sure where they could touch Whumpee without causing further injury. They lowered themself to the ground next to Whumpee.

Whumpee's eyes were closed, but they were alive. Caretaker could hear their short, pained breaths as they got close to Whumpee. "Someone bring me some water from that bucket." Caretaker ordered. "We need to clean their wounds."

Whumpee didn't wake the whole time the squad cleaned and dressed their wounds. They didn't wake as the squad tried to lay them in a comfortable position gently. And they didn't wake as Caretaker stroked their face and murmured soft words to them.

Caretaker sat in the dark dungeon hoping Whumpee would wake soon. They stroked Whumpee's sweat soaked hair. "Please, Whumpee. Don't do this. Please, just wake up. We can come up with a plan. Please, Whumpee. Don't make us watch you die, too."

But still, Whumpee did not wake.

Tags: @mousepaw @jumpywhumpywriter @knightinbatteredarmor @hufflepuffwritingstuff2 @anightmarishwhump

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @celestialsoyeon @st0rmm @ay5ksal @pedro-pedro-pedro-pedro-pe

[whumpetywhump]

Dear Parents - Ep. 20 & 21

[aceofwhump]

The Outsider (2002)

Montana sheep farmer Rebecca Yoder (Naomi Watts) offers sanctuary to an on-the-lam outlaw, Johnny Gault (Tim Daly), who is suffering from a gunshot wound. Yoder is a recent widow, and her decision to help the outsider doesn't sit well with her Quaker community. As a romance brews between her and Gault, it puts in jeopardy her standing among her devout neighbors. But when an evil rancher makes a play for the community's land, Gault's sharpshooting skills might prove his worth after all.

Gifset series masterlist

[callaeidae3]

A Month of Whump Winter Whumperland 2023 - Day 12: Bedside vigil

Rescued deer guy, exhausted and passed out after an adrenaline crash. He might not wake up for a while.

Following being captured then left behind while the forest burned, and the flames crept closer, and no amount of struggling could get himsef free.

He's safe now. The fire can't reach him here. Neither can the hands of those who hunted him.

@amonthofwhump

[promptsforyourwhumpfic]

Whump Prompt #1144

Submitted by @red-river-potato01 - thanks!

Character A's best friend B is badly wounded on a mission, and is barely alive when brought back. A meets them in the infirmary, but the diagnosis is conclusive: They're not going to make it. A stays with them, and B manages to choke out a few last words to their friend before fading away in A's arms. A is a wreck after this; they don't speak, don't eat, don't sleep, and they never leave their quarters. The crew knows they need to help, but none of them are that close with A. What do they do?

[hurtmyfavsthanks]

Whumptember day 2

“Let me do this for you.” Sacrifice | Guilt | Caretaker turned whumpee

Whumpee was finally safe.

They weren't uninjured, of course. Their body looked small in their hospital bed, and what little of their skin that wasn't bandaged was either a sickly pale hue or dark with bruising. They were hurt and frail, but they were healing. They were finally safe.

It had only cost Caretaker everything.

Whumper had given them 72 hours. Three days to handle their affairs, three days to say goodbye, three days of freedom before they had to fulfill their end of the deal. Today was their last day before becoming Whumpee’s replacement.

Caretaker had decided to spend that final day with Whumpee. They couldn’t think of anything they wanted more.

Caretaker reached for Whumpee’s limp hands. Whumpee didn’t react. Caretaker wanted to see their eyes one more time, but knew it was for the best that Whumpee wasn’t awake. They would ask Caretaker to stay.

“I’m sorry,” Caretaker whispered into the silent room, thumb rubbing against Whumpee’s knuckles. “I know you wouldn’t want this.” It’d been the only way to save Whumpee. The only reason they were safe now was because Caretaker had agreed to take their place, and Caretaker knew that trying to avoid their end of the bargain would only jeopardize that. They wouldn’t take that risk.

They lifted Whumpee's hand to their lips, pressing a feather-soft kiss into their fingers. "Let me do this for you."

[em-writes-stuff]

bedside vigil + “i’m right here”

@whumpril day 11

warnings: hospital setting, iv, bullet wound

hero, villain, doctor

700 words (!!!!!)

part one here | part two here

---

Hero blinks awake, fluorescent lights nearly blinding her. Monitors beep steadily around her and something whirred every few seconds. She jerks up, supporting herself with her elbows. Next to her, five cups of coffee are on the bedside table and…so is Villain. 

His legs are drawn up to his chest and his chin rests on his knees. He’s snoring softly and for a second, Hero forgets who he is. She stares at him, eyes squinting under the harsh light and, maybe for the first time, she sees him. His beard is patchy with grey hairs and wrinkles are as plentiful as his scars. One of his eyebrows has a slit and she gets the impression he did that by himself. 

He opens his eyes, pulling back into the chair and stretching his arms above his head with a yawn. “Hey,” he says, rubbing his eyes, “You’re awake.” 

She pulls her legs to her chest and wraps her arms around them, resting her chin on her arm, “I’m awake.” 

“Let me get your doctor.” 

He stands up and grabs a few of the cups, rattling them before tossing them in the trash on his way out of the room. Hero closes her eyes for a second before opening them again and looking for her things. 

The door opens again and Villain walks in with a doctor in tow, she smiles and stands in front of the bed, “Hi, I’m Doctor. I’ve been taking care of you. Do you need to call anyone?” 

Shit. Sidekick’s probably worried sick right now. “How long have I been here?” 

“About seven hours. I expected you to wake up earlier but I guess you’ve been running overtime. Plus the infection wouldn’t help with anything.” 

“Infection?” 

“Yeah, that bullet wound? Whoever treated it didn’t do a very good job. There was still some metal lodged in the muscle. You’re lucky it wasn’t worse.” Doctor says. 

Hero squints at her, “I treated it. I thought I got all of it out but I guess I missed some.” 

Doctor blinks in surprise and glances at Villain. He shakes his head. “Right,” she finally says, “Well then. You did a pretty good job for doing it yourself. I’d prefer next time you coming to me. Of course, it would be best if there wasn’t a next time.” 

Hero nods along, “Yeah, yeah, sure. Where’s my phone?” 

“All your things are in this bag,” Doctor says, pulling a bag out from seemingly nowhere and handing it to Hero. “Your phone should be in there with it.” 

“Actually…” Villain says, reaching behind him for the windowsill, “I took a look. I know, I know, lecture me later. It was ringing like crazy about an hour ago so I answered it. Sidekick’s on his way. He told me he’d be here as soon as he could be.” 

Doctor glares at him, “You know better.” 

“It’s fine, he probably did the best thing honestly. Sidekick has a habit of going nuclear when he can’t find me. Did my parents call?” she scrolls through her calls and sighs when she doesn’t see either of their names. “That’s good.” 

Villain and Doctor share another look and Hero clears her throat, “Well, I should probably get ready to go, do I need to stay?” 

Doctor sputters and blinks in surprise, “You should probably stay here at least for a few more hours. I just dug metal out of your leg and the infection’s still clearing up. I’d recommend just…” she guides Hero back onto the bed and covers her with the scratchy hospital blanket, “Resting for a while.” her pager beeps and she curses, “Damnit, I have to go. Villain, please keep her here until she can walk on that leg without limping.” 

He mock salutes and waves her out of the room with a gentle smile. 

Hero stares at him and frowns, “What now?” 

“I’m right here, and I won’t leave until you tell me to or Doctor makes me, so…it’s up to you.” 

She keeps her eyes trained on him, eyes narrowing the longer she stares until she finally sighs and falls back into the bed, “You can stay. I’m not explaining everything to Sidekick.” 

[dgct2]

Don't you go dying on me.

3.02 Capta Est

[catws-anniversary]

Today is exactly 10 years since the LA premiere of CA:TWS! As good a day as any to release all of our prompts so you can plan for the anniversary event.

Kicking off on March 26th, we'll be celebrating a decade of CA:TWS with 8 daily prompts to choose from, ranging from thematic prompts and quotes, to more general prompts and character-specific ones. These can be interpreted in any manner you choose and do not need to be linked to the daily theme.

As a reminder: this is an open event (see rules and FAQs - content does need to relate to CA:TWS), and the use of our daily prompts is entirely optional. They’re there to inspire, not to put up restrictions.

You can always contact us if you have any questions. We're so excited to see your creations!

MARCH 26 THEME: ON YOUR LEFT

The Smithsonian

First Meetings

Endurance

Mission

PTSD

"I'll put it on the list"

Favorite quote

MARCH 27 THEME: STEVE ROGERS

Camp Lehigh

Elevator

Motorcycle

Steve's list

Guilt

"It kind of feels personal"

Favorite Steve quote

MARCH 28 THEME: SHIELD

The Triskelion

Compromised

Surprise Visit

Neighbor

Weapons

"It's called compartmentalization"

Favorite scene

MARCH 29 THEME: NATASHA ROMANOFF

Mall

Disguise

Redemption

Matchmaking

Trust Issues

"Did I step on your moment?"

Favorite Natasha quote

MARCH 30 THEME: TWS CAST

Press Conference

Character Bleed

Photoshoot

Social Media

Stunts

"I'll take this one"

Favorite cast member

MARCH 31 THEME: SAM WILSON

Department of Veteran's Affairs

Partners

Soundtrack/Music

Wings

Missing Scenes

"I never said 'pilot'."

Favorite Sam quote

APRIL 1 THEME: HYDRA

Lemurian Star

Project Insight

Politics

STRIKE

Post-Credit Scenes

"Order comes through pain"

Favorite fight

APRIL 2 THEME: BUCKY BARNES

Bank

Metal Arm

Memories

Ghost Story

Revenge

"But I knew him"

Favorite Bucky quote

APRIL 3 THEME: CAP QUARTET

Washington DC

Breakfast

Bedside Vigil

Uniform

Found Family

"When do we start?"

Favorite duo

APRIL 4 THEME: TO THE END OF THE LINE

Helicarrier

1940s

Devotion

Identity Porn

Reunion

"Schoolyard and battlefield"

Favorite Stucky scene

Happy creating!

[lefarte]

How would they take care of a sick friend?

Characters: Levi, Olivia, Daan, Pav

Some of these could be read as platonic

A/N: This is… entirely self indulgent because I myself am sick….😭 but also hey hii hello. This was very comforting for me. No one requested it, but I actually wrote this a long time ago in my notepad app before I even made this blog. I learned a lot about writing in this time so I’m sorry if the quality is a bit worse.

TWS: sickness (obviously)

Levi

Levi has been through this before. He’s been sick more times in his life than he’s been healthy at this point. He knows what to do. He talks you through it slowly and precisely, he holds you hair back when you throw up, he changes your blankets when they get covered in sweat… he would never make you feel gross or ashamed, no matter how bad it gets.

That said, his personality isn’t going to completely flip on itself just because you’re sick. He wants to help you, but he is naturally timid. It might be awkward for a while. He struggles to carry a conversation at the best of times. Much less when you are in so much pain…

And depending on how feverish you are, it might be scary to fall in and out of sleep and see him staring at you from across the room with his big ass eyes. (It’s not his fault, he’s just worried.)

I also imagine he’s the type of guy who gets sick when he sees other people sick. So he’ll be holding back his own nausea for until you’re asleep, or until you’re back on your feet. Until then he would be on high alert, even more vigilant than usual. If an enemy made it inside while you were vulnerable, he would never forgive himself. So he’d pull out all the stops, barricading the doors, covering the windows… (even if it’s not necessary and you’re in a safe place, like the train.)

Hope you don’t plan on going anywhere once you get up because he’s going to get sick too now 💔

—

Olivia

She’s going to be all over you. Of course she doesn’t want to be overbearing, but she really doesn’t want to see her friend in pain! And she can’t wait to impress you with her knowledge of botany. She has something for every symptom, an oil or lotion or extract. If she doesn’t have it, she will track it down!

She really loves the feeling of you depending on her. This is a rare opportunity for her to prove her skills to you, and to herself. And there is no one better to understand your pain than her! She knows the feeling of being trapped in bed rest, antsy and lonely, better than anyone else.

Olivia is determined not to let you feel that way. She cares about you. She wants you to get better! If you refuse her advice or try to pretend like you’re not sick, she will be dejected.

She will try to take you outside to look at the flowers and get some sunshine, and she explains every flower in detail. (She would be happy to do that anyway.) She even brings you little bugs, and if she’s lucky, a frog or a lizard!

Will share her comfort items with you. She has weighted blankets, lots of medicine, and heat pads!

She reads books to you, and her voice is so beautiful you’ll fall asleep.

—

Daan

He lowkey feels guilty for failing to take care of you

After everything he lost, you’re his treasure! He would give you the best bedside care you’ve ever imagined, you’d never want for anything. All the stops, backrubs, cuddles, cleaning your forehead with rags. He would even pull out some tricks from his old butler days and make you some yummy soup.

If you look at him with big sad eyes or god forbid he sees a single tear, he’s whipping out the Sylvian magic. You’d have to beg him not to.

He absolutely would give you kisses, doesn’t care a bit if he gets sick. “Nothing that an ibuprofen and some cigarettes can’t fix, my darling.”

He would straight up give you opium if you asked, there is literally no better partner if you’re easily sick or chronically ill. Your face would be covered in lipstick kisses by the time it’s over.

Immediately after he’s done, he would go back to being a sarcastic and calm guy. Perhaps a little shy?

—

Pav

“Have a beer, sweetheart.”

This is not… the best person to be stuck with in this scenario. Because of his experience in the war, his pain scale is a little screwy, so it would take a lot for him to be concerned.

He still sticks around you though. He’s loyal to a fault with his partner, I truly believe this, he’s protective and affectionate. He would not abandon you at your weakest, no no no no. That’d be cruel.

He holds your hair up when you throw up. He will draw you a bath or or give you cuddles! He’s definitely a bit more accomadating when you’re sick.

Pav doesn’t mind kissing you when you’re sick. He tells you he’s never been sick before, in his life. You’ve certainly never seen like it in front of you, but if he’s lying, it’s totally debateable. It could be that he does get sick, he’s good at hiding it. But knowing that, he’d still give you hundreds of kisses all over.

You have the honor of sharing snacks with him (greedy hoarding bastard). If you’re good.

[cinnamoncascadian]

10 years of TWS - classic catws fanart queues for @catws-anniversary

Check out the queues I've made for this excellent event by @sparkagrace and @cable-knit-sweater! Prompt links are tag searches in my blog, so more and more will show up as we move into the week, and the queues grow.

March 26 prompt queues - theme: on your left - the smithsonian - first meetings - endurance - mission - "I'll put it on the list" - ptsd - the smithsonian - catws quotes

March 27 prompt queues - theme: steve rogers - camp lehigh - elevator - motorcycle - steve's list - "It kind of feels personal" - favorite steve quote

March 28 prompt queues - theme: shield - the triskelion - compromised - surprise visit - neighbor - weapons - "It's called compartmentalization" - favorite scene

March 29 prompts - theme: natasha romanoff - mall - disguise - redemption - matchmaking - trust issues - "Did I step on your moment?" - nat quotes (i don't have a favorite)

March 30 prompts - theme: tws cast - press conference - character bleed - photoshoot - social media - stunts - behind the scenes - "I'll take this one" - favorite cast member

March 31 prompts - theme: sam wilson - VA - partners - soundtrack/music - wings - missing scenes - "I never said *pilot*" - favorite sam quote

April 1 prompts - theme: hydra - lemurian star - project insight - politics - STRIKE - post-credit scenes - "Order comes through pain" - favorite catws fight - all catws fights

April 2 prompts - theme: bucky barnes - bank - metal arm - memories - ghost story - revenge - "But I knew him" - favorite bucky quote

April 3 prompts - theme: cap quartet - washington DC - breakfast - bedside vigil - uniform - found family - "When do we start?" - favorite duo

April 4 promts - theme: to the end of the line - helicarrier - 1940s - devotion - identity porn - reunion - "Schoolyard and battlefield" - favorite stucky scene

My extra catws10 prompts:

On this date in catws history

Specific scenes reimagined

He calls it warpaint audrey

New 2024 catws fanart

All catws10 stucky fanart

Limited pallette challenge

PS. Be aware, this is a Stucky blog, so occasional Stucky and Stucky-adjacent shipping may occur ;-) Filter #stucky fanart and #stucky+ fanart, if you no like.

@catws-anniversary it's ready :-)

[serickswrites]

Always on my Mind

Warnings: collapse, stab wound, blood, bleeding out, unconsciousness, hospital, bedside vigil

"You're always on my mind," Team Leader said as they sat in the uncomfortable hospital chair. "I can't stop thinking about what I did and didn't do. And what you did and didn't do."

They took Smallest Teammate's hand in theirs, their fingers curling around Smallest Teammate's icy ones. "I just wish I had noticed you. I wished I had seen what had happened. I wish I had done something. Why didn't you say anything?"

Team Leader's guilt was all consuming. They hadn't noticed Whumper stab Smallest Teammate in the back. Hadn't noticed that Smallest Teammate was missing until after Whumper had been stopped. Hadn't noticed Smallest Teammate--the loudest member of their team--was unusually quiet.

"A job well done, don't you think?" Team Leader said as they sidled up next to Smallest Teammate.

"Yeah," Smallest Teammate had replied softly.

"Cheer up, Smallest Teammate. I'm sure there will be more bad guys for us to go after when we get back," Team Leader said as they clapped Smallest Teammate on the shoulder.

Smallest Teammate didn't reply as their knees buckled. "Smallest Teammate?" Team Leader grabbed Smallest Teammate by their collar, holding them up. Smallest Teammate's head lolled on their neck as they went completely limp. "What in the--HELP!" Team Leader roared as they saw Smallest Teammate's shirt was coated with blood. "HELP!" They shouted as they put pressure on the stab wound on Smallest Teammate's back.

"Why didn't you say anything?" Team Leader said as they tried to shake the memories of trying to wake Smallest Teammate. Of trying to keep Smallest Teammate's blood in their body. Of carrying Smallest Teammate out of the compound. They had been certain that Smallest Teammate was dead. That they were carrying Smallest Teammate's corpse out of there.

But Smallest Teammate was still alive. And had stayed alive. "I am so sorry I didn't notice. I...I failed you as your team leader. Please, Smallest Teammate, wake up. So you can forgive me. Please."

Tags: @mousepaw @jumpywhumpywriter @knightinbatteredarmor @hufflepuffwritingstuff2 @anightmarishwhump

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @celestialsoyeon @st0rmm @ay5ksal @pedro-pedro-pedro-pedro-pe

@artisticdemon

[whumpetywhump]

The King And The Clown (2005)

[wondermilka]

The Forgotten Awakened

Pairing : Muichiro Tokito x Gn! Reader

(Y'all can decide whether this is platonic or romantic for you guys)

Sypnosis : Muichiro finally remembered your name.

TW, AI : Angst, wholesome ending, post swordsmith village arc, reader is around the same age as mui!

A/N : I just could not refuse myself to write for him after I watched the Swordsmith Village Arc. 😭😭 This ain't angst because Mui has been through enough 💪

!! NOT GENSHIN RELATED !!

Muichiro caught your attention from the moment he arrived at the mansion. Lady Akane had brought him when he was just 11 years old, wounded and bleeding. You were given the responsibility to care for him during that time.

"What happened to him?" you ask.

"Based on the situation I found him in, it seems they were likely ambushed by a demon during the night. He was fortunate to survive, but sadly, his brother didn't make it," Lady Amane responded.

"I understand. So, he's alone now," you muttered as you softly touched his hair.

"Not entirely. We're here for him," Lady Amane replies, trying to reassure you.

"What's his name?"

.

Muichiro, the Mist Pillar. He wasn’t much of a talker. Everyone who’s met him knew that. He always had a cold and distant demeanor, with an air of mystery surrounding him.

Despite his dull personality, you found yourself captivated by his presence.

Every day, you would care for the injured, ensuring their wounds were properly treated. That was your job as a helper of the mansion.

On numerous occasions, you found yourself assisting Muichiro after his battles, tending to his injuries and nursing him back to health.

Yet, each time you did, you couldn't help but notice Muichiro's forgetfulness when it came to remembering your name. You had to constantly introduce yourself each time he gives off a confused look whenever you approach him.

"it's Y/N. Don't forget next time okay?."

You believed that perhaps one day, your presence would make a lasting impact on the cold Mist Pillar.

Though it saddened you that Muichiro would forget your name constantly, you chose to let your feelings of affection grow.

News arrived that Muichiro had embarked on a journey to the swordsmith village. You worried for his safety, and found yourself longing for his return. You continued your duties, missing the familiar sight of Muichiro's cold but comforting presence.

You refused to leave Muichiro's side, keeping vigil by his bedside every day. You talked to him, sharing stories of your time together, desperately hoping that your words would reach him. Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into a month. Your dedication never wavered.

Time passed, and finally, the day came when Muichiro returned to the mansion. However, he did not return unscathed. His injuries were severe, and he fell into a deep coma upon his arrival. You stuck by his side, tending him.

Your eyes widened and your heart leaped with joy as you entered the room. You approached him and held your breath, waiting for him to speak.

One early morning, as the sun cast its warm rays into the room, Muichiro stirred. His eyes fluttered open.

"Y/N," Muichiro whispered, his voice weak but filled with recognition.

A wave of disbelief washed over you. Muichiro had remembered your name. Your eyes welled up with tears of happiness as you embraced him gently.

"You remembered," You murmured, your voice filled with tenderness.

Muichiro's eyes met yours, and a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "How could I forget? he replied softly.

Your gentle presence brought warmth to Muichiro's life, and in turn, he learned to appreciate the beauty of love and friendship.

[chaotic-orphan]

Winter Whumperland: day??

Trapped // bedside vigil // used as bait

Comfort mistletoe

Guardian of Blood

I know it’s so late, but my exams are finally over and I can get back to writing!

Also the only thing keeping me sane was bloodborne so enjoy this heavily blood imbued story!

TW: blood (lots of it), loss, friend’s deathbed, graphic injury, graphic depictions of violence, self-harm esque depictions of violence, wrist cutting (not self harm but still graphic and possibly squidgy, it made me uncomfortable to write but it just made sense for the story), powerless whumpees, betrayal, mentions of death, mentions of burial

*~*~*~*~*

Hero sat at Friend’s bedside holding their clammy hand and rubbing soothing circles over it, mumbling a soft spell of soothing under their breath as they went. Villain walked in during it, going to the other side of the bed and taking the damp cloth from Friend’s forehead and taking it to the kitchen.

They came back a moment later, the cloth dripping with cold water and placed it back on Friend’s forehead. Villain sat down on their chair, glaring at Hero as they whispered their spell.

“It’s not helping,” said Villain with a huff.

Hero stopped the spell and looked up at Villain. “It might be we don’t know.”

“They have the blight, Hero, magic doesn’t work and you know it!”

Hero stood up, dropping Friend’s hand. “Well at least I’m doing something!”

“Something useless! Magic is what brought on the fucking blight and—”

“So what?! You give up just like that,” Hero yelled with a click of their fingers and the candles in the room flared taller, “and rely on failed human remedies for a magic fever?! What, are you going to pray to a mythic god now to save you too? Be my guest!”

“Maybe if you—” Villain said pointing a finger at Hero before freezing, narrowed eyes widening a fraction as they looked down at Friend.

“What?!” Hero barked, throwing their arm wide. Below them Friend moaned and Hero’s anger dissipated as they sat down again, grabbing Friend’s hand. Villain leaned down and wiped away Friend’s hair that stuck to their forehead back.

“Friend,” Villain whispered softly. “Hey.”

“Cah—” Friend mumbled then coughed, their ribs hollowing with their cheeks as they descended into a coughing fit. Villain reached for the cloth and smoothed it down Friend’s face, gently shushing them. After a few seconds it died down, and Friend blinked glazed glassy eyes up at Villain and smiled a watery smile. “Can I not get a mom—” cough “—moments peace with you two?”

“Friend,” Villain smiled shaking their head down at them.

“We’re not arguing, we’re just worrying,” Hero told Friend. Friend turned their head very slowly and smiled at Hero.

“You worry very loudly.”

Hero laughed at that, looking up and meeting Villain’s gaze who was also chuckling softly.

“How are you feeling?” Villain asked, feeling Friend’s forehead with the back of their hand and hissing, sharply pulling their hand back.

“I’m freezing,” Friend said softly, “but other than that dying has been peaceful.”

“You’re not dying,” Hero said, tightening their grip on Friend’s hand. “You’re not.”

Friend huffed out a laugh and asked, “can you name one person who lived from the blight, Hero?”

Hero’s lips quivered against their chin and sniffed, turning their head away to fight the tears that threatened to fall.

“We won’t let you,” Villain told Friend, voice determined. “You can’t die. We won’t let you. We’ll find a way!”

“Stronger covens than us have tried,” said Friend, voice hoarse. “They all failed.”

“We—”

“No we,” said Friend, taking their hand and pressing it gently on Villain’s wrist. They tightened their hold in Hero’s hand and smiled, squeezing both their hands reassuringly. “Me.”

Hero broke down when they felt their connection ignite like a tuning fork finding perfect pitch. Friend’s power was so weak, blipping in and out. Something dark clawing it back as Friend tried to send it out, something trying to snuff out their light. It was ravenous and monstrous and more vicious than anything Hero had ever felt and they cried.

Villain was shaking above them, slowly getting to their knees, mouth open slightly in a slightly shocked expression. This is the first time that Friend had let them feel what they were feeling. The first time and maybe the last time that they would all feel each other’s magic. That they would all feel whole.

“I want you to know that you both mean the world to me. If I could do it all over, I’d always find my way back to you. We are bonded for this life and the next, and I’ll always be here with you. Stop arguing. Stop fighting. Comfort each other, lean on each other.”

“Friend,” Villain blubbered, sniffing back emotion. “Please, please don’t leave us. Please!”

“I’ll hold on,” Friend told them kindly as they let their connection fade. “I’ll hold on until I can’t anymore. I just needed you to know.”

“We love you too,” Hero said wetly.

“More than anything,” Villain agreed.

“Bury me the proper way,” Friend said. “Burn me, let my soul go with the wind. Promise me.”

Villain descended into sobs, so Hero was the one who agreed. “We will, we promise.”

“Good,” Friend said with a soft breath. “Good. I’ll sleep again now, but I won’t go yet.”

Hero felt their energy slowly dwindle until they went limp again in Hero’s hold. Villain’s entire body was shaking, shoulders jerking up and down with the sharp movements. Hero got up from their seat and walked around the bed to Villain and wrapped their arms around them.

“I know, I know,” Hero whispered, rubbing Villain’s back as they turned and buried their face into Hero’s jumper, clawed fingers grasping at Hero’s back and pulling them in closer. Their movements desperate and weighed down with an awful kind of grief.

“We can’t just let them die, Hero,” Villain wailed into Hero’s chest. Hero held them tighter, tears of their own trailing down their cheeks as they looked at Friend’s chest rise shallowly.

“We won’t, Villain. We’ll find a way. We’ll do whatever we can. Whatever it takes. I promise.”

*~*~*~*~*

The next day Hero woke in Villain’s armchair beside the bed, a blanket had been draped over them as they slept. They smiled a little, drawing the blanket closer over their shoulder as they slowly opened their eyes. Friend’s chest still rose and fell. Hero got comfortable and drifted back to sleep.

The smell of coffee woke them up the second time that day. They stretched and let out a sigh feeling refreshed as the blanket fell from their shoulders pooling around their waist. Hero’s eyes went to Friend, their chest rising and falling and then they focused on the coffee.

They rose from the chair, discarding the blanket behind them and walked past Friend’s bed into the kitchen. Villain was standing at the counter, an old tome open in front of them, a steaming cup of coffee warming their hands.

There was another cup of steaming coffee at the end of the counter and Hero smiled, walking towards it and blowing on the black liquid to cool it.

“You’re awake,” said Villain dully, their arm moving robotically as they took a sip from their coffee and turned to face Hero. Villain hadn’t slept in a while, their eyes weighed down with tired bags gathering beneath them.

“Thank you for the blanket,” Hero said.

Villain’s eyes glistened as they met Hero’s. “I found it,” Villain said, swallowing another gulp of coffee.

Hero blinked. “Found what?”

“I found a way to stop the blight,” Villain said, their voice croaking. Hero put their coffee down on the counter.

“Don’t mess with me Villain.”

“I wouldn’t mess about this, Hero. I found— I found a way. We can save Friend.”

Hero didn’t dare let hope bloom in their chest. Not yet.

“Tell me everything.”

Villain hesitated. Hero frowned. “Villain?”

“It’s just— I need, it— it’s a blood spell,” said Villain and Hero nodded. They knew it was something bad. “Listen, Hero I know, but it’s not like your average blood spell, okay? There’s a reason why no one has used it to survive the blight.”

“Okay,” Hero nodded, crossing their arms over their chest. “What is it?”

“The spell requires sanguine blood.”

Hero swallowed the lump in their throat. “Sanguine blood.”

Villain nodded. “I know. If you don’t want to do it—”

“You’re sure it will save Friend?”

“It’s our best chance,” Villain said earnestly.

Hero ignored their gut, ignored the flash of their grandfather’s face telling them to never use their blood in magic. That it was different and they were just guardians of it, that it wasn’t their blood.

But it was.

It was Hero’s blood that Villain and Hero needed to save Friend. The same blood that ran through their veins.

Hero met Villain’s gaze again. “Let’s do it.”

Villain crossed the distance between them in a blink and wrapped Hero in their arms. They were taller than Hero, so Hero’s head hit a hard chest before they knew what was happening and then they wrapped their arms around Villain’s waist.

“Thank you, Hero. Thank you. Thank you.”

Hero just tightened their arms around Villain in reply.

This better work.

*~*~*~*~*

A few hours later Villain came back into Friend’s room and nodded at Hero, running a hand back through their hair.

“Everything’s ready.”

Hero swallowed hard, taking their hand from Friend’s, the soothing spell dying on their lips.

“Okay,” they said because there was nothing else to say. They had agreed to this. Friend needed to be better. Villain nodded and went back to the kitchen, Hero following slowly after. Their hands were shaking so they clasped them in front of them.

Villain was leaning over their black clay bowl of mixed herbs and other ingredients needed for the spell. They smiled encouraging at Hero.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Hero?”

Hero nodded.

“Hero,” Villain said again, and Hero met Villain’s gaze with wide eyes. Villain walked around the table and walked to where Hero lingered by the door. They put a hand on Hero’s cheek. “I need you to tell me you still want to do this. You don’t—“”

“Friend would do it for me,” Hero said, cutting Villain off.

Villain’s expression softened. “That’s not a yes, Hero.”

“Of course I want to do it.”

“Say it again.”

Hero swallowed again. Closed their eyes as they took a deep breath, then exhaled. When they opened their eyes again they were more focused.

“I want to do this, Villain. For Friend.”

“For Friend,” Villain said again. Then they placed a gentle kiss on Hero’s forehead.

Villain withdrew and Hero found themselves chasing their warmth but they caught themselves as Villain returned to the bowl and picked up their wicked looking knife. Made of bone and whittled sharper than a razor, the handle a fine smooth wood.

Hero forced their legs to move and walked over to Villain, standing beside them gazing down dazed into the bowl.

“Uh, I— I need—“”

Hero rolled up their sleeve and held out their arm. “Take what you need.”

Villain’s hand cupped the back of Hero’s and held it over the bowl. With a sharp movement Villain drew the knife over Hero’s palm. Hero hissed and tried to pull their hand back but Villain held their hand firm.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Hero hissed.

It took a moment for the blood to appear, but when it did it streamed quickly down over Hero’s palm into the bowl below. Villain stared eagerly down into the bowl. Hero pulled their hand back once the stream had stopped but Villain frowned.

“What?” Hero asked, the blood having coagulated already.

Villain screwed their lips up. “I— it should have—“”

Hero frowned staring into the bowl.

“It didn’t work?”

Villain didn’t answer. Instead they turned and walked over to the counter where the book sat open on the page of the spell.

“It should have activated the ink.”

Hero blinked down at the bowl. “Yeah. It’s definitely not doing that. There’s barely a shimmer let alone a glow.”

“Maybe I did it wrong—“” Villain muttered.

Hero looked over their shoulder at Villain. “Or maybe we need more blood.”

“Hero—“”

“No. It’s okay,” said Hero already rolling up their other sleeve and grabbing the bone dagger. “It will hurt too much if we go over the same cut, so just use the other hand and go deeper this time.”

“Hero—“”

“Villain, trust me. How many times have we done spells and underestimated one aspect? It has to be the blood.”

Villain crossed to the table again, taking the knife in shaky hands. Hero looked up at them, smile encouraging and nodding. Villain licked their lips as they met Hero’s gaze before looking down quickly again and cupping their hand around Hero’s.

“Good and deep,” Hero said with a nod and Villain let out a breath. Then they sliced. Villain’s hand tightened on Hero’s again as they jerked their hand back and squeezed it, forcing the blood flow out faster.

“Are you—”

“I’m okay,” said Hero, biting their cheek to stop themselves from crying out. They watched the blood pump from their hand, more black than red. Hero remembered learning bright blood is light blood and they wanted to get sick at the colour streaming down their hand.

The pain melted away when the bowl below their hand ignited, glowing a dazzling maroon. Hero retracted their hand and Villain stopped them. Hero looked up at them in question as Villain wrapped a cloth around their palm before tying it off.

Hero didn’t say thank you. Instead they smiled at Villain when they finally released their hand.

“We should go as quick as possible,” Villain said, grabbing the bowl and walking quickly back into Friend’s room, Hero hot on their heels. “Hero would you light the candles and grab the knife from the kitchen?”

Hero clicked their fingers and the room flooded with light, every candle in the room igniting. Hero grabbed the bone knife and returned to see Villain scrawling strange symbols on Friend’s forehead, chest and hands.

“Good,” Villain said, putting the bowl down on the table beside Friend’s bed. “You stand the other side of the bed so the spell is balanced.”

Hero did as they were told and waited. They didn’t know the spell, if there were even any words at all.

“Hero, grab Friend’s hand.” Hero did so. Then Villain was reaching over the bed with an outstretched hand and Hero took theirs too. Hero and Villain held the knife between their palms.

Hero felt the connection sing between them, but there was something different about it. Something unusual. Hero put it down to the fact that they were using their own blood as a catalyst that made their heart lurch in their chest.

Villain started saying the spell and Hero felt their limbs lock into place. Even if they wanted to end it now they couldn’t. The flames around Friend’s bed burst into skinny pillars of flame as was natural with a spell of this nature. The doors slammed shut to the kitchen and the en-suite in Friend’s room.

That was the first pull Hero felt in their energy. They would have collapsed if it wasn’t for the spell keeping them in place.

“Villain—“” Hero called but Villain continued the spell.

There was a roaring in Hero’s ears like the wind was rushing through the house, through their clothes, through their hair like a thunderstorm. Everything seemed to go too fast, too loud, too violent.

Then the bone blade between Villain and Hero’s hand began to burn. Hero hissed in pain as the blade burned their hand as hot as an oven top and Hero screamed as it continued to get hotter and hotter and hotter.

“Villain! Stop!” Hero cried as their energy drained more and more until everything seemed to stop. The flames went back to normal. The wind stopped rushing. Hero’s hand stopped burning.

Then an almighty kick through their energy sent Hero and Villain back to the walls on either side of the room. Hero’s back hit the wall hard enough to knock the wind from their chest as they fell to the ground. Hero groaned, pushing themselves up to their knees. They cried out when their burned hand hit the wooden floor and sat back onto their knees, hissing.

Hero looked at their palm and saw a black symbol branded on it. A half circle, almost whole but fractured and cracked in places. Flames licking the sides of it like a half sun.

Hero glanced up to see Villain who was staring at Friend. Hero followed their gaze and froze in their spot. The bone blade was hovering red above Friend’s bed where Hero and Villain held it between their hands. Only now the red light almost engulfed the room, all the candles blew out and all that was left was the red bone.

Blood spurted from it like an fresh injury, a quick slice to the carotid artery, fountaining out and covering Friend’s bed in blood. Hero pushed themselves to their feet making their way towards Friend’s bed, but was stopped by an invisible wall two feet from Friend’s bed. Hero threw their hand forward but it couldn’t break the barrier, just bounced off.

They looked through and saw Villain doing the same thing from the other side, wide eyes panicking as they threw their shoulder against the barrier.

“Villain?!” Hero called and Villain met their gaze across the room. “What did you do?!”

Villain didn’t answer. Hero called out again, louder, more hysterical. “What did you do?!”

Hero watched as the blood started dripping from the bed onto the floor into a deep dark pool, spreading faster than it should have towards Hero. When the blood reached Hero’s feet it stopped moving. Hero stared down at it, heart hammering against their skull. They could feel the pulse in their throat.

Then a single strand of blood shot out of the pool like barbed wire and imbedded itself through Hero’s wound in their palm. Hero cried out as they were wrenched forward and fell through the barrier. The wire dragged Hero to their knees in the pool of blood by Friend’s bed before a second wire shot out of the pool and wrapped itself around Hero’s other hand.

Hero bit back a startled cry, biting their lips to stop themselves from making any sound. Villain was still pushing against the barrier, stuck on the other side. Screaming Hero’s name and Friend’s name, powerless to help either of them.

Hero closed their eyes and started mumbling a spell under their breath. They had only got two words out before a hand gripped their cheeks and yanked them forward.

It pulled hard on the wires in Hero’s palms and they cried out when they met two golden eyes. Hero froze.

This isn’t real.

This isn’t real.

The hand holding Hero’s cheeks in a merciless grip was attached to a man crouching on the end of Friend’s bed like a gargoyle. He tilted his head at Hero, then tilted Hero’s head with their hand to mimic him. Hero pulled at the barbed wire and grit their teeth to keep from crying out, glaring at the man from the blood.

“You made a mistake, little one,” the man cooed tightening their grip. “You should know that Sanguine blood is sacred. Holy. Surely you have heard the stories, hmm?”

Hero glared at the man remaining stubbornly silent. Then the man let go of Hero’s cheeks and Hero could sit back on their knees again, stretching their jaw and cheeks.

“What is the family motto?”

Hero said nothing. The corner of the man’s lips tugged up into a half smile. Then the blood started moving towards Friend and Hero’s heart leapt into their throat.

“Custos sanguinis!” Hero bit out.

The blood stopped flowing towards Friend and retreated back to the man.

“And what does that mean little one?”

Hero swallowed, something huge dawning on them. Something like terror and realisation all mixed into one and they suddenly felt so stupid for going against their instinct. Their family.

“It is not our blood,” Hero remembered their Grandfather say with urgency in his voice. “We are just guardians of it.”

“Guardians of the blood,” Hero said, their voice cracking weakly.

The man smiled and got off the bed, crouching down to Hero’s level. Two glinting golden eyes stared at Hero, so close, too close. Inhuman and wild.

“Whose blood?” The man asked quietly. Hero shook their head but the man didn’t let them. They reached a hand out and cupped a hand under Hero’s chin. “Answer me, child.”

Hero felt the cold grip of panic seize their throat. “It’s— it’s just a story,” Hero tried but seeing them there in front of Hero, Hero knew they were lying to themselves.

The man’s hand tightened, even though Hero knew he wasn’t really a man.

“Whose blood, child?” He asked, impeccably calm.

“The infernal one,” Hero whispered. The man smiled. The thing smiled showing his pointed canines. He let go of Hero’s chin and stood up letting out a long, luxurious sigh. Then he raised a hand and clicked his fingers and Villain fell through the barrier with a sharp cry. Their hands fell straight into the black blood.

“I haven’t heard that name in so long,” the infernal one said turning to face Villain. Villain was trying to pull their hands back but the blood stuck to them and pulled them back in. “I guess I have you to thank for freeing me.”

“We didn’t know,” Hero said, panic seizing their words, desperate for the demon to turn and face Hero again but he didn’t. His golden eyes were blazing down at Villain.

“I don’t know, child. I think one of you knew,” the man said, a smile in his voice. Hero didn’t care for it though, instead they looked at Villain’s face because surely… but the moment their eyes landed on Villain all they could see was guilt.

Hero couldn’t keep the accusation out of their voice: “You knew?!”

Villain didn’t look at Hero, instead they kept their gaze fixed on the demon. “Yeah. I knew, but it’s the only way to save Friend Hero! You said you’d do anything. Whatever it takes.”

“I like your ambition,” the demon said. “You want me to take away the blight.”

“Yes,” Villain huffed, emotion clogging their throat. “Please. I’m begging you.”

“Villain! Don—” Hero squeaked and then their voice was gone. They opened their mouth to scream but no sound came out. Hero pulled against the wire keeping them in place, trying to get their legs under them and wincing, screaming silent.

“What’ll you give me in return?”

“I freed you,” said Villain. “I was hoping—”

“Nothing is for nothing. The guardian could have told you that,” the demon said, looking over their shoulder at Hero with a wicked sharp grin. Hero grit their teeth and pulled at the wire, getting one of their feet under them until they were dragged back down to their knees. Wires wrapped tight around Hero’s thighs locking them in place. The demon didn’t take away Hero’s ability to cry and tears started streaming down their face. “What will you give me?”

“Anything,” Villain said without hesitation. “Please. Friend is the best of us. They don’t deserve to die. Please.”

The man reached down and put a hand on Villain’s head. Villain stilled, eyes finally crossing the room to Hero. Hero jerked forward but didn’t get far.

“A favour,” the demon said finally and Villain’s eyes flickered up. Hero’s heart lurched in their chest. That was the one thing that Hero’s grandfather had warned them about. Their struggles renewed but Villain didn’t notice, their attention was only on the demon.

“You’ll cure Friend of the blight?” Villain asked.

“They’ll be good as new.”

“I want them healthy, the way they were.”

“You’re not a fool,” the demon hummed. “You have my word. Your friend will be cured.”

“And I want them immune from the blight.”

The demon tilted their head. “Would you like to be immune as well?”

“If it’s not too much to ask.”

“And the guardian?” the demon asked. Hero stilled.

“All of us,” Villain said without hesitation.

“Alright. You have yourself a deal. Stand.”

The blood melted down Villain’s arms and they gingerly pulled their hands back. They glanced at Hero who shook their head. Villain’s expression fixed into an apologetic one.

“It’s the only way, Hero.”

The demon looked over their shoulder at Hero, lips quirked up. “Hero,” the demon said, as if testing how Hero’s name felt on their tongue. Hero glared at the demon, but they probably looked pathetic with their tear stained cheeks.

The demon turned to Villain again and grabbed their hand.

“What’re you—?” Villain asked, but by the time the words left their mouth the demon had already rolled up Villain’s sleeve and curved their fingers into talons befitting of a giant beast.

“Hey, wait— FUCK!” Villain cursed as the demon sliced down Villain’s inner arm, elbow to wrist and stopping in the middle of their palm. Four claw marks gushed deep, dark blood and Hero wanted desperately to look away but horror rooted them in place staring vacantly at Villain.

A river of blood spurted out of Villain’s wound and all colour drained from their face. They looked like they were about to faint and Hero’s heart lurched in their chest screaming Villain’s name.

“There we go, almost done,” the demon said, switching the blade to their other hand and cutting their own wrist. The demon held their wrist over Villain’s wound and let the blood drip slowly down into Villain’s veins. The moment the blood touched Villain’s the wound knitted itself back together with black veins.

Villain was ashen as the blood pumped from their wrist.

“Sssh, ssh, ssh. You’re doing so well, little one.”

After the demon ran their blood down Villain’s wound until it all stitched together again, the demon sliced their wrist again and dropped Villain’s hand. Villain stumbled back a step but the demon grabbed the back of Villain’s head and shoved their wrist against Villain’s mouth. Villain pushed back against it, but they were too weak to fight off the demon in their state.

The demon stepped closer to Villain as Villain tried to step back, shushing them all the while. “It’s almost over, once you ingest my blood the deal is sealed.”

Villain didn’t fight the demon anymore after that. They just accepted the words and went limp in the demon’s arms.

“Good,” the demon said, pulling their wrist away from Villain’s mouth. “Very good. You feel that connection Villain?”

Villain stumbled back. Then they gasped and grabbed their freshly healed arm as if it was in pain.

“Good,” the demon said. Villain looked up through pained eyes before their eyes rolled to the back of their head and they collapsed.

“VILLAIN!” Hero cried, their voice thick and raw as if they had been screaming for hours. The demon turned to face Hero again, golden eyes inquisitive.

“How unusual… I suppose I am over exerting myself on the first day of freedom, but still,” the man said, tilting his head at Hero. “You guardians always did intrigue me.”

“Why?” Hero asked, their voice coming out through shaky whispered breaths.

The man shrugged. “Because I can. Because Villain was desperate, and I am the only thing that could cure the blight. It is my disease after all.”

The shock must have shown on Hero’s face because the demon laughed. “Yes, oh yes. The price for locking me away, Hero. Didn’t any of your bloodline warn you against blood magic? Sanguine blood magic?”

“They were…” Hero said, swallowing hard. Their eyes flickering back to Villain’s body crumpled on the ground. “They were just bedtime stories, not histories.”

“Mmm,” the man hummed. The wires tightened around Hero’s thighs and they winced. “Tell me Hero do they feel real to you?”

“You promised you’d cure Friend,” Hero spat instead.

The demon smiled. “Oh I intend to, and don’t worry. They’re still alive for now. If I let them die then Villain doesn’t owe me a favour anymore and we both know I always cash in on my favours.”

“They didn’t know what they were agreeing to,” Hero pleaded. “Punish me instead, give me the favour.”

The man’s hand morphed into the beast claw if was to cut Villain’s. “If you want Hero I can make you a deal as well.”

“No,” Hero said. “Then you’ll just have us both.”

“So you are intelligent. Good.”

The demon clicked his fingers again and the wires melted away from Hero’s thighs and hands like water. Hero glanced up at the man, waiting for the trick but he didn’t seem bothered by Hero’s suspicion.

“I have been locked away for years, Hero,” the demon told them. “I would really love a cup of tea.”

[cuttingpenisblackmetal]

edit: now on AO3!

in the first week after toki's rescue, skwisgaar figures out how to proceed (post-requiem/pre-aotd, 5k words, tw: references to torture, injury/medical stuff)

-

The doctor goes out of the way to specify that it's not a coma. "He's just tired. God. Don't be so dramatic." Even a human body claimed by prophecy can only endure so much, and Toki's has much to contend with, these days. There's IV antibiotics for the festering hole Magnus has left in his side, a morphine drip for the same reason, IV fluids plugged into the skin further up his arms. There's a glucose monitor plugged into his shoulder alongside the insulin pump, keeping close eye on the damage wrought by several months of untreated diabetes and a diet apparently consisting of, if Toki's bouts of incoherent rambling are to be believed, cat food. A heart-monitor cabled to his chest that almost looks like a stack of amps by the bed. There's medics checking in frequently, changing bandages or administering creams for the shackle-shaped rash around his neck. The periodic anxious visits of band members. The sedative shots they give him every twelve hours, because everyone is still worried about what state his already-fragile psyche will be in when he achieves sustained consciousness, and there's some desire to make his body habitable before forcing him back into it. There's a lot of hand-wringing and touching and disgusting displays of emotion over him. Even for an attention whore like Toki it must be exhausting. He never wakes up for more than half an hour at a time.

Skwisgaar questions the doctor with stoic indifference, like he's just trying to pass the time. He's in that hospital room continuously, keeping vigil at the bedside, and he's taken it upon himself to receive the periodic updates from the band's physician. He is forced to expand his English vocabulary to include words like 'neuropathy' and 'sepsis'. He doesn't understand the fine details of what is told to him (how does one even get sugar in the blood with an all-cat food diet? He's fairly sure there's no sugar in cat food.) He writes down notes for Pickles, because Pickles invariably asks, and then Pickles gets his own reports from the doctor anyways, because Skiwsgaar's notes 'barely count as English', and for some reason Pickles takes issue with the fact Skwisgaar's only remarks are about how his injuries will probably affect Toki's already abysmal guitar skills. They almost fight about it, once, and then Pickles sees something in Skwisgaar's face and cuts short his obnoxious scolding. He leaves Skwisgaar to his lonely vigil by their perpetually unconscious and now functionally useless rhythm guitarist.

They've only had Toki back for a few days, so the fact that Skwisgaar never leaves the bedside hasn't started to cause problems for him, yet. He's stayed up much longer than this before, usually while facing record deadlines and having to re-record guitar parts that had been so handily bungled by the man currently sleeping before him. Surprisingly boredom fails to be a problem. At this point, his life is so shitty and complicated and weird that it's actually a relief to be able to sit in silence, staring at the array of complex medical machinery. He sits for hours thinking everything and nothing at once, strains of random and disarticulated thoughts mingling with ideas for guitar riffs and new song compositions.

He doesn't remember anything from the rescue itself; he's thinking that their next song should feature a canon, two identical guitar riffs played out of time with one another. Being at the centre of a religious apocalypse prophecy is going to fuck with his identity as a nihilist; the canon should feature a melody that starts slow and gains in speed, like a chase. The sight of amateur sutures over an angry red slit in one side of Toki's sunken stomach; his canon won't be any of that classical major-key bullshit he despised in music school, but something epic, something ferocious. An upside-down cross; a dragon chasing a valkyrie through the melting ruins of Greenland, ice flying everywhere, fire ripping through pillars of frost. Toki mumbles something in his sleep, turning his head; Skwisgaar hears clearly a bridge of elaborate harmonic scales plunging in mutual abandon towards a frozen sea. After months of heavy drug use and every best effort at self-annihilation, it comes as a relief to sit with his own thoughts, dark and disarticulated though they are. He hasn't heard music in his head so clearly since before Toki's abduction, since even before Dethklok attempted to break up.

Unfortunately, he is interrupted often. His bandmates are embarrassingly eager to check in on their rescuee, and even Skwisgaar's mumbled warnings that all the attention will go straight to Toki's head doesn't deter them. Murderface comes the most often, usually with some harebrained scheme to try and make Toki "feel better"-- by making him watch Civil War documentaries, by gifting him exclusive Planet Piss merch, by reading him cat memes from his Dethphone-- the fact that Toki is soundly asleep through each visit Murderface doesn't seem to consider a problem, and it is only the appearance of the band physician that succeeds in driving him away (Murderface had acquired a hostility towards doctors that Skwisgaar doesn't care to understand). Pickles has a routine: he comes by three times a day with a bottle in hand, he receives Skwisgaar's update on Toki's condition, he asks Skwisgaar a few incredibly awkward questions about whether he's sleeping or eating much (Skwisgaar does not dignify these with answers), then he goes to Toki's bed, pours a healthy serving of liquor out on the floor near his pillow ('Jus' payin' my respecks!') and stumbles out of the room to find the physician. Nathan visits very rarely, and always seems overly-fragile and distracted when he does, unable to even look at their youngest band-mate except for while Skwisgaar is telling him about his new musical ideas.

"Just, uh…" Nathan concludes one exceptionally uncomfortable visit, hovering in the doorway, "Tell us when he wakes up."

Nobody's remarked on Skwisgaar's constant presence in the room. They haven't commented on the fact that he's been glued to Toki since they found themselves without recollection in the DethBus, and Toki-- emaciated, filthy, incredibly alive Toki-- was tucked under one of Skwisgaar's arms, holding onto his hand with both of his own. If Skwisgaar ever recovers his memories of that night, he'll seriously interrogate his own judgement, how he found himself in the dreadful situation of affectionate physical contact with Toki of all people-- but he'd held him like that for the entire ride home, and he'd practically carried him to the Mordhaus medical wing, and he's not left since. The rest of the band seems to have accepted this as normal-- Toki and Skwisgaar have been ]inseparable since the kid first joined their band more than a decade ago. Skwisgaar's constant presence here is little more than a refreshing return to the status quo.

This works in Skwisgaar's favour, because it means he's the only one who knows that the slumber that grips Toki is not a coma. He's the only one around when Toki wakes.

Toki wakes infrequently, incompletely. Most of the time he's confused when he does; high off his ass on painkillers and sedatives, his brain seems to pick moments from time at random to thrust him into.

Sometimes he seems to think he's a young kid, and he wakes up speaking Norwegian, asking for his mother or begging forgiveness for some chore-related transgression.

Other times he thinks he's in their old apartment, the first Mordhaus. "Skwis-gaar," he whines, without opening his eyes or moving his head from his pillow, "You says we goes to Ikea if de records sells a hundred copies… I buys pekhult."

And sometimes he's back in that abandoned building. "Don't wants no more cat foods, Magnus," he mumbles once to his pillow, "My kitty-friends says he only eats herrings now, you must bring Toki a herrings…"

During Pickles' next visit, Skwisgaar asks him to bring pickled herring, in case Toki wakes up and feels like a snack. The physician overhears. "Are you serious?" he says, "Have you even been listening to me? No solid food until his blood sugar's back under control. Also, pickled herring? He's already been tortured. Dicks."

The worst times are when Toki opens his eyes. It happens rarely-- Skwisgaar glancing up at the bed and finding himself subjected to a sunken-eyed, glassy stare. The first time, now in the harsh light of the hospital room, he notices that Toki's left eye has two new voids at the bottom of the iris, and he stares at them until he remembers that Nathan had blinded Magnus in the left eye. He's so disturbed that he looks away; he hears Toki smugly mumble, "You blinksed, you're a blinkster," and his throat can't manage to form a reply, and Toki falls asleep again soon after.

Probably an iris tear, the physician explains later, someone probably hit him in the eyeball, but is that really the priority here? He's dying of sepsis and you're worried about a cosmetic wound? Jesus.

But most of the time Toki sleeps soundly, and whatever delusions visit him seem pleasant, for he smiles in his sleep. Toki's always been prone to retreating into his own mind during moments of pain and stress-- a habit Skwisgaar understands, with his own tendency to shut down under duress-- however, whereas Skwisgaar's shut-downs draw him into a thoughtless churn of inner music, he's aware Toki finds more comfort in outright fantasies. Of course he's sleeping so much; he's probably off flying through clouds and rainbows in a stupid fairy world on Planet Toki. The real world, where his bandmates let him endure months of literal actual torture because they were scared to address an old drama Toki didn't even have anything to do with, probably seems pretty fucked up in comparison.

On the fifth day they've had Toki back, Nathan enters the room and tells Skwisgaar in no uncertain terms that it's his turn to be a sad piece of shit next to Toki's bed, so Skwisgaar needs to clear the fuck out. Nathan is the one band member capable of making Skwisgaar do anything, and it would be far too humiliating even now for him to fight over his cherished post, so Skwisgaar sulks out of there with only a warning that he'd better not even think about giving Toki any pickled herring. Doctor's orders.

Back in his room he feels intolerably alone-- he hates sleeping alone, how could Nathan not realise that's the only reason he's been in Toki's room all this time, because they're all acting so miserable and sappy that inviting some groupies over would make him look like a total dick?-- trying to postpone his collapse, he takes a shower that feels as if it lasts for years, spends a true hour applying various products to his hair, drinks half of the bowl of beef broth someone left in there for him. He sits with his Explorer for a while, drawing out the preliminary notes of the canon he's been contemplating in Toki's room, but sleep deprivation is turning the melody to mush in his head, everything sounds discordant, inferior, sloppy. Defeated, he throws himself into his bed, attempts to jack off, fails even at that, and, finally, lapses into an unsettled sleep.

Twelve hours later, Skwisgaar wakes in a thrashing panic. He doesn't remember what he dreamed about but he's convinced that everything after the rescue has been an illusion. He swears he remembers holding Toki's corpse. He dresses in a hurry, grabs his guitar, and goes back to the medical ward, trying to keep his pace slow so that nobody might notice his distress.

Inside the hospital room Toki is asleep and not dead. Nathan is also sleeping, doubled over in the chair by the bedside, his face planted into the mattress near Toki's hip. One of Toki's hands is buried in Nathan's hair, clutching a handful of greasy black tresses with a desperate strength Skwisgaar hasn't seen in him since the rescue. Duh, he thinks. Of course that sappy overbearing homo responds to physical closeness. With Nathan's hair to cling onto, he looks more peaceful than Skwisgaar's seen him in a long time.

When Skwisgaar resumes his constant vigil, he sits a little closer to the bed. He has his Explorer, this time, so he can whittle away the hours by composing that canon he's been thinking of. His playing doesn't seem to bother Toki, who sleeps soundly as ever, totally unappreciative of the fact that the world's pre-eminent Guitar God is giving him a private convert at his bedside. He still talks in his sleep, occasionally, and to Skwisgaar's indignation, it's not even about him. "Abigail? Abigail?" he moans out sometimes. Or, "I loves you too, clown, I loves you too." Or, "Fucks you, Moidaface, I goes to the water-parks without you…" He talks to everyone he's ever known at one point or another. He's always been the neediest of them.

But the canon comes along well, despite Toki's unconscious interjections. Sitting in this room, it's easier to recall the notes-- the white of the room evokes the punishing gleam of an ice-sheet, the beeping of the heart-monitor the steady wing-beats of a dragon in flight. The trick is making sure that every note will work with each other when overlaid; it's self-indulgently technical, the sort of music Skwisgaar loves to figure out: compositions that makes him feel like a genius. While Toki dreams his sedated rainbow dreams and argues with nobody, Skwisgaar plays, and he feels better for the practice.

He experiments with things other than music. Toki does seem to sleep more peacefully when someone is close to him or even touching him. When Toki speaks in his sleep, Skwisgaar moves from his chair and sits, instead, at the edge of the mattress, so that his weight dents it. Even this abysmal excuse for physical contact mollifies him, and his nighttime rambling always stops, replaced with a beatific smile. During one of Nathan's scarce visits, Nathan awkwardly blurts out that Abigail told him that she and Toki held each other for much of their captivity, and that his absence made her feel vulnerable. Skwisgaar, a perfectionist, is oddly chafed by the idea that this intrusive producer has managed Toki's well-being far better than he is able to now. As if she didn't realise that spoiling Toki with love will only do him a disservice in the long run.

But he has his composition, now, to serve as an excuse. The physician had mentioned diabetic nerve damage, and Skwisgaar uses a professional interest in Toki's musical aptitude to justify a battery of tests. He starts by pressing his fingertips against the sleeping man's fretting-hand, testing the response (it curls immediately, the fingers twitch towards his.) Next, later, he takes that hand in his own and presses his thumbpad to each of the fingertips; he finds the callouses are still there, but only barely, thin and inadequate over the sharp bones beneath. His next evaluation is to lace his fingers with Toki's. They're much more slender than they once were, even bony, and he doesn't sense much strength in them-- that will have to be rectified with practice, but perhaps the loss of finger-weight will somewhat compensate for any atrophy of skill. When he gropes along Toki's arms he finds them thinner than they were, muscles clinging tightly to bone and stringy under the skin. His shoulders, likewise, feel narrow and flabbier than they once were. Would a loss of muscle tone affect his playing? He factors this into the canon he's writing, forcing himself to run at a lower tempo.

They've had Toki for a week when the physician delivers an update. The major risk of sepsis has passed, it seems, and the nascent infection in the abdominal wound has been abating at impressive speed. The next step is to reduce his sedatives, introduce proper meals, let him regain a degree more consciousness, start thinking about therapy of both physical and psychological varieties. The update is given to Skwisgaar; he resolves not to pass it on to the rest of the band. If they hear Toki will be waking up properly soon, he'll never get them out of here.

So the meds are reduced, and Skwisgaar continues working on his composition. He soon realises that this isn't something he can do easily in analog; he needs a second him, someone to learn the same pattern and play it a few measures behind him, so that he can hear how it's all coming together. The second him he'd need to write this properly is currently sleep-mumbling a Dimmu Burger order, so Skwisgaar just has to make do with his imagination. It's sounding good, despite everything. Not quite as fast or as brutal as he'd like it to be, but he's going to be working with damaged goods, concessions need to be made.

There's one more test Skwisgaar feels he needs to run. The day the doctor cuts the sedatives, Skwisgaar waits until he's certain they won't be interrupted. Then he takes his guitar from his lap and gently, slowly, lies it across Toki's lap. He takes Toki's fretting hand-- the one that's loose, without tubes running from it-- and wraps it around the neck of the guitar. He holds his own breath and Toki's wrist and he waits to see what will happen.

He watches Toki's hand curl around the neck of the guitar. Fingers seek out strings on pure instinct, forming the shape of a nonsense chord, pressing very weakly down. Pure muscle memory. Skwisgaar lets out a long exhale.

Then he glances up and finds that Toki is staring at him bewilderedly. He's frowning, his eyes are puffy and ringed with near-black bruises.

"… Eugh," Skwisgaar says. "Thoughts you might…. urrrh…. needs… to practices."

Toki stares. He blinks slowly. Then he raises his other hand, with its train of tubes, and extends to Skwisgaar one stick-thin middle finger.

Once news gets out that Toki's awake, Skwisgaar bids farewell to his composition time. Toki isn't even really awake-- he still sleeps almost constantly-- but his intervals of waking can now be measured in hours rather than minutes. He can also hold conversations, now, though the painkillers do little to improve his already erratic train of thought. The rest of the band is eager to speak to him, which confuses Skwisgaar, because these conversations always seem to be about nothing. In fact, Toki hardly speaks, but he's awake and vaguely responsive and that seems to satisfy everyone else.

The first real conversation Toki has after waking up is with Abigail. Not twenty-four hours after Toki had begun to enjoy bouts of continued consciousness, they receive the news that Abigail was leaving Mordhaus' medical wing and returning to her own house, in her own city, far from the band who'd caused her so much grief. She comes to Toki's room to say goodbye, and Skwisgaar, still jealously guarding his place by the bed, pretends not to watch as the two abductees embrace each other and weep into each other's shoulders. It is Pickles who drags Skwisgaar out of the room after that first teary embrace. Skwisgaar is forced to join Nathan in miserable exile in the hallway, where they exchange some awkward words about nothing in particular and pretend not to listen into the conversation inside. The words themselves are indistinct, but neither of them fail to notice the genuine love in Abigail's voice, the tender affection with which she comforts the bandmate they'd almost abandoned.

"I think she's uh… mad at me or something," Nathan remarks at one point. "You know, I guess we kind of, uh… took a while… to save them… yeah, I think she's mad at me or something."

"Dat's womens for you," Skwisgaar replies without emotion, staring at the wall.

When Abigail leaves, Skwisgaar elbows back into the room and finds Toki wiping his face with the edges of his blanket. He looks a mess, sitting upright for the first time since he'd been back; his unwashed hair falling limp over jutting shoulder-blades, scarred skin pulled taut over prominent ribs. He looks up at Skwisgaar, both eyes brimming with tears. "She's leavin's me," Toki blubbers, "She's leavin's-- she's leavin's me-- tells her not to leaves me, tells her she can't leaves Toki, Toki loves her more den anythings--"

The first coherent sentences Toki's spoken to him since the abduction, and he's proclaiming his love for some woman they barely know. Skwisgaar makes a derisive sound. "She shouldn'ts has upsets you's." Toki gives him a miserable betrayed look; Skwisgaar ignores him, takes up his post by the bedside, and gets back to work on his canon.

Maybe it's the loss of sedatives, or maybe it's that Abigail's departure breaks something in him, because after that day Toki becomes much more childish. Skwisgaar has always thought of Toki as three different variants of himself: as well as Toki his musical counterpart, there is the fawning crybaby Toki who loves kid things, and the frightening megalomaniacal Toki capable of astonishing violence. He's the crybaby more often now. It makes him easier to deal with in some ways-- he's completely pacified when Nathan starts reading him Watership Down, for example, and Pickles' bringing him a care package of his deaddy bear and several colouring books delights him for a whole day. But the crybaby is also more prone to mood swings than he's ever been before. Skwisgaar finds, to his discomfort, that exchanges which once would've been natural for them now reduce Toki to tears-- any raised voice, any hint of criticism, any cynical statement, and he starts blubbering. It quickly begins to wear on Skwisgaar's nerves.

There's only so much he can take. He concedes. He starts letting his bandmates drive him out of Toki's room so that they can spend their own time alone with him. He has the melody for his canon, at this point, he feels confident about how the notes will fit together. All that's left is to refine it. He starts spending plenty of time in the studio, first recording himself, then playing over the recording. He sits on his hands before he performs the second part, waiting for them to go numb, the way he always does before re-recording Toki's tracks.

He hasn't brought up the canon since Toki's been awake. He's afraid that, if he does, Toki will dissolve under the pressure and start crying again. He'd offered to let Toki practice on his Explorer during one of his first bouts of proper wakefulness, and Toki had been predictable petulant about it, whining that he couldn't practise with those 'stupids tubes' in his arm. He'd shed tears because he'd thought Skwisgaar's offer of practice was an expression of disapproval, so Skwisgaar had stopped bringing up guitars after that, which left him with absolutely nothing to talk about.

It's becoming more and more difficult to ignore that the other band members are so much better at this than he is. Skwisgaar can't stand that he alone is utterly incapable of making Toki feel better. They've always provoked each other, even at their closest, but now that feels less like proof of their bond and more like a glaring fault.

As the week goes on, Skwisgaar visits less and less. It becomes easy to let himself go for days without doing so.

Perhaps it's for the best, his pulling away. The canon hasn't turned out how he wanted it to be. When he first imagined it, he saw fire and ice, dragons and valkyries; somewhere over these awful few weeks it has transformed into something darker and more hopeless. He's anchored the melody with a heavy thud on the lowest string at irregular intervals, which, as the two tracks play over each other, begins to sound like a palpating heartbeat, overlain by anxious minor scales, skittering rats. A pseudo-classical succession of repeating arpeggios evokes churches filled with ghosts. When he listens to his first recording, Skwisgaar finds himself thinking of damp and dungeons, an upside-down cross, crucifixions, shackles, impaled people, burning stars. He listens through it twice, and then he deletes the track.

They've had Toki back for two whole weeks and Skwisgaar is lying on his bed when Pickles lets himself into Skwisgaar's room. "Dood, the're sayin' he'll be allowed out soon," he says triumphantly. "They're takin' him off the drugs and everythin'! He's gonna be okay. You know? He's okay, we can say that now." Finally, a pause. "Uh, hello? Anyone in here?"

"Ugh," Skwisgaar says. He's been staring at the ceiling for the past while, his guitar lying in one arm like a lover, his other hand behind his head.

"You, uh, doin' okay?" Pickles asks. "You heard what I said or…"

"Yueh. Gots it."

A pause. "You should visit him, dood," Pickles says. "He's been askin' about you."

Skwisgaar makes a dismissive sound. Pickles shoots back something about moody teenagers never wanting to leave their rooms, and then he slams the door, leaving Skwisgaar to stare at the ceiling in silence. He's been lying there for some time, trying to decide what to do with the inadequate canon he's composed. He knows he should admit to himself that it's going nowhere, start writing something else, it's not like him to get attached to a failed piece of music. Writing something else sounds less appealing than simply staring at the ceiling. He's been spending a lot of time doing that in the past few days.

It's never going to work no matter how he writes it. The parts may be identical, created for each other, but they are not beautiful when they're combined. The second melody may be equal to the first, but when lagging behind its counterpart it is ugly and discordant, it evokes something resentful, maybe something even hateful, something deeply frustrated. Skwisgaar may have succeeded in evoking the chase he first imagined, but there are no dragons here, no valkyries-- there is a rabbit with a snared leg, designed for speed but failing to run. There may have been magic in this world, once, but Skiwsgaar can no longer capture it. Perhaps it was never his to capture.

And yet, he still wants to capture it.

When he arrives in Toki's room he finds that Toki's fast asleep again. Murderface is slumped over in the chair next to the bed, and a portable DVD player has been set up on Toki's lap; Skwisgaar hears the strains of some corny animated movie over the sounds of Murderface's snoring. He places the two guitars he's holding at the foot of Toki's bed, goes to Murderface's side, shakes Murderface awake. Murderface rouses loudly, begins cursing out Skwisgaar for startling him until Skwisgaar informs him that, if the tantrum wakes up Toki, he'll tell Nathan; the threat of retribution shuts Murderface up, and he takes his DVD player and leaves with only a cursory amount of resentful grumbling.

With Murderface departed, Skwisgaar waits to ensure nobody else will come in. He waits for several minutes.

He meant to wake Toki up. He meant to tell Toki about the song he was composing for them to play. He's brought two guitars-- his own Explorer, and one of Toki's Flying V's, not the show guitars but one Skwisgaar has taken from a shrine-like sconce in Toki's closet, an old battered guitar repaired with duct-tape in places. He'd been going to press the old guitar into Toki's arms and say, practice, for once in your miserable life, and he'll wait out the crying if he had to, and he'll guide Toki's hands onto the strings if it was required. They can't talk like this-- he hasn't been able to talk-- they need to play together if anything worth saying is to pass between them, and so Skwisgaar needs Toki to learn to play again. These past several months have been so desperately lonely.

Lying motionless in the hospital bed, his wounds barely beginning to heal, Toki looks absurdly like the guitar Skiwsgaar's brought to him-- second-hand, hard-worn, duct-taped back together. Skiwsgaar once scoffed at the idea of playing on such an instrument unless out of sheer desperation, but here he is.

He leaves the guitars at the foot of the bed.

Toki is fast asleep, and he remains asleep as Skwisgaar climbs onto the mattress next to him. He feels ridiculous, like a kid crawling into his mother's empty bed, desperate not to be alone. If anyone catches him he'll take all the morphine from that drip and kill himself on the spot. Awkwardly, trying to avoid any physical contact, he positions his body parallel to Toki's. His feet hang off the edge of the bed, dangerously close to the guitars; his head is on the mattress by Toki's shoulder. So positioned, choking on the shame of it, he tries to settle. Toki smells like blood and sweat and antiseptic.

Everything is already so fucked up, everything is already falling apart. They're embedded in some sort of apocalyptic prophecy and nothing will ever be the same. Carefully, Skwisgaar extends one arm and rests it over Toki's lap, low enough to avoid the wound Magnus has created. In theory he's cuddled with people before, but it's been a long time, he doesn't do that with his hook-ups, it's too much. This feels different. He doesn't know what he expected. Not this-- disproportionate smallness, horrid vulnerability. Toki isn't even awake to ridicule him for it, so he doesn't understand why it's so difficult. He shifts a little on the mattress, astonished by how uncomfortable it is. How could they have made Toki endure sleeping on this for weeks?

Suddenly there is a hand in his hair.

Skwisgaar freezes. He sees his life flash before his eyes. He thinks about jumping out of the window. He tries to think of any plausible excuse and finds nothing.

Toki's fingers tangle themselves in his hair, the tips of them sliding soothingly along his scalp before picking up a lock and squeezing it.

"Ams okay, Skwisgaar." Toki mumbles it as if he's just woken up. "There, there. Ams okay. Everything's okays now."

His fingers still move in Skwisgaar's hair. This is mortifying. He doesn't move away.

He shifts closer, lies his body against Toki's side, hides his face in the side of Toki's sharp ribs. Thank Odin, he does not cry, but he's guilty of sniffling a bit. Toki strokes his hair back, then pats him in a friendly way between the shoulder-blades.

"There, there," Toki repeats himself. "Ams okay, ams heres now. Don't worries, ol' Toki's right here to looks afters you."

Is Toki mocking him? Skwisgaar wants Toki to be mocking him-- it would be so normal, so comfortable. But the hand stroking Skwisgaar's hair feels too sincere. He grinds his face into Toki's ribs, marveling at his own shamelessness. Toki is literally the last person in the world who should be comforting him-- it should be the other way around-- none of these thoughts can persuade him to move away. He just lies there, a charlatan, a fraud, a weakling. Toki's playing with his hair again, petting him like a cat. He is so humiliated he could die. He does not move away.

Things have changed; Skwisgaar understands this. He knows things will never again be the way they once were. But at last, miserable and comforted and in spite of it all at peace, he understands something crucial about their weird new fucked up lives:

The end is not nigh.