#whumptober prompts this year go HARD

[noes-pillow]

to the resurgence of ppl sending kudos to my vnc fics i love you

[jasmines-library]

Good Enough

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WHUMPTOBER DAY FIFTEEN :Prompt: Childhood trauma/"i did good, right?"

Summary: After Bruce rescued you from an abusive family and adopted you into his own, you worry that you haven't done well enough for him on your first patrol.

Warnings: mentions of an abusive family.

Word count: 700

MASTERLIST ⛤ WHUMPTOBER 2024

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You had been training for this your entire life. Or at least your entire life with Bruce Wayne. He had taken you in from a young age. He had seen your potential and rescued you from an abusive situation. He took you from your lowest; from a place where you were unappreciated, to one where you were loved and cherished. Bruce had trained you hard over the years, helping to build up your abilities brick by brick. He had given you something to work towards. And you had finally gotten there. But you felt like you had to repay him. Like you had to live up to the expectations cast down on you from the generations of previous Robins. 

An anxious feeling simmered in your chest as you shadowed Batman through the city. This was your first patrol, and the anxiety had forged together with this unexplainable excitement that bubbled up inside you. It was exhilarating. Darting across the rooftops was all that you had imagined yet so much more at the same time. It was supposed to be a nice, quiet and easy night based on recent activity in Gotham. But of course nothing is ever simple and soon you and Bruce were dashing over to the other side of the city to stop some thieves from robbing a high end jewellery store. 

You skidded to a halt at the sound of smashing glass under the blaring of the sirens. You could see the thieves halfway down the street ahead of you, their bags full as they sprinted away. You were hot on their heels forcing your legs to go faster as you tried to keep up with Bruce and to catch them. The pair turned a corner down an alleyway. This was your chance. You knew the streets well; you had been studying them as part of your training. So, instead of following them you continued on straight before taking a left coming out in front of them. 

The thieves didn’t notice you at first and proceeded to hop the fence before landing straight in front of you. You readied your weapon and adopted a fighting stance like you had been taught. You were ready to fight. But the minute they straightened up, you were hit with an immense sense of fear. 

They looked like your parents. 

Tall and lean, the figures now resembled your birth parents as they loomed before you. Their words rang in your ears, telling you how much of a disappointment you were. How you were a waste of space. Ungrateful. You froze. Lost for a moment as you were struck with all of your childhood trauma. But then you caught a glimpse of Batman’s cape and were reminded of why you were out here. Reminded that you were loved. 

Raising you weapon you lunged forwards first. Landing a quick blow to the shorter criminal’s side, you tackled them down to the ground. Very quickly, Batman joined in the fight and the alley was filled with a flurry of punches and rouge kicks. It didn’t take long before the two were on the ground and in handcuffs, ready for the GCPD to take away. 

Batman straightened and placed his hands on his hips as he took in your work. He then turned to you, his gaze impossible to tell from under his mask. He could tell that there was a slight hint of fear underlying the look you had plastered on your face. So, he crouched down to your level, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder. He could tell that something was up, but he wasn’t quite sure what. 

You swallowed thickly before asking nervously “I….i did good, right?”

Bruce’s face softened almost sadly. He knew that you had been through a lot. Far too much for anyone to go through, let alone a child. “So good, kiddo.”

“...you mean it?”

He gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze before deciding to just pull you straight into a hug. “Of course. I’m so, so proud of you. You did amazing, kiddo. Better than I could have ever asked for.”

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<- DAY FOURTEEN ⛧ DAY SIXTEEN ->

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TAGS:

@hearts4robs @kingshitonly @alicedawitchbish @hell-o-kittys @azure-drag0ness @harleycao @thewhispersofthewaves @batfamsstuff @xxrougefangxx @rosecentury @noisymutantherelol @killxz @rhiodes @inlovewhithafairytale @that-wannabe-vangoghgurl @canthavetoomuchchaos

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[teddy06writes]

Whumptober Masterlist/Overview

Hey guys! I'm going to be attempting to participate in Whumptober this year (though admittedly I did kind of mash together a few different prompt lists). I have about 20 days planned out right now, and I really hope to get through them, but no guarantees unfortunately, because I do have other stuff going on in my life. Also most of these are in fact just going to be hurt/comfort because I am a weak man. Also yes I am aware that the variation in these characters is kind of insane, don't come at me.

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Day One - Survivors Guilt/"It's not your fault." - Robert 'Bob' Floyd - An accident during a training hop leaves your WSO badly injured, and you can't help but blame yourself. Bob makes it his mission to convince you otherwise.

Day Two - Migraines - Darry Curtis - Juggling a migraine and the Curtis gang is not the easiest thing in the world. Luckily, Darry is there to come to your rescue and tell the others off

Day Three - Overstimulation - Diego Hargreeves - (1960s, autistic Reader) - Between the prison break, Diego's strange brother, and home movie footage showing the assassination of the president, your not sure how much more you can take.

Day Four- Field medicine/"Hang on, we're going to have to improvise." - Fili - Even with the battle beginning to turn in your favor, there are still many losses to come, no matter how hard you work to prevent them.

Day Five - "You don't need to earn this." - Tommy Shelby - When your surprises and gentle treatment catch Tommy by surprise, he questions what he'd done to deserve it.

Day Six - Hostile environment/"I don't know how anyone could survive that." - Alfie Solomons - (War Era, Male Reader) - A poorly planned attack leaves you stuck in no mans land. Even if you make it back to the so called "safety" of the English trenches, nothing will ever be the same.

Day Seven - Needles/Stitching - John Shelby - After being sent on another needless errand by his brother, John returns late, exhausted and bloody.

Day Eight - Panic Attack - Aaron Hotchner - When a case that hits too close to home has too many missing pieces, and seemingly no end, you can't help but fall prey to a growing sense of panic.

Day Nine - Falling Asleep in a hospital room - Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw - When a training incident gone wrong lands Bradley in the hospital, you take it upon yourself to stay with him.

Day Ten - "Shhh, I've got you now, I'm here." - Alfie Solomons - Sabini's men kidnap you in a desperate attempt to get a leg up on your husband. When Alfie finds out, he's ready to burn the world down to get to you.

Day Eleven - Chronic pain - Boromir - The first day of a cold spell causes your pain to flare up, but you're determined to grit your teeth through the pain. Boromir however, is determined to get you to rest.

Days Twelve - Fourteen Break Days

Day Fifteen - Hiding an Injury - Aragorn - Somewhere in the thicket of Helms Deep, you're injured, but in the chaos that follows, doing anything about it seems to slip your mind.

Day Sixteen - "I did good, right?" - Umbrella Academy Unit - A mission gone wrong forces you to over use your powers, pushing you too far.

Day Seventeen - Bleeding Through Bandages - Kili - After being injured in escaping the Orcs, Oin does his best to heal you, but miles down the road, it doesn't seem to be enough.

Day Eighteen - Nightmare - Alfie Solomons - Night after night, you are plagued with nightmares, and Alfie seems to be the only thing that can cure them.

Day Nineteen - Scars - Diego Hargreeves - While patching Diego up after a fight, you see his scars for the first time.

Day Twenty - "Who did this to you?" - Dallas Winston - You get jumped, Dally plots revenge.

Day Twenty One - "You haven't done anything wrong." - Aaron Hotchner - (Autistic reader) - After a particularly long day, you find yourself overwhelmed and unsure. Luckily Aaron is there to help you calm down, no matter how much you protest.

Day Twenty Two - Chronic Pain (again) - Alife Solomons - Getting Alfie to take a day off when his sciatica is bothering him is a full time job.

Day Twenty Three - Exhaustion - Darry Curtis - Darry has been working himself to the utter bone. You take it upon yourself to make him rest.

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These might not get posted consecutively, but I'll do my best.

[lovesick-x-prince]

Ello, with sending whumptober numbers for Scarian, 10 and 19 mayhaps >:)

Prompt: Blow to the Head - Slurred Words | Passing out From Pain | “I can’t think straight” Fandom: Third Life Pairing: Desert Duo/Scarian Notes: I went with number ten. <3 This is another prompt that ended up becoming aligned with Nobody Feels Like You. This time, if you haven't read NFLY, you may have a hard time understanding some parts of this. However, if you have read NFLY (and you're all caught up), you might spot some hints of upcoming chapters, since this is set in the 'future.'

“Lay down,” Scar urged, his hands gentle but firm on Grian’s shoulders as he pushed the avian into his nest. Grian stared at him, eyebrows furrowed and mouth tugged into a frown, the uneven size of his pupils made clear in the intent look.

“It’s not… night,” Grian decided after a moment, glancing over to the window. Even as he spoke, he squinted in pain, overwhelmed by the brightness of the day. Scar winced, hurrying to grab an extra blanket from the nest to cover the window. As soon as the room became awash with darkness, Grian seemed unnerved, wings shifting as he tried to sit up in the nest. “Is it night?” he demanded, alarmed at the swift change.

“No, no - Grian, lay down,” Scar insisted again, hurrying back to his partner's side. “Everything is fine, you just hit your head.”

Badly, he didn’t add. We used up all our healing supplies in the last battle, he tried his hardest not to think.

As he pushed Grian down again, he raised one hand to gently feel over Grian’s head, his heart dropping at how wet it was with the avian’s blood. “I need to get you food so you can start healing,” he decided, heart racing in his chest as he tried to leap to his feet again.

Before he could properly stand, Grian’s hands moved to grab his wrists, yanking Scar down into the nest with him. Scar exhaled roughly at the sudden rough treatment, instinctively trying to struggle away before he was able to remind himself it was just his partner touching him.

Appearing alarmed by Scar’s struggles, Grian rolled quickly to half-pin Scar below him, one heavy wing falling across his body to help pin him in place. “W - wait,” Grian stuttered, voice slurred.

“Grian!” At Scar’s shout, Grian winced again, his hand shooting up to grab at his head. Scar flinched, and lowered his voice. “You need to let me up! You’re hurt. I need to get you something to eat, you won’t be able to heal without it. I’m not leaving. I’ll be right back.”

Grian didn’t like it when Scar was far away. After being partners for over half a year, Scar understood this well. He could even relate to it. These days, when everyone was starting to fight, when Scar had witnessed explosions, battles, seeping wounds, and death with his own eyes, he couldn’t bear it when Grian was far away, either. He had no way of knowing whether or not Grian was safe if he couldn’t see him.

Grian was yellow. He’d already lost one life. Scar couldn’t stand it if he lost another.

So he understood Grian’s reluctance to let him go. Combined with his concussion, Grian likely felt even more clingy and paranoid than usual.

“I don’t…” Grian shuddered over him. He lowered his hand from his head, curling it into the fabric of Scar’s shirt instead. “I… I can’t think straight… Scar, don’t - I can explain,” he insisted, his voice suddenly urgent.

“There’s nothing you need to explain.” Scar wiggled enough to get one hand free, and brought it around Grian to gently brush over his feathers, hoping it would calm the avian. He would fight Grian if he had to, push the avian forcibly aside, but he’d really, really prefer to avoid that. “Sush… we’re both fine -”

“I’m not your enemy,” Grian continued, regardless. His words were a mess, slurring together at this point, and Scar had to work to untangle and understand them. “I’m not really the Regent.”

“I… don’t know what you’re talking about,” Scar said, sighing. It seemed like the concussion was worse than he thought.

“I’m not with Dogwarts, I’m not -”

“I know, hey, I know! You would never work with them,” Scar scoffed. The very idea was ridiculous. Grian had made it very clear what his stance was when it came to Dogwarts. An alliance wasn’t possible, not when it came to Ren and Martyn.

Grian fell quiet for a moment. Then, he continued. “... You’re okay, living with Scott and Timmy?”

“We don’t live with them,” Scar said, trying his best to be patient. “We live on Monopoly Mountain, remember?”

“... Monopoly Mountain,” Grian repeated, “yes. It’s… big.”

“... Not that big, no.”

“... Underground?”

“No, it’s not underground, either.” Scar’s gentle touches seemed to help, somewhat. Grian was slumping down against his chest. Scar could feel the dampness of blood on his chin, where Grian was curled up, head pressed up against Scar’s neck. “It’s a beautiful home in the Sand Lands, where we live together. Holding monopoly over all the sand, to the jealousy of the rest of the server.”

“... I killed you with the creeper?”

“No. I’m green, I’m okay. I’m safe. You’re safe, too.”

Grian nodded, weakly. “... You’re gonna win, Scar.”

“... Maybe.”

Scar waited for Grian to continue, but the avian was silent. After a moment, Scar gently nudged him, but even that didn’t cause him to stir. Alarmed now, Scar half-sat up, moving Grian around to lay him down against the mess of blankets once more. It seemed like Grian had passed out. From the blood loss, or the pain? What if there was some internal injury Scar didn’t know about?

Scar put all thoughts of Grian’s odd words out of his mind. He needed to get Grian food, now.

He got to his feet, and quickly rushed to the kitchen.

[ifitmeanslosingyouthenno]

hold on (you must be hurting)

day 15 whumptober prompt: childhood trauma | painful hug | “i did good right?”

david was tired of his kids having to confess their darkest secrets for the entire world to judge and know and scrutinize

first it was the twins during aaron's trial, now it was neil for nathan's

it was fucking unfair to have his kids have to relieve their nightmares for the sake of proving they were only trying to save themselves

at least, with the twins, they had their small and unconventional family, they had nicky, they had their respective partners, they had betsy (andrew had betsy)

david could at least breathe knowing that they had someone to rely on, someone who could hold them up when they felt like falling, someone who could get them back together after it was over

after aaron was declared innocent thank fuck

david can't have the same reassurance about neil

not after his resident danger magnet decided he didn't want anyone with him during the trials up in dc, not even andrew

something that andrew obviously didn't appreciate

but david tried to understand him, even if his motives are stupid, tried to understand how hard it is for him to relieve every one of his father's crimes he remembered, tried to understand how he didn't want them to look at him and see his father, or worse, see his father's son

he was going to be there for the kid when he got back and innevitably broke down, when he forced his exhausted body on the court to get all that stress out until he couldn't go any longer

he was going to make sure both him and andrew were okay and well and safe

at least that was his plan until the redhead himself calls him one night before he's meant to return, voice shaky and smaller than he has sounded in years

"hi coach, i know it's kinda sudden, but can you come to dc tomorrow?"

it brings back harsh memories, of a new years eve turned sour in the form of a beat up neil, of a marked neil against his will

"what time do you want me there kid?"

he says kid out of habit, but neil hasn't ever felt quite as child-like as he does when he sighs out of relief loud enough the phone picks it up

"i have to be at the court at 8"

he doesn't have to say it, david hears the "can you be here before that?"

"text me the address kid"

david just lets matt know he's going to have to act as coach and captain for tomorrow, avoids answering why, just tells matt he'll give him a bottle of whatever he wants when he gets back

he has the decency to let andrew know as well, that he's had an emergency with one of his recruits out of the state that he needs to take care of

david knows that andrew suspects something is going with neil, but is counting on his refusal to ask for things, not to mention his deep respect for neil setting a boundary

he gets two of hours of sleep at most, and leaves just at midnight, making the seven hour drive up to DC with enough coffee in his system he doesn't even feel tiredness pull at him

neil is waiting for him in the lobby of the shitty hotel they stashed him in, a couple of too obvious feds around him, failing to pretend they aren't there to protect him

it makes david's blood boil

neil looks small sitting on a too big chair, picking at his cuticles hard enough that david would bet he's bleeding

at the motion of his entrance, neil looks up, and david's heart clenches in his chest at the sight of his bloodshot eyes and the deep bags under them. he's practically swimming in andrew's oversized jersey, and despite it not making sense, he looks as if he's lost weight in the past 4 days

neil's hands are twitching, and it takes everything in david not to reach for him and hold him close, but instead he thanks his foresight of buying him a breakfast muffin and a fruitcup in a diner he found on his way, and he hands neil the takeout bag

neil takes it with shaky fingers, silent, but his eyes speak enough in his stead

david doesn't push him

"i see the feds still suck at blending in"

that brings the smallest of smiles to neil's face, and he opens the takeout bag, staring at the muffin and the diced fruit with eyes bright and emotional, before taking a deep breath

"tell me what i've missed"

it's the only words neil speaks the entire time they're in that hotel lobby or on the ride over to the court, but david is more than happy to distract him with talks of practice the last 4 days

he makes sure to also let him know about how andrew and his foxes have been doing, about how they've been safe

the next thing he knows, they're entering a courtroom, mood somber and cold and wary

david sees the change in neil, sees the way he doesn't seem like he's there at all, but somewhere else entirely, and he talks over the things he's been and the horrors he's lived through as if they happened to someone else, as if it doesn't affect him still

if nathan wesnisnki and his circle weren't dead, nothing would stop david from going after them himself, not after everything they put neil through, not after they hurt him as bad as they did, not after they tortured him as a literal fucking child

he can't ever imagine being so cruel, being such a fucking piece of trash as a human, that you willingly abuse and torture and almost kill your own fucking child

he wouldn't imagine killing your child's mother in front of them, just for daring to want to get a chance at a better life, away from violence and crime and everything the wesninski and moriyama families did

(even if to david's knowledge, mary hatford was no saint either)

he's shaking with anger once they let neil walk off that stand, looking defeated and half gone and suffering

he wants nothing more than to jump that wooden barrier and get to neil’s side as he sits by the fbi agents protecting him

he has to stop breathing when almost shily, neil looks up and searches for david's gaze, meeting his eyes just enough that his shoulder lower oh so minutely, but it's everything

they go on a break, one where neil silently sits curled up in the corner of the bathroom, one of his guards with his back to the door, and one of david's cigarettes clutched tightly between shaky fingers

david himself aches for one, but he knows neil needs them more than him, even if he doesn't actually smoke them

from then on, neil is only called up to the stand one last time, and he looks so bone deep exhausted david is trembling with rage

how dare they make his kid tell them all of this again? hasn't he been through enough? hasn't he told them enough? what more could they possibly need?

and how dare they demand this from him?

by the time they let him stand, his legs are shaking so bad he stumbles once and has to catch himself on the stand, leaving the judge to stare at him with pity

where was that pity when they were forcing him to retell the worst moments of his life?

the moment the judge announces that nathan wesninski is found guilty of first degree murder of at least 34 people, at least the same amount of kidnappings, torture, fraud, withholding information from a federal investigation, and many other things, david is sprinting towards the flimsy doors separating him from his kid

he has no idea what neil needs right now, but whatever it is, he's going to be by his fucking side, he's not letting these bastards torture him any longer

neil is looking for david too, and it makes something in him break when he looks at those eyes brimming with tears

neil surprises him when he throws himself at david's chest, all but collapsing with his arms around his waist before david can even blink

neil josten is hugging him

neil josten who once upon a time flinched away from him when he moved too fast, neil josten who has the worst things in life associated to men old enough to be his father, neil josten who has never seeked out support this explicitly

the same neil, his neil

it's not until he notices neil's shuddering breaths, that he breaks out of his shock, and pushes past the discomfort, pushes past his own walls, pushes past his hurt, and he throws his arms over neil's shoulders as gently as he can

he feels neil trembling, doesn't know if it's out of grief, or pain, or shock, but he does his best to be what he needs, awkwardly soothing him with gentle movements

it doesn't last more than a minute or two, before neil is pushing away softly, gathering his strength to stand up on his own, breathing steady despite it all

his voice remains soft, softer than david has come to associate with him, closer to a whisper than anything else, and neil can't quite stop the waver in it

"i did good right?"

and david wants to scream, wants to curse the world who has hurt his kid so badly, wants to scream at the fbi for being unable to find proof of everything that bastard ever did before it was this late, wants to scream at them for not protecting neil sooner

he takes a deep breath and doesn't do any of that, doesn't let his expression be true

he places a hand on neil's shoulder, easing some more of that tension off his small frame

"yes you did kid, i'm really proud of you, you know?"

neil doesn't quite smile, but his eyes finally soften, finally ease

david doesn't understand how anyone could never hurt his children

because they were his, even if he didn't dare admit it, even if some were the biggest assholes on the planet, even if some were problematic beyond repair, even if some just couldn't stop themselves from tauting the literal fucking mafia

they were his children, david's, and he would rather chop off his own hands than hurt them

he would give his own life to keep them safe

he would do anything for them

"come on kid, let's go home"

(he would never admit that his bond to neil was different than that with anyone else, not even to himself)

idc if it's ooc for neil to hug wymack, they're father and son to me and neil wants to hug wymack and who am i to stop him, you can pry dadmack from the cold hands of my corpse title from son by palace (hugely recommend it for the purpose of this day's vibes)

[onceuponastory]

the day i lost you - bucky barnes x reader

Still remember how you taste Somewhere in the bitter and the sweet dream Do you think of me standing in a summer haze? When we were gonna be okay? - january rain by PVRIS

Plot: In the aftermath of The Blip and her boyfriend Bucky turning to dust, Y/N finds a voicemail from him... sent the day she lost him. Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader Warnings: Mentions of death, or at least Bucky is presumed dead (obviously we know Bucky isn't dead but we all thought he was after Infinity War, let's be honest) and grief. And of course, some angst. But as always, if I miss any triggers, please let me know. Notes: This is for @whumptober Day 24. I used the prompt: "Goodbye Note". I also combined it with the @angstober "The Day I Lost You" prompt. I was once again sad and listening to PVRIS as I wrote this, so now you can be too :)

Not beta'd, so any mistakes are my own.

Stepping over the threshold into her apartment, Y/N drops her bags to the floor with a tired groan. The rain still pounds down outside, the sound echoing through the building. As a personal assistant to Tony Stark himself, Y/N’s working life is extremely busy. And since The Blip, she’s busier than ever, constantly being pulled into meetings with little time for herself. For the past few weeks, she’s been away at a conference with the surviving Avengers, working on a solution to The Blip. This is the first time she’s had to breathe in about a year. And that also means it’s the first time she’s been home since it all happened, since her boyfriend and some of her best friends turned to dust.

And she’s never felt so alone.

Of course, Y/N knows that dating an Avenger, let alone the Winter Soldier himself, comes with its own risk. Especially the risk he may never come home. But although it’s always been at the back of her mind, seeping into her every thought whilst he’s away on a mission… Bucky came back safe so many times that the worry dissipated. Foolishly, she believed he was indestructible, and that he’d always come home to her.

Until he didn’t.

Tears spring at her eyes then, and she furiously tries to wipe them away. She’s done enough grieving over the last year. Enough hoping that he’s coming back, only to end up disappointed. There’s only so much pain you can take before you can’t go on anymore. And Y/N crossed that line a long time ago.

The red light on her answering machine blinks back at her, and she sighs, rubbing her temples and closing her eyes, hoping that when she opens them, the light will be gone. But no matter how hard she tries, it’s still there, and she groans. The last thing she wants to hear right now is more “I’m sorry to hear about Bucky” and “We understand how much it hurts, but he’s in our thoughts.” Nobody will ever understand how much it hurts. Even the other Avengers. 

Because Bucky isn’t just in her thoughts. He’s everywhere. He still occupies the empty space in her bed, his laughter still fills the halls, his singing echoing from the shower. He’s the whisper in the wind, the faint scent of his cologne whenever she enters a room, and that still clings to her clothing like a safety blanket. He’s the shiver up her spine, the faint feeling of a hand holding hers, an arm wrapped around her waist.

It’s like he never even left.

Y/N presses the button, bracing herself for the onslaught of messages to come. “Hey sweetheart. It’s me-” As soon as she hears her mother’s voice, Y/N deletes the message. She’ll deal with her and her incessant questions later. She means well, of course, they all do. But the last thing she wants is to be pestered, reminded of her pain over and over again. They may mean well, but there’s nothing they can do. There’s nothing anyone can do. The other message is boring, a message about her car’s extended warranty that gets deleted almost immediately.

But when she hears the voice in the next message, she collapses to her knees. “Hey doll.” Bucky speaks. It's the first time she’s heard his voice - actually heard it - since he left. As soon as she hears him speak, she can see the smile on his face, and hear the laughter in his tone. Her presence always brought a smile to Bucky's face, even on his worst days. Because he loves her. …Loved her.

Hearing Bucky’s voice again, so soon after losing him, causes all her pent-up emotions to erupt, a year's worth of pain spilling over. As the first of her sobs break through, Bucky’s voice continues. “Just checking in to see how you are and keep you updated. Steve and the others are here…”

“Why didn’t I answer the call? I could’ve stopped them!”

“... and we have a game plan now to stop this asshole. Before you know it, I’ll be back home in New York with you, my favourite girl.” Her chest heaves, and she sobs even harder. “I miss you so much, though. The guys keep pestering me about it, but I don’t care. I love you, Y/N, and I want the entire world to know.” That sends her over the edge. A painful, anguished wail rips through her, the sound filling the room. Y/N’s full body shakes, and she clutches at her chest. “I hope you’re doing well and staying out of trouble.” Bucky chuckles. “Keep me updated. But I’ll see you soon enough, anyway.” 

“Why didn’t I answer? Why didn’t I answer?!”

“I better go, Steve’s shouting at me. Think the mission is about to start.” 

Y/N sits up, trying to grab the phone to dial Bucky’s number and tell him she’s still here, that she still loves him. Hoping that he’s there on the other side, waiting for her.

“Bye doll. See you soon. Love you always.” And then, the line goes dead, the dull beeping noise going right through her. Picking up the phone, she dials Bucky’s number, holding it to her ear as her heart pounds.

“Please… please…” she begs. "Just answer me Bucky... please."

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

“Hey! This is Bucky. I can’t talk right now, and I don’t really know how these things work.” He chuckles, the sound forming a small glimpse of warmth in her belly, and Y/N even laughs softly too. She was there when he recorded that message, her best efforts to teach him the wonders modern technology still not sinking in. Not that it matters now, though. None of it does. She just wants him back. “So I guess if you leave a message, I’ll call you back?”

And he always called her back. Even if it was a day, a week or even a month late. Bucky always called her back. But he won’t call back. Not this time. 

She tries to speak, to say something, anything, to Bucky's voicemail. If there's even a chance he could hear it, she wants him to know how much she loves him, and how much she misses him. Yet she can't say anything through her tears.

When the call disconnects, Y/N sinks to her knees, huddling into a ball as the sobs rack through her entire body. 

She’s alone again. 

And she always will be.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Please follow @onceuponastory-library and turn on notifications to be notified when I next post!

[quietlyimplode]

A break from whumptober.

For @oceanspirit9 may the day be kind and the year be kinder.

.

The beach laps slowly and Natasha feels at peace.

The holiday has been Clint’s idea. The last month had been trying at best and they’d felt that they needed to do something to redeem it.

Fury seemed annoyed at the prospect of both of them taking leave, but Maria has nullified his responses by arguing that if he didn’t let them go, it’s likely they would need a longer stint of leave later on.

“A week,” he’d said, “and you’d better be back refreshed and ready to go.”

With that, Clint had opened his laptop and booked flights to Tunisia, knowing that Natasha would enjoy the palm trees and multitude of cats that seemed to be everywhere.

“Nat?” Clint yawns from the adjacent beach towel, propping himself on his elbows and looking out to the expanse.

“I’m glad to be here with you,” he says.

She cocks her head and batters sand towards him.

“What made you say that?”

The words, though welcome, seemed out of place as they’d been talking about eggplants just before.

“I don’t know,” he says laying back down, his arms on his chest with a smile.

“I just feel lucky.”

Natasha takes in his words, mirrors his position and lays down, not feeling the need to fill the silence that follows.

Time passes, into mid morning, the slowness of the day pleasant even as her stomach growls.

“Food?” She prompts Clint, as he puts down his book and looks over to her.

“Sure,” he agrees readily.

His eagerness endearing, she asks him what he wants, the indecision often feeling hard when they were away, the options too vast and open.

“Cake,” he decides quickly, as though reading her mind.

“Something sweet?”

He nods.

“Of course, then maybe some real food.”

Natasha grins, wrapping the towel around her and helping him to her feet.

“Do you have a favourite cake?” Clint asks, frowning as though the question should have been asked a lifetime ago.

They move slowly to the café they’d found on the first day, the older woman who’s shop it was, recognising them and ushering them to, what Clint could only assume was the table she considered the best, the only one with a view of the ocean, unimpeded by palm trees.

They both nod to her and she hands them the menu.

Natasha looks down, finding a cat with white paws asleep at her feet and she smiles.

“Kitty,” she whispers.

“I don’t know,” she answers Clint.

“I like cheese cake,” Clint decides, “in case you were going to ask.”

Natasha laughs.

“Sure. Cheese cake. I like Turkish delight,” she answers. “But the rose flavoured one with pistachio.”

“Fancy,” Clint agrees.

“What do you feel like? Samsa or Baklava?”

Natasha scoffs.

“Baklava, of course,” she replies, pointing to it on the menu for the woman hovering. Then considers lunch, ordering two coffees and two fricasse - one without lemons for Clint.

She looks to the ocean, still thinking of the way it lapped in and out and the quietness that it imbued in her mind.

“I’m going to get up for sunrise tomorrow,”she tells Clint. “I want to see it break over the ocean.”

Clint nods, unsurprised.

“I’ll be sleeping,” he replies with a lopsided grin.

“Of course,” she rolls her eyes.

“I don’t want to go back,” she admits, putting her sunglasses back on, as the sun glints down on the table.

Clint shakes his head.

“One day we can run away,” he laughs.

“But for now, we have some miles to go.”

“Yeah,” Natasha agrees.

“It won’t be long, and the year will be done. I just want some good out of it.”

Clint nods, thinking on her words.

“Sometimes it’s just one day at a time and enjoying it right? So don’t think of what’s next Nat. Just think of the day,” he pauses, “and how lucky you are to be here with me.”

He grins.

His words ringing true, but still receiving a balled up napkin to the head.

The cat stirs and rubs itself across Natasha’s legs.

“Yeah,” she agrees, reaching down to scratch its back absentmindedly.

“Just think of the day.”

.

[accursedkaleeshi]

Welcome back to Kaleesh Week! New hub blog this year: me, Accursed :)

Posting early to give time to the try-hards & the busy! Entries will not be reblogged until the week begins. Details under the cut!

What is Kaleesh Week?

Kaleesh Week is a week dedicated to the small but thriving subset of the Star Wars fandom that loves General Grievous and his people, the Kaleesh. Similar to much more well-known fandom celebrations such as Smaugust, Mermay, or Whumptober, Kaleesh Week can pertain to any medium of choice. Taking advantage of the fact that canon doesn't look over here to do whatever we want!

What are the rules?

The rules are simple, but should be followed to ensure the happiness of all participants and make my job as archivist easier!

Tag your stuff meant for the week with #kaleeshweek24 or #kaleeshweek2024 ! Tag @accursedkaleeshi additionally if you don't want me to miss it. I will be reblogging all the goods to my blog this year! (we still love TB, F in the chat. they aren't dead)

Any type of creation is allowed, whether art, fanfiction, gifs, videos, or anything else. As long as it's Kaleesh-related, there's no problem

Remember to properly tag all triggers

It isn't strictly necessary to follow along every day, this is meant to be fun! Post whenever you like, whether that's all seven days or just one. You can also post anytime after the week if you'd like

Alternate prompts can be used to mix and match in any way you'd like with the standard prompts, so go crazy

And last but not least, have fun!

What are the prompts, and what's the deal with alternate prompts?

The two lists of prompts a day are there to give any participants more freedom with whatever they'd like to create. The days are more of a guideline, as mentioned above. Go crazy, or for those of us with busy lives, freak it sensitive style in wild space. If you post only one thing of any effort whenever you can? You're participating fam! I will be reblogging your tagged posts when the week begins & beyond. pm me with any questions!

Prompts:

Color

Tusks

Tradition

Many

Food!

Fast

Nest

Alternate Prompts:

White

Teeth

Tech

One

Food?

Slow

Trees

Bonus Wildcard Prompt to swap with: Kaleeshi Hatsune Miku lol

I'd like to join the General Grievous Discord server! Where do I sign up?

If you'd like to come hang out with us at the Kaleeaboos server, simply PM me! We have all sorts of fun stuff going on, and a pretty chill vibe. I'm one of the mods there along with some other big names in the Grievous fandom. Come hang with us!

And finally, good luck, and have fun!

[hugogetspowerbottomed]

VARIGO CANON COMPLIANT ROUNDUP

A collection of all the Canonverse Varigo that I've enjoyed over the past three years. It is likely that there are a few missing due to them being deleted or my memory being poor. Nonetheless, pls enjoy.

Mature: +++ Explicit: *** Not Rated: 0

Teen/Gen: Not Marked

hello to my old heart by izabellwit

“Why do you trust me so much?”

Or: the beginning of the end for the betrayer. In which Hugo asks a long-overdue question, and gets the answer he never wanted to hear.

Say You Won't Let Go (I Won't) by DragonTalyn

Hugo needs some reassurance that Varian isn't going to leave

The Simple Act of Scraps Unraveling by @hybrix-hidings

There is a moment, on the trail to the library, where Varian realizes that he will love this man.

-

Or: Hugo and Varian enjoy a show, barefaced.

(Prompt #2 - Fireworks)

Snippets in Time by @sonicgetsrawed

Snippets of Varian’s adventures through the seven kingdoms to save his mother.

Darling you look perfect tonight by @the-reverse-mermaid

Hugo, Varian and Yong are invited to a winter holiday event in Nuru's kingdom, but one of them is having significantly less fun than the others… Hugo is already feeling insecure when a snobby noble decides to turn her nose up at him and make everything worse. Good thing his friends are there for him.

Small Chocolate Confections by @glitter-lisp +++

Sending Varian in to distract their target isn’t ideal, but someone has to keep him occupied while Hugo searches his room, and the duke made his interest pretty clear at dinner last night.

Hugo’s fine with that. Hugo’s very good at what he does, and so focused on the task at hand, and completely unbothered by the thought of Varian hanging out with a handsome guy who's probably feeding him fancy little desserts and talking about how rich he is while Hugo crawls around upstairs looking for loose floorboards and secret drawers.

Save Your Convictions (They Never Will Do) by @littlemisslol-fic

Varian and Hugo return to Corona after the events of the Varian and the Seven Kingdoms AU, with mixed reception. Turns out Rapunzel won't hold a grudge against people who slight her, but if they hurt her friends? And then show up still dating said friend?

Let's just say Hugo's got a storm coming.

The Dating Game by @littlemisslol-fic

In which Rapunzel, bless her heart, didn't know Varian and Hugo are dating, and thus takes it upon herself to find her darling baby brother a man of proper pedigree if it kills her. However, bloodlines aren't everything, and her choices are... less than stellar.

Darling, so It Goes (Some Things Are Meant to Be) by @littlemisslol-fic

My submissions for Effin' Varigo week! Big thanks to battybatzgirl for setting it up!

Hugo and Varian have been dating for three years, and are finally ready to take their relationship to somewhere a lot more serious. However, the world has other plans. With Hugo's proposal in shambles, and Varian focused on saving their friends, they think things can't really get any worse.

They would be wrong.

Prompts are Family ‧ Firework ‧ Fever ‧ Flirt ‧ Fight/Forgive ‧ Future ‧ and Free Day!

as long as it leaves a mark by @aziraphalesbookkeeper

For a guy who never takes off his gloves, Varian sure does lose them a lot. It’s not really the gloves Hugo notices though—it’s the scars underneath them.

Or: 5 times Hugo tries to take off Varian's gloves + 1 time he doesn't have to.

Whumptober Day 27: Scars AILESS Whumptober Day 9: Scar Reveal

We Carry Through by @aziraphalesbookkeeper

Adjusting to living in the castle with Varian is hard. Going from having nothing to having everything makes Hugo feel...twitchy. Luckily, there's one person who knows exactly what he's going through. Unfortunately, it's Fitzherbert.

Prompt: Family

The Touch of Sunlight by TheArtistsMuse ***

Varian was used to being kidnapped- as sad as that sounds- but he can always trust his friends to save him. Only this time was different, and now something is deeply bothering Hugo. Will Varian be able to get his secretive boyfriend to open up? Will they be able to figure out why he was taken?

... Will Varian be able to hide his very inconveniently timed sexual awakening?

meteor shower by @oshunalchemy 0

varian has a nightmare.

Wither and Decay by @eggmuffinwaffles

The Moonstone and the Sundrop were gone, the trials were completed, the Eternal Library was opened. Everything in Corona had returned to as close to normal as it could possibly get- but Corona seems to have a habit of attracting trouble. When old enemies arise, bent on her downfall, it will take more than just quick wit and luck to ensure that they fail.

My Head's Above The Rain and Roses by @eggmuffinwaffles

Whumptober Day 5: Every Whumpee Needs

Varian, Hugo, Nuru and Yong decide to go camping for the first time in a while after the trials. What could go wrong?

The answer is everything. Everything can go wrong.

Aka Part 1/3 of Hugo learning to like the TTS gang

Maybe if You Fixed the Whole World by Yourself by @eggmuffinwaffles

Whumptober Day 7: The Way You Shake and Shiver

Hugo had a really unfortunate habit of ruining his own life. It wasn’t intentional- if you asked him, he’d swear up and down that he played absolutely no part in causing his entire life to go up in flames, and yet time after time he would keep doing it. Funny how consequences work.

Maybe he was being a little bit dramatic.

OR:

Hugo finds himself being blackmailed by a noble at a ball, and gets help from an unexpected source

Part 2/3 of Hugo learning to like the TTS gang

Keeping Me Up At Night by @eggmuffinwaffles

Whumptober Day 29: What Doesn't Kill Me

Even a year after moving to Corona, sometimes Hugo's guilt finds itself creeping into his dreams. In the middle of an episode, he realizes he has more in common with Rapunzel than he thought.

Part 3/3 of Hugo learning to like the TTS gang

Turning Saints Into A Sea by @eggmuffinwaffles

Whumptober Day 25/Day 30: Silence is Golden/Note to Self Don't Get Kidnapped

Varian has to confront his jealousy head on when Hugo's ex finds herself back in Corona. Unfortunately her return might not be as innocent as she wants them to believe.

I Won't Let You Pull Me Down by @eggmuffinwaffles

Whumptober 2022 Day 16: No Way Out

Hugo and Varian get into a fight. Instead of handling it like an emotionally healthy adult, Hugo manages to go and get himself possessed.

Possession 2 electric boogaloo baby

Lessons in Luxury by @varibean

All his life, Hugo wanted nothing more than to live a live of riches and luxury. He had always failed to imagine what a change like that would entail. Real life was becoming too much like a fantasy and it was always the same questioned that brought him hurdling back to reality.

"Have you eaten today?"

Amalgam by @varibean 0

After relying on Ulla’s notebook to help them through their journey, the gang find that the next kingdom has little to no notes on where the next trial takes place. Their only clue is a location that might have a lead on where to go next. However, after a royal mess up on Hugo’s part, they’re left up the creek without a paddle. Not only are tensions high, but emotions as well. One thing was certain though: Hugo and Varian did not mix well.

[luna-rainbow]

Do you think Bucky ever got any sleep during all his years of Hydra captivity? Or was it just wipe/kill/back in the freezer? I don't think cryostasis would be anything like normal restorative REM sleep.

Hello nonnie!! I have finally had a light-bulb moment for this ask (I'm sorry it's taken me like 7 months)

I've been going about it the wrong way, trying to research on sleep, when in actuality what I should have been researching is the brain under hypothermia. This is an observational study conducted in the 1980s looking at children undergoing induced hypothermia (lowering of body temperature) during cardiopulmonary bypass (sometimes required during major surgery). In summary, by the time the body temperature cooled to 18 degrees, all brain activity ceased. Sleep - consisting of non-REM and particularly REM - are associated with far more active brain waves. So nonnie, you are very correct in saying that Bucky, even with his super soldier abilities, unlikely ever got any "sleep" during cryostasis. (I'm sorry to all the ficcers that wrote Bucky dreaming during cryo but I think most people are happy to ignore this piece of science)

In terms of whether Bucky ever got "sleep", I think that is hard to say. Even normal soldiers might drive themselves to go without sleep for 36+ hours if required for a mission (heck, even hospital shifts go for 36 hours in some places). As a super soldier, Bucky might tolerate sleep deprivation for longer. This means missions like taking out the Starks - travelling from Russian and back - he might achieve in one sitting without sleeping in between (although I guess no one can stop him from dozing off on the plane).

I think one implied part of your question is "is it likely that Bucky was allowed out of the freezer for long enough periods at a time to need (and get) sleep"? I feel like that is unlikely, judging from the "he's been out of cryo for too long" line from CATWS. The timeline goes: day 1 Bucky makes assassination attempts daytime + night time against Fury / day 2 Steve makes a run down to Jersey arriving there at night / day 3 Bucky attacks Steve on the causeway and then we get the nighttime vault scene where Bucky is "unstable". Even if we add a day or two prior to allow for prepping, that still means Bucky becomes "unstable" and questions his identity within a bare week of being out of cryo.

Credit @lost-shoe (this post)

Now onto the angst...we know anaesthetics is not like restful sleep, so theoretically neither is cryostasis. While the science of cryostasis doesn't exist at the moment, we know from artificial hypothermia in surgical situations that it puts incredible stress on the body and all its organs. Looking at the laboratory derangements during hypothermia it looks like it pushes the body over to anaerobic metabolism and causes lactate to go up. You know when you go for a run and your muscles cramp up because you haven't warmed up enough? That's because your muscles have produced too much lactate from anaerobic metabolism. So...no wonder Bucky can't stand when he comes out of the cryo chamber. It also increases one's bleeding risk and reduces one's healing speed, so take of that what you will for your Whumptober prompts 😂

I also wonder whether, because the brain is not receiving any REM sleep during cryo, it means Bucky has been in a constant state of sleep deprivation for the last 70 years. The theory of "prefrontal vulnerability" in sleep deprivation proposes that functions like language, executive functions, divergent thinking, and creativity are particularly affected, so that can contribute to Bucky's inability to process/produce complex language and his slowness when it comes to working through complex problems. It also has significant effect on memory and attention: it's interesting to note that during sleep deprivation of more than 35 hours, they found that while free recall was affected, recognition was not. (Disclaimer for science: small sample size, opposite result for subjects with sleep deprivation ~24 h).

So yeah, I think there are practical reasons why Hydra would not allow Bucky to have restorative sleep between missions. Consolidation of long term memory (i.e. transferring them from short term storage into long term storage) usually happens during sleep which means it is quite likely Bucky remembers only broken bits of his time (if at all) in the last 7 decades.

[the-french-belphegor]

This is what happens when you chat on Discord about your favourite blorbo getting freaky and the conversation turns from “oh, Scanlan” (derogatory) to “oh, Scanlan” (compassionate):

Not to say he DOESN'T like bondage or the harder fetishes, dude is a bonafide freak, but he definitely doesn't communicate his limits (and) he's totally the kind of guy to only state his hard limits in a jokey manner

So I went in half an hour from “...I almost kinda want to read a fic where bad shit almost happens to him because of that” to “...goddammit now I kinda want to write that story”... to writing it. And today’s Whumptober prompt was just perfect for it. (silencing a bard? yeah.)

Word of warning: the OC in this is all the red flags stuffed into one good-looking asshole. And I do mean all the red flags.

(to be edited later with the link to AO3!)

—

Sticks and Stones

(Whumptober #27, voiceless/muzzled)

In the past year or so, Scanlan has found that the problem with small town inns and taverns when you travel with six other people is that there’s often not enough chairs or space at one table for everyone. That’s a new one for him. He’s no stranger to trekking in company, but when he was in Dr. Dranzel’s troupe they usually played while clients were having lunch or dinner, then ate at odd hours, with plenty of room to sit together. But tonight the whole town is filled for the Renewal Festival, which means that the S.H.I.T.s are scattered across the inn’s common room. There are so many customers Scanlan can’t even squeeze in a spot next to Pike. Balls.

Still, at least he can chat with (and chat up) a very pretty dwarf lady and an equally handsome human guy over a regular-sized tankard of ale, so the evening is nowhere near the write-off he thought it would be.

Also, he’s fairly sure the guy is coming onto him. Pretty heavily, even.

Nice.

It’s been a while since Scanlan’s latest sexcapade, and the inn looks so jam-packed the S.H.I.T.s will probably have to look elsewhere for nightly accommodations – another inn at best, under a bridge or in a tree at worst, with hopefully clean stables in the middle. Scanlan was banking on warming the dwarf’s bed tonight if he played his cards right, but he’s not going to complain if he gets the human instead. If his feet were on the ground and not dangling off the kind of chair that allows the smaller races to sit at stupidly high tables, the guy would practically be playing footsie with him. Aww.

Although… Judging by the sharp smiles and the looming into his space to talk with the pretext that it’s really loud in the tavern, Scanlan’s potential bedmate might be into something a little less innocent.

“Know any sea shanties?” the guy asks, since they’ve been talking festival music.

Scanlan smiles widely.

“I know all the sea shanties. Do you have one you’d like to be serenaded with?”

“Sure – how about ‘Down in Diver’s Grave’?”

“Ooh, exotic. Many a sailor brave now sleeps in Diver’s Grave… This one’s a bit of a downer, though. Do you know ‘Captain Miller’s Knots’?”

“Both versions,” the guy replies immediately. “I used to be a sailor. I know a lot of sea shanties.” He pauses, and grins in a way that makes Scanlan’s spine tingle with anticipation. “I know even more about knots.”

Okay. That’s it. Scanlan’s having this guy for dessert.

“Well,” he says, turning on precisely the kind of charm he knows this sort of situation calls for, “knots are a fascinating subject. Care to share your extensive knowledge sometime?”

“How about tonight?” The guy slides his fingers closer and wraps his whole hand around Scanlan’s entire wrist in a manner that in other circumstances could be described as ‘possessive’.

Some tall folks never get over the fact that their hands can look so big on a bona fide adult. It’s kinda cute, really.

“Sounds great,” Scanlan says with a hint of purr in his voice. He has to strain it a little to make himself heard above the din inside and outside, just enough so no one else can hear, but that’s a piece of cake for someone who has made his voice his main tool for living for half a century. “Are you staying here, then?”

Please say yes, please say yes, please say yes, I don’t want to spend the whole night next to horse shit—

“Upstairs, the last room before the window. The bed’s a four-poster,” the guy adds right in Scanlan’s ear, raising the hairs on Scanlan’s arms in a smooth wave. Body hair wouldn’t be the only thing to stand at attention right now if Scanlan wasn’t such an old hand at this. “Come up in an hour? Festivities should be in full swing then, nobody will pay attention to a little noise.”

“Or a lot,” says Scanlan, grinning. “Okay, then. See you in an hour.”

The guy smiles back and extricates himself from between his tablemates. Scanlan finishes his dessert, then ambles off to the first of his friends he can find amidst the crowd.

It’s easy enough to spot Grog – he sits at least a foot taller and larger than anyone else except a hulking female half-orc in the corner. Oh and hey, Vex is sitting right next to him, stealing glances from time to time at her brother who (lucky bastard) is sharing another table with Pike and a bunch of other people.

Scanlan clears his throat; both Grog and Vex look behind them, then down.

“Evening, dear comrades,” he says, laying on the smarm thick, because that’s never not fun. “I have good news and bad news.”

“What’s the bad news?” Vex instantly asks, always suspicious.

“You won’t have the pleasure of my company tonight.”

Vex snorts. “‘Bad news’, huh. I wouldn’t quite put it that way. Why is that?”

Scanlan lets a glint of leer into his grin, just enough to annoy her. “That’s the good news. I found someone to share a bedroom with.” And then he adds an exaggerated eyebrow waggle, just in case Grog didn’t get it.

But while Grog may show a definite lack of smarts in some areas, there are other things he can always be counted on to understand.

“Nice,” he says, holding his hand for a high-five Scanlan cheerfully returns. Vex rolls her eyes.

“Which bedroom is that?”

“Why, Vex’ahlia, does that mean you’d like to join us for the night? That could be arranged.”

“Hardly,” she snaps back. “But if we want to be in Aynor tomorrow we have to leave at sunrise, and I’m not going through every single room to find yours if you sleep in.”

“Fine, the guy said ‘the last room before the window, upstairs’. But for all I know I’ll get lucky and not sleep at all. Beds are hard to come by these days, I don’t intend to waste mine by merely sleeping in it.”

This time, instead of getting snarky, Vex snorts.

“Fine, enjoy your debauchery. We’ll let you know when we find somewhere to spend the night.”

“Hey, Scanlan?” asks Grog with the crease between his eyebrows that means he’s thinking hard. “Think this town has a house of, you know –” he lowers his voice, presumably in deference to Vex, or at least their more innocent tablemates, “– lady favours? ‘Cause the last time we went was in Three Streams, and that was…” The crease deepens. “…A while ago.”

“I don’t think so, buddy,” Scanlan says, and pats his enormous arm. “But tell you what – Aynor’s a bigger town, I’m sure they have at least one. First brothel we find, we hit it together, I promise.”

Vex doesn’t even look at them. She only mutters into her tankard, “On your own money, darling, not the party funds.”

“Naturally,” says Scanlan smoothly, before turning on his heel and waving goodbye. “Well, good luck for tonight! I’m sure you’ll find something comfortable.”

“You’re such a dick,” Vex shoots back with no real venom in her voice. Then, a couple of seconds later, “Be careful, though.”

“Yeah, yeah. Toodles!”

Scanlan trots off to the bar, humming scraps of a melody he’s been trying to put together on the road today. I’m getting laid tonight, he thinks happily, and parts of the sentence weave themselves into a tune as though of their own accord.

After an hour nursing a tankard, he shoulders his pack and walks upstairs with a spring in his step.

But then he finds himself in front of the last door before the window and belatedly realises he completely forgot to ask the guy’s name.

Not that it matters much, really.

“Hey there, sailor boy,” he says as he knocks on the door, “I’m here for my less—”

The door opens, and Scanlan finds himself nose to navel with the guy from earlier. (Literally. The only thing he appears to be wearing is a pair of pants.) Behind him, a couple of ropes dangle from a – yep – four-poster bed, stripped of its curtains and large enough for one human or human-sized person.

Scanlan whistles.

“Damn, you’ve been busy.”

“It’s not every day I meet someone with an affinity for knots,” the guy says with a smile, gesturing him in. “Hey, what do I call you? I didn’t get your name.”

“Larry,” says Scanlan effortlessly. “What’s yours?”

It’s always easy to pluck a name from a random song. It helps that ‘The Cliffs of Caelkirk’ (Cheery Larry from Ula’ree, he was bold and he was merry) has been going round in Scanlan’s head non-stop for a few days. Every now and then he likes to make up names and be another guy, whether to lawyer Keyleth out of hoosegow or have fun with strangers he’ll never see again.

The guy closes the door and gives a mock bow.

“You can call me Gideon,” he says, and something tells Scanlan he’s not the only one making up aliases on the fly. Eh, who cares.

Scanlan rummages through his pack, running his mouth all the while out of habit.

“Well, Gideon, always a pleasure to meet a fellow student of the erotic arts.” One of these days he might start saving enough money for a bag of holding just for his little toys. Or try, anyway. Money is for spending, after all. “Ah-hah!” he crows, pulling out his favourite flogger with a flourish. “Now look at this little beau—”

He turns, and he sees Gideon twirling what looks like a cat o’ nine tails in his fingers. A short whip dangles from his belt.

“I was hoping we could go with my tools,” Gideon says, sounding almost unsure.

Scanlan blinks.

“Sure. In that case, dibs on the cat. Whips can get pretty hardcore. Super fun, though,” he adds as an afterthought.

That’s experience speaking. The first time he went for the whip was many years ago, in a very special house of pleasure in Port Damali, and he still has fond memories of the very skilled tabaxi girl who introduced him to the fun meaning of ‘dungeon’.

“Oh wait,” he asks as he kicks off his shoes and scrambles out of his clothes, “what’s your safeword?”

“My safeword?” Gideon stops playing with the cat and stares at Scanlan. “Oh, uh… ‘Swordfish’, I guess? What’s yours?”

“I like to say it’s ‘Mommy’,” says Scanlan into his shirt as he takes it off – then, fully naked, grinning, half bragging and half joking, “Not that I’ve ever needed it so far.”

The once-over Gideon gives him is extremely flattering. He’s still staring even as Scanlan hops onto the bed and slips his hands into the ropes, which are silky and tied in knots Scanlan has never seen.

Yay for maritime knowledge.

“Well, you never know, do you?” Gideon finally says, checking the knots and tying up a loose gag into Scanlan’s mouth, just for show. “I’m sure there are things you don’t like.”

“Oh, probably,” Scanlan articulates around the cloth. “I’ll tell you if I ever find one. As far as I know, as long as you don’t turn my back into carpaccio we’re golden.”

“Right,” says Gideon with a little laugh. Then he lets the cat’s tails fly.

It’s everything Scanlan hoped for. His skin is buzzing all over between the release each stroke brings. He hadn’t realised, before the guy started talking about knots, how much he had missed this – the thud, the sting, being held, being secured… Sometimes it’s nice to be able to turn off his brain and hand his body to another person. This is exactly why he goes for bondage.

He lets himself be in the moment for a while, enjoying the sensations: the flow of blood everywhere (not just into his boner, which is going nicely, strong but not painful yet), the sweet bite across his back, the pressure around his wrists…

…Maybe a little too much pressure here, actually. Might be time to loosen the knots.

Just as Scanlan opens his mouth to ask, a bright flash of pain – actual pain – steals his breath away for a second.

When it comes back, he does his best to turn and glare mildly over his shoulder at Gideon, who – yup – has discarded the cat and is holding the whip.

“Hey!”

“What?”

You could’ve warned me!”

“I thought you’d like the surprise,” says Gideon, twirling the handle around his wrist like someone who knows how to use it. “You’re right, whips are super fun.”

“Yeah, but…”

Scanlan is pretty certain there’s a flaw in this logic, or at least something closer to hinky than kinky here, but he can’t for the life of him put his finger on what. So he decides it can wait, at least for now. It’s not like he can’t get himself out of those ropes if he wants to – or, failing that, give Gideon one hell of a migraine if he tries anything funny, even with his hands tied.

“Just… Careful where you aim that whip,” he says finally. “Don’t want to break the furniture.”

“Don’t worry,” says Gideon, “I’m not an amateur.”

The whip cracks. Fire blazes for a second across Scanlan’s back again.

It’s harder to get into the groove of things after that. He’s still hard – pleasure still outstrips pain, and it would take a lot worse to make Scanlan Shorthalt tap out of a little impact play – but something keeps niggling at his brain, something… something small, but important.

Another stroke makes his hand clench around the ropes, and –

(oh, yeah, that’s one thing)

– should those knots feel tighter and tighter around his wrists?

“Gideon?” he asks, as offhandedly as he can. “I think there’s something wrong with these knots.”

“What?”

The strokes stop, which Scanlan perhaps shouldn’t be so relieved about, and Gideon pads closer. Now that Scanlan no longer has to twist his neck to see him he can have a good look at the guy, who from the tent in his pants is having a great time.

Gideon inspects the ropes and shakes his head.

“You’re fine,” he says, and walks away again. “Don’t do that, I thought they were coming undone.”

“Well, they’re not. That’s the problem.”

“What would be the point of slipknots, then? I thought you wanted to be tied up!”

“Wait,” says Scanlan slowly, “those are slipknots?”

“Yeah. I told you, I know a lot about knots.”

Scanlan is in a quandary. Quite an unfamiliar one, at that.

On one hand, he really wants to finish. There was a second where it almost happened – the point of no return was right there, within reach – before the lash bit at a tender spot on his back, just a little too close to his neck, and Scanlan tripped and fell back on the wrong side of his orgasm. It almost feels like edging, but not quite, and it’s starting to get old. Gideon had better make him come so hard his eyes cross after all this.

On the other, he might not be a sailor, but he’s fairly sure that using slipknots is not a good idea in this sort of game. He isn’t new at this position – if someone asks nicely enough he might agree to be the one tying up the knots, but it’s far from his favourite way to fool around with ropes or shackles – and nobody ever used slipknots on him that he can recall.

You don’t slip easily out of slipknots. It’s in the name and everything.

“Okay,” Scanlan says after a minute. To his credit, Gideon seemed to be waiting for his go-ahead to continue. “But. You’d better make this good.”

“Oh, I will,” says Gideon.

And before Scanlan can identify whatever it is in the guy’s voice that makes his ears twitch, there’s a crack, immediately followed by a burst of pain so white-hot it almost feels like being struck by lightning. Improbably enough, each of the next two or three manages to be worse, somehow.

When Scanlan unclenches his jaw he realises that the trickling warmth seeping down his spine and into the crack of his ass is blood, and that just –

Yeah, that’s not –

That does it.

For the first time in his life, Scanlan Shorthalt is finding sexy fun times to be A Little Too Much. It’s a bummer, letting himself acknowledge it, but the more he rolls the idea around in his head that things should stop, not just pause or slow down, the more he likes the concept. An ironclad requisite in getting pleasure from pain is that pain should not overstay its welcome. While Scanlan may have flirted with his limit on occasion, right now, he has to admit that enough is enough.

He’s down to barely half-mast now. Godsdammit.

He sighs, rolls his eyes, and mutters “Mommy” around the loose gag.

The word is immediately followed by another blow, and he yelps.

“Ow! What’s wrong with you? I said ‘Mommy’!”

“Oh yeah,” says Gideon behind him, breathing harder than he was the last time they stopped, “that was hot. Do it again.”

This time the breath rushing out of Scanlan’s lungs has nothing to do with the lash.

“What?”

“Say it again like that, that was really cute. Come on, be a good boy for Mommy.”

Scanlan’s brain lurches to a stop.

Never, in his almost sixty-nine years of existence, has anything killed his boner so quickly and so thoroughly. He would probably find it hilarious in other circumstances.

Hell of a way to find out I don’t have a mommy kink, he thinks, fighting to keep his breathing under control.

When he trusts himself to speak at the right pitch and the right volume, he looks over his shoulder again and says, “Look, man, this isn’t working out. Maybe you should just st—”

Some songs of the spicier variety have described lash strokes as flaming tongues. Scanlan, who happens to be a fucking pro at the oral arts (both the spoken word and the more hands-on kind), knows that’s not completely artistic licence bullshit – when done well, a taste of the whip can make him shudder and writhe like he does when there’s licking all over involved.

This last stroke, though, is nothing like that. The pleasure from Scanlan’s favourite mix of anticipation and sensation has fled with the last of Gideon’s words, leaving nothing at all to cushion the pain. The shout it startles from him ends in blood as he bites right through his lower lip despite the gag.

“Okay, asshole,” he says between clenched teeth, “you do know your knots. Here’s what you don’t seem to know, though – ‘safeword’ means you fucking stop, you unfuckable son of a rat bastard –”

It’s not rare for him to be laughing when he hurls magic along with insults, the equivalent of throwing small stones with a sling and hoping your opponent will slip on them and fall on their ass. Big ugly monsters or grim bandits armed to the teeth aren’t so scary if you can laugh at them. But this time Scanlan really leans into the ‘vicious’ side of things. He means to hit, to hurt, to wound, to lace his words with poison. How dare this guy spoil one of his favourite pastimes for him. If he wasn’t tied up and could use the bigger spells of his (admittedly, still pretty shallow) pool…

The spell, like a high note, starts low in Scanlan’s stomach and warms his chest on the way up –

And then nothing happens. Either he’s too shaken and he missed, or Gideon shrugged it off, Scanlan isn’t sure, and he doesn’t know which is more humiliating.

If he cranes his neck he’s just able to catch Gideon out of the corner of his eye, the whip switched to his left hand, right hand moving around swiftly through the air –

(Oh shit, he’s a spellcaster too?!)

– as a cold, sticky energy ensnares his throat and squeezes for a second.

Scanlan gasps out loud. Not even a whisper of sound leaves his mouth.

He spares one second or two to think fast and assess the danger, a habit he picked up from adventuring: Gideon is only holding his whip, and he doesn’t have any jewellery Scanlan can see, so that rules out most of the types of casters Scanlan knows. The gesture reminded him of Vex a little, the way her fingers flex when she conjures a hail of thorns, even though the feel of this guy’s magic is nothing like the prickly warmth that comes out of her hands.

So. Ranger, then. And, from the strength of the spell gripping Scanlan’s throat, at least on par with most of the S.H.I.T.s.

“None of that,” says Gideon, panting, one hand tight around his crotch and the other just as tight around the handle of the whip. “I just want to finish, it’s not that big an ask! You’re going to let Mommy punish you, like a good boy, and if you’re very good I might let you sleep the night here. Okay?”

After the blank shock and the red-hot burn of pain and anger, a cold trickle of panic starts creeping its way up Scanlan’s neck.

In what kind of fucked-up world would that be okay, he attempts to yell, but the words stay trapped inside his lungs and for a second it feels like so does his breath.

He. Fucking. Hates. This. Spell.

It’s bad enough that he can’t cast. Neither can he speak, sing, sigh, or shout. Scanlan is a bard; Scanlan is song, Scanlan is sound. He can modulate the music of the universe into magic and, with it, reweave the fabric of reality. Without that power, he’s useless, he’s insignificant – just another speck in a big old world, smaller and weaker than most, and that is Not Him. Not on a good day.

The next stroke makes him grind his teeth together. The one after that makes him cry out. By the third he’s screaming his throat raw – not that anyone can hear him. Unfortunately, it does nothing to cover Gideon’s little moans of pleasure, which are making Scanlan’s skin crawl in a way he didn’t know was possible for him.

So he retreats to the one shelter he’s never lost: music. He clings to the little scraps of melody from earlier, tries to piece them together into an actual song – what if this bit went here, and this sounds better lower, and more sting in there, make it sound sharper, and also this needs to go up…

(Not that he’s not going to do anything with that tune. He doesn’t intend to spare a single thought over it later – in fact, he’s planning to throw it away and forget it the second this is over.)

It can’t be more than a couple of minutes: the silencing spell wears out at some point, another one replacing it immediately. Scanlan barely registers. He’s too busy teetering on the brink of unconsciousness.

Kinked to death by a psycho with a whip. Yeah, that tracks. A death like that makes one hell of a punchline. The others will be laughing for days when they find his corpse…

The door bangs open. The sound startles Scanlan into half opening his eyes again. His eyelids are glued with tears. Huh.

Gideon barks, “What the hell?! Can’t you see we’re busy here?”

He strides forward to close the door, fully hard, whip in hand. But none of that matters, unless Scanlan is having straight up hallucinations, because there –

Slouching a little to fit under the lintel of the door, covering his eyes with a massive hand, voice apologetic as he says “Hey bud, Pike told me to tell you that… oh, shit, sorry,” like he’s not being the single most welcome cockblocker in the entire history of cockblocking –

– is Grog.

⁂

Pike said someone had to let Scanlan know about the barn they found for the night. So Grog, remembering where Scanlan said he planned to spend the night, volunteered to go tell him. Sure, Scanlan basically said that he and whoever he’d be sharing the room with would be doing the nasty all night long, but Grog has his doubts about that. They’ve been walking all day; they all need sleep to recuperate, especially the folks who heavily rely on magic, like Scanlan or Keyleth. It’s late, so there’s a good chance Scanlan’s already tucked in bed, maybe even asleep. But he needs to know where the rest of their friends are, and Grog takes his mission seriously.

When he opens the door, he covers his eyes mostly for the sake of whoever is in there who isn’t Scanlan. Some people get weird about being naked, especially in company. Grog gets it; if it was him having fun with a girl and someone he doesn’t know barged in, he wouldn’t like it. Scanlan gets a pass because he’s Grog’s lady favour buddy, and sometimes if there’s too many full rooms or the brothel is too small they’ll just share a room and not bother each other. They’ve seen one another naked way too many times (even if you’re a maths wizard, which Grog definitely could be if he deigned to) for it to be weird anyway.

Grog hears a guy’s voice, but he doesn’t hear Scanlan’s. Curiosity makes him take his hand off his eyes.

What he sees makes him raise his eyebrows.

There’s a half-naked human guy with a raging stiffy and a whip, looking pissed off at the interruption. There’s Scanlan on the bed, naked, gagged, slumping as low as the ropes tying his wrists to the bed’s columns will allow him. So far, nothing out of the ordinary; Scanlan is into pretty weird stuff. Perhaps Grog should go back to the barn with the satisfaction of a job well done and leave them to it.

But then Grog looks – really looks – at his little buddy. And what he sees makes him stop and think for a second.

Scanlan looks way too white, for one thing. His nose and his eyes are running, blood is drying in a slow trickle from his lower lip, and his mouth is moving soundlessly. Plus, and this is one hell of a red flag to Grog, despite the setup he isn’t hard at all. More like the opposite.

That doesn’t look good weird. That… looks bad weird.

“Hey,” says the guy, taking a step towards Grog with a placating gesture, “this isn’t what it looks like. He agreed to this. We’re just having fun, okay?”

Sometimes Grog will get bad vibes from something before his brain twigs on why it’s dangerous, like some spells or traps. He’s learned to rely on this and it has saved his life once or twice. And this dude is setting off all kinds of alarm bells in his head.

Still, he’s never tried getting beat up for fun, so it’s still possible that he is misreading the situation. Just to make sure, before he leaves, he asks a very important question.

“Scanlan? Are you havin’ fun?”

Scanlan slowly shakes his head ‘no’.

A familiar red haze shimmers before Grog’s eyes. The rage is instantaneous, irresistible; it starts low in the pit of his stomach and explodes into his limbs, volcano-like, pumping up fire from his legs to the palm of his hands.

Grog roars, strikes. His fist smashes into the guy’s face, knocking him back ten feet and through the closed window behind him – and then, unless he learns to fly on the way, crashing down one storey to the ground below in a shower of wood shards and broken glass.

Grog makes to follow him through the broken window to finish pounding his head into a paste, but a sound stops him in his tracks.

Scanlan is laughing, a thin squeaky laugh that pulls Grog right out of his rage.

“Fuck,” he repeats on a loop, “oh fuck… oh, man, that… wow. What a… oh, shitting fuck…”

By the time Grog has found a dagger to cut him loose, he’s shaking so badly Grog has to be extra careful not to nick the skin of his arms. The last thing Scanlan needs is another cut; the sight of his back, bloodied and covered in crisscrossing weals going from deep red to violently purple, almost sent Grog straight into another rage. His laughter is gone, too, if it really was laughter in the first place, replaced by hiccuping wheezes that are starting to worry Grog.

“Scanlan?” he asks, a little uncertain. He knows asking Are you okay would be stupid, so he settles for pointing out, “You sound weird.”

There’s no response – only pathetic little noises like there’s not enough air, or too much, and Scanlan is choking on it. This is so far out of Grog’s wheelhouse that he’s starting to get a little spooked. He’s never seen someone freak out like that – or maybe he has, but never a friend, and never a friend like Scanlan – and he has no idea what he’s supposed to be doing.

So he goes with his gut. He shuffles on his knees to the edge of the bed, where Scanlan is all hunched up on himself, and says as gentle as he can, “Breathe, okay? You’re gonna pass out if you keep doin’ that. Come on.”

Scanlan doesn’t really breathe, but he doesn’t pass out either. He just plunks his forehead right on Grog’s chest and grips the fur under Grog’s spaulder like he’s gonna fall from really high if he lets go.

(Grog knows, from the odd comment he pays attention to, that his manly musk can be a lot to handle for people that aren’t him. It’s weird that Scanlan doesn’t make a single joke about that, and he’s not sure he likes it.)

While he knows patting someone’s shoulder or back for comfort is a thing, it’s completely out of the question right now. He just gingerly lays his hand on top of Scanlan’s head and lets it rest there. Not too heavily; his palm alone is almost larger than Scanlan’s entire skull. Not for the first time, he marvels at just how tiny gnomes are. And how easy it is to forget how breakable they can be.

After a few seconds, the choking gasps slow down into wet, heaving breaths, although they still rattle on the way in. Eventually Scanlan taps an uneven rhythm against Grog’s side and hums a little into his chest; the worst of the mess on his back closes up, leaving streaks of blood, red welts, and a whole lot of bruising.

Scanlan lets go of Grog and sits back up. Grog pretends not to notice him rubbing his hands across his face. When they fall his eyes are still damp, red and puffy.

“Good t—timing, big guy,” he says, voice raw and not too steady. “Like… really, really good.” He takes a deep breath that still shudders a bit then trips at the end as his eyes go wide. “Shit, Grog, is that…?”

Grog looks down where he’s staring, goes “…I guess,” and plucks the tooth out of the skin between his knuckles. And then the other one, an inch to the left. This one’s splintered.

He knows he hit the other dude hard. In hindsight, he should have hit him so much harder.

From the look in Scanlan’s eyes, he’s having a similar train of thought. “Where is he?”

“Whip guy?”

“Yeah, whip guy. I’m gonna Thunderwave his fucking guts inside out.”

This is said calmly, coldly, like stating a fact. Grog, who knows rage, can feel it tremble just beneath the surface. Like that time they fought goblins and Scanlan just annihilated a bunch of them with a blast of magic and a grin that was definitely not a smile.

If there’s something Grog respects, it’s the need to utterly destroy the thing or the person that fucked you up. He gets to his feet and goes to lean out the wrecked window.

On the street below, by the light of festive bonfires and lanterns, he can see debris, blood, and some tracks, but no prone body.

So he goes back to the bed and says, “Sorry, buddy. Looks like he got away.”

Scanlan blinks, sags a little. The cold fury fades from his eyes.

“Okay. Well… I guess I should heal myself a bit more, then.”

This time he sounds closer to normal as he does his magic, even if his voice is still a little fried. When he’s done and the usual pink-purple glow disappears, the bruises are still there, but at least the bigger welts are gone and the skin is no longer broken. That’s not gonna leave big scars, but Grog knows not everybody loves displaying badass scars as much as he does.

“Looks good,” he says with a thumbs up. “Might wanna ask Pike to heal it a bit more, though.”

Scanlan grabs him by the strap of his spaulder and yanks hard enough that Grog lets himself get pulled down.

“Grog,” he says in a surprisingly earnest tone, “brothel rules.”

“What?”

“You know, ‘what happens in the bedroom stays in the bedroom’. Nothing happened here. Well, nothing bad. All right?”

Grog thinks about what he walked in on, about his second best little buddy covered in blood, shaking and struggling to breathe, and tries to reconcile it with ‘nothing bad happened’.

“What do you mean, ‘nothing bad happened’? That looked pretty fucking bad to me!”

Scanlan throws out his arms. “I’m alive, aren’t I? Thanks for that, by the way. Like I said, that was really good timing. But,” he adds, clambering down from the bed and picking up his clothes from the floor, “it’s in the past now. Besides, the others don’t need to know I couldn’t handle a bit of kink. Vex would never let me live it down. Shit, where did I leave my… oh, there we go.”

Grog has a feeling he’s right and wrong; Vex might laugh, sure, but also, if she knew what the guy actually did to Scanlan and they crossed paths with him again, he would die a horrible death. Still, Grog understands the need to leave bad shit in the past and not think about it, so he doesn’t insist.

Scanlan has a quick wash – much quicker than usual – with the contents of a pitcher on the washstand, then puts his clothes back on. Then he turns to Grog, grins, and asks, “How do I look?”

He looks pale still, and he limps a little when he walks. But also he looks clean-faced, put together, pretty much his normal flamboyant self.

“Like you?” replies Grog, which appears to be the simplest answer.

Scanlan shrugs, winces. “Eh, good enough.”

One look around the room convinces them not to stick around and pick up the asshole’s tab. Grog solves the problem by picking up Scanlan and his pack and dropping through what remains of the window. After that, finding the others basically amounts to a leisurely stroll down the dark streets, through the thinning crowd of partiers going home.

A silent shadow falls just as Grog tries to open the door of the barn as discreetly as possible. There’s the flash of a dagger, then of a grin, followed by a snicker.

“Look what the cat dragged in. Thought we might have to search for you all around town tomorrow morning.”

In deference to the late hour, and very charitably (he thinks), Grog does not punch Vax in the smirk for startling him and making no damn sense.

“What cat?” he asks. Scanlan pats the side of his thigh.

“Figure of speech, buddy. Hey Vax, tell me we don’t have to share this place with a bunch of horses again.”

“First of all it’s cows, not horses. And unless five is ‘a bunch’, then nope. Also there’s a hayloft with lots of clean hay, so no complaining, please. If you wanted something more comfortable you should’ve Burt Reynoldsed us into an actual inn.”

“Yeah, well,” says Scanlan, throwing out his chest and jutting out his chin as he walks past Vax and into the barn, gait still a little uneven, “Burt Reynolds had a hot date.”

Vax raises an eyebrow at him and whistles.

“Damn, Shorty. You look like you got lucky.”

“You know what? I really did.”

Grog has no idea whether Scanlan’s wink is for him or Vax. Part of him is wondering how this last sentence feels so much like the truth when it’s actually a lie – unless it’s the other way around. Is this how Scanlan bullshits people so successfully? By telling them truths disguised as lies disguised as truths?

The barn is on the small side, with a hayloft to match. Still, there’s plenty of room for bunking in the soft hay, well above the snoring cows. Pike, Percy, Vex, and Keyleth are already asleep, tucked in blankets to avoid getting poked by random straws. That’s not a worry for Grog, who just finds a good spot and lies down.

A few pained hisses and frustrated noises later, he feels Scanlan climb on top of him and curl up on his chest, right against his arm. He doesn’t do this as often as Pike, but his warm weight – as slight as it is – feels almost as familiar.

“Scanlan?” mutters Grog when Scanlan finally stops squirming. “You okay?”

“Sure, buddy. I’ll be right as rain tomorrow.”

Whether or not it’ll be true is moot. Grog has seen him convince people of truly ridiculous things. It’s always very entertaining. But, also, sometimes, a little scary.

“Hey, Scanlan,” Grog murmurs, because the question has been digging in his brain on and off and questions like that have a way of just… coming out, sometimes, “d’you really like getting beat up?”

“To a point, yeah.”

“Why?”

There’s a pause. All Grog can see of Scanlan is his shoulders, the long brown hair that tickles a little, and the tip of his nose.

“I dunno,” Scanlan mumbles after a while. “’s hot. I guess it’s… really not for everyone. Just… Sometimes it feels good to give someone else the reins, y’know?”

Grog really doesn’t. But Scanlan doesn’t elaborate, so neither does he.

He just asks very quietly, “If I wanted to try, sometime. Like, if. Would you… spot? Kinda? In case it gets weird?”

He still can’t see Scanlan’s face, but this time he feels him smile into his chest just as a tiny hand taps his left pec.

“’Course I would, bud.”

Maybe this shouldn’t feel as reassuring as it does, if only because Grog has no intention of ever getting hit for fun without being able to hit back.

But it really does.

⁂

Aynor is a small town, but it does have a brothel. Since curiosity has been low-key gnawing at Grog’s brain for the entire day, he offhandedly asks Scanlan if he wants to come with him. And then, with Scanlan’s help because words can be tricky, he tells a hot dragonborn lady almost as tall as he is that he would like to try some bondage, please.

He barely feels the first blow.

The second one triggers a rage.

Turns out few pieces of furniture are sturdy enough to withstand the might of a properly pissed off goliath barbarian. That bed gets fucking destroyed. At least Scanlan manages to calm him down before the security bouncer guy tries to attack him. Leaving the ladies to deal with a corpse soaking up blood and gore into the carpet would not have been very polite.

Grog escapes with a life ban on his head from Aynor’s one house of lady favours that Scanlan said applies to him as well because he’s a good bro like that.

“Like I said, it’s not for everyone,” says Scanlan as they run the fuck out of the brothel, followed by the madam’s imprecations.

Eh, it’s fine.

It’s not like words can hit worse than a weapon, anyway, right?

—

(…Right? Wrong :D But he’ll change his mind out one day…)

[jasmines-library]

The Basement

WHUMPTOBER DAY 18. Prompt: Tortured for information Fandom: Supernatural

Summary: You are captured alongside your brother Sam by the BMOL. They want something you won't tell them, so they try to force it out of you.

Warnings: Torture, drugging, hallucination, violence, guns, death? kinda.

Word Count: 2.4k

MASTERLIST ⛤ WHUMPTOBER WORKS

🕸 ⋆ ⁶𖤐⁶ ࣪⋆🕸

“Toni Bevell. London chapter house.” 

Sam’s voice faded in and out as you regained consciousness. You felt sick, your stomach churned and bile settled in the back of your throat. Everything felt out of balance and you knew that whatever they had drugged you with had hit you hard; they had caught you with it in the side of your neck when they ambushed the bunker. You could feel the bruise lingering on your neck. Vision blurring, you craned your head to try and take in your surroundings. The room was pitiful; bare save a few shelves that had been thrown together. It was clearly a basement of some sort because the windows were high and let in very little light.  

Sam sat across from you tied to a chair barefoot and dishevelled. It was then that you suddenly remembered the muffled gunfire. They had shot Sam. You could see where the blood had bloomed on his clothes, though the darkness of it told you that it had stopped bleeding. 

“It’s nice of you to join us, Y/N.” The blond woman said when you let out a groan. “I thought for a moment there you were going to miss out on all the fun.”

“Where are we?” You asked groggily, moving to rub the sleep from your eyes, but it was a pointless gesture. 

The woman looked up from where she was screwing on her notepad. Her handwriting was uniform like the suit she was wearing. “It doesn’t matter.”

“She’s just wondering how far we’re gonna have to walk back to town after we kill you.” Sam said before nodding towards the other darker haired woman who stood like a puppet next to Toni. “And her. But you first.”

Toni let out a huff you could only describe as some sort of laugh. “Yes. Well, before you murder us all we do have a few questions about you two. Your brother, other hunters in America. Oh, and how you saved the sun.”

Sam scoffed, shaking his head. “Right, you shoot me. Drug my sister, kidnap us both, but sure. Happy to help.”

“We didn’t want to hurt you, Sam. You gave us no choice. And I could say that it was never supposed to go this way, but, you’re Winchesters. It was always going to go this way.”

“And you know us?” You raised your brows.

“We do. We’ve been watching you and your brothers for years. Ever since you almost ended the world the first time. We knew all about Lucifer and the angels falling-”

“Then where were you?” You spat. “People died. Innocent people.”

She pursed her lips and tapped her pen between her fingers. “Fair question. See, some of us wanted to get involved, but the old men wouldn’t allow it. Thought we were overstepping our bounds. After all, this business with the darkness even they have to agree that things have to change.” Her accent was thick as she spoke with clear dictation. The words rolled off of her tongue. “Whilst you might not believe this, we’re here to help.”

You directed your attention towards the other woman who still stood with her arms folded behind her back. “Yeah. I can tell.”

Sam rearranged himself in his chair, trying to find a weak spot in the metal cuffs that were padlocked around his feet. “I won’t apologise for locking you up. You're dangerous to others. And yourself. But if you answer my questions, I promise you’ll walk right out that door.” 

She gestured to it with a flick of her pen. The woman looked far too happy there. 

Sam pondered for a moment, surveying you from across the room. He knew that what he was about to do would have consequences for you too, but he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of being right. 

“Pass.”

“Sam-”

“You can ask us any kind of question you like, but the answer is always going to be the same. Screw. You.” He told her. Sam was surprisingly calm, given the situation. “And if you wanna get mad, you wanna get mean? I’ve been tortured by the devil himself, so you are just an accent in a pantsuit. What can you do to me?”

Toni nodded humbly, though the hint of a menacing smirk crept into the corners of her lips. “To you? Maybe not a lot. But to her? Lets see how long she can hold out, hm?”

She capped her pen, placing it on the table next to her gesturing to the other woman. The tap squealed as she twisted it all the way to the right. Icy water cascaded down over you. You spat it from your mouth, tipping your head back to stop it going spilling onto your face, but it just pooled on your lap and spat back at you anyway. 

“A cold shower? That’s your play?”

You shrugged it off, but after some time the cold began to sink into your bones and it was impossible to disguise your shivering. Sam tugged against the restraint, but Toni and the other woman just waited you out. 

“Screw you.”

~~

After some time, the water finally trickled to a halt and you were left there shivering uncomfortably in the clothes that clung to your body. Sam wanted to shy away as he watched your body try to fight the cold, but he opted to stand his ground and keep up a false front for both your sake and Toni’s. The woman still watched you with piercing eyes. 

“I know you two were always a lost cause, but I'm hoping that there are other hunters that we can work with. Teach.”

The two of you glared at her as she moved towards Sam, much too close to his face for his liking. “So, I need you to give me names, locations and everything else. Meeting places, an organisational hierarchy because maybe with all of us working together we could do what you never could. Make America safe.”

“So, maybe you’ll tie them to a chair.” Sam narrowed his eyes. “Maybe you’ll do something worse. Maybe you can go to hell.”

Toni recoiled at the statement, humming. “Fine. Have it your way.” She turned, retreating up the stairs and leaving you with the dark haired woman. 

Then came the humming of the blowtorch. 

Closing your eyes, you tried to collect yourself and prepare for the pain as the woman stalked forwards. Sam protested in his chair, rattling the chains. 

The woman eased herself down next to you and lowered the blowtorch. You could feel the sweltering heat against your bare feet. 

“Are you really going to make me do this?”

You took a deep breath and looked up at your brother. It was a mistake because you could see the pure guilty hopelessness in his eyes. 

“Screw you.”

She shrugged, before bringing the flame to the side of your foot. You tried to inch your feet away, but they were held securely by the shackles. You screamed in misery as the flames hacked away at your skin, causing it to blister and morph into an angry shade of red. Sam flinched at your blood curdling scream and arched your back, trying to create as much distance from the weapon, as he was haunted by the memories of his time in the cage. As the woman moved the flame closer and began to move it further up your shin, you continued to cry out. Your pained expression would forever be burned in the front of his vision. 

Eventually the woman let up and disappeared behind you up the old stairs. It was when your screams turned into whimpers and then nothing at all. There were nasty burns littering the lower half of your body and every twitch of your muscle sent pain spiralling throughout your body. Your eyes drooped as you finally allowed your body to go slack into the back of the chair. 

“Y/N?”

“I’m okay, Sammy,” You mumbled. 

“Oh Y/N/N… I'm so sorry.”

“S’ not your fault.” 

“I’m going to get you out of here, kiddo. I  promise.” He began to try and find a way out of the binds. Now that both women were gone he could take a closer look at them. 

~

At some point, you must have passed out because when you awoke  you were lying on the concrete, but your head was resting on something warm. Beginning to push yourself up you forgot completely about the burns on your foot. You took a sharp inhale, fighting against the stabbing pain that radiated throughout your body. 

“Hey, take it easy.” Sam said. It was then you figured that it was his lap that your head resided on. He helped sit you up, mindful of the burns. Sometime during your daze, they had been bandaged up. 

When you sat upright, your vision doubled, and after rubbing you raw wrists, you reached up to touch your neck gingerly. It was still tender from the first shot they had given you, though you could feel another small bump where they had clearly dosed you with something else. 

“S’mmy?” You muttered.

He nodded. “They got me too. I don’t know what it is, but they’re watching us.” He looked up to draw your attention subtly to the camera that they had strung up. 

“Do you think it has sound?”

“No.”

“good.”

You were silent for a moment as you thought. “How long was I out?”

“I’m not sure.” Sam frowned. “I didn’t see the other one return once you passed out. I kinda freaked. Then they got you before they knocked me out too. I wasn’t awake much before you.”

You scanned the room and your eyes fell on the entrance hatch. You tilted your head at it and raised your eyebrows suggestively. Your brother rose to his feet and pushed up against the wooden frame. It shifted, but not enough for it too was tied together by chains which rattled with the motion. He went to try again, but was shut down by an ear splitting ringing. He groaned, covering his ears with his hands before slumping against the wall and breathing heavily. 

“Sam?” You hauled yourself forwards, uncaring about the pain in your foot. You had hardly made it anywhere though by the time you were met with the same fate. You fell to your knees as the sound cut through you. 

Faces began to dance in your vision. People you knew. People you didn’t save in time. People you loved. 

“No…”

~

“Y/N?”

“Y/N.” 

Dean was calling to you from the other side of the library, You had begun to doze off, head drooping over the lore book you had been studying. 

“Hm? Sorry.”

Dean chuckled. The sound was light and reverberated in his chest. “Why don’t you finish up for the night, sweetheart? It’s late. We can catch up in the morning.”

You yawned, bookmarking the page before closing the book and sliding out from underneath the table. You had been working tirelessly all day, and the sun had long set. But you didn’t want to stop, you had to find the answers to stop the guilt gnawing away in your stomach. 

Dean followed closely as you began to retreat back down the hallways. He took the last swig of his beer before tossing it in the trash as he walked past. 

“It’s your fault. You know.” He said nonchalantly when you were about halfway to your room. 

You stopped abruptly. “What?”

“You heard me. It’s your fault that they’re dead. If you had gotten the lore right in the first place then that family would still be breathing.”

Turning you recoiled at the sight of your brother. His eyes were an endless black as he stalked toward you. You stumbled backwards, until you hit the wall. And that was when something strange happened. As your back made concrete with the tiles, something flashed in your vision. A dark room lit only by the streams of light that had managed to force themselves through the cracks of the hatch. 

It was a strange feeling as your vision flicked between the two scenes. It was like you were seeing between two lenses. That was until you saw Sam passed out on the concrete, surrounded by a puddle of his own blood, that blond woman was hunched over him and you forced your mind towards him. 

When you gained some grip on reality, you surged forwards, landing a harsh blow to Toni’s temple. She grunted, keeling to the side only to be picked up harshly and pinned to the wall by Sam, who showed her the deep gash on his palm. 

“Perhaps you’re not as good at your job as you thought.”

Toni spluttered and slumped to the floor. 

Sam was quick to secure an arm around your waist and help you hobble to the stairs. You had hardly made it to the third one when tased the back of Sam's leg, causing him to drop. She ran past and slipped out of the door, locking it behind her. 

“No!” Sam yelled through gritted teeth, ramming his fists against the wood. 

~

By the time Dean arrived, you had lost three fingernails and some of the skin on your left pinky. His failed attempt at a rescue had only ended up with another Winchester locked up within the clutches of the British Men of Letters. You were about to lose another nail when the sound of a gun cocking caused everyone’s attention to snap towards the woman wielding it. 

“Mom…?”

“Yeah.” Dean shrugged. He seemed to have missed one tiny detail out from his time away from you. 

She pressed forwards, snagging the keys from the table and ordering the woman to drop to the ground. When Toni failed to do so, she delivered a harsh blow with the butt of her gun. But Toni was smart, quick and well trained. She landed multiple punches to the four of your before Mary managed to get the upper hand. Dean scrabbled to untie the chains which hung above his head with the keys she had slipped him, it took him a moment, but once he did, he made quick work of dealing with the British Woman of Letters. 

After releasing you from the restraints, Sam wrapped his arm around your waist again to relieve you of the pressure from the burns. Exhaustively, you leaned heavily against him, so Dean came to your other side to help move you towards the car. You had never been more grateful to see the sleek impala as you slid into the backseat, as the car sped away from the house. Your stomach churned. Toni Bevell was not dead. But oh boy did she have it coming.

🕸 ⋆ ⁶𖤐⁶ ࣪⋆🕸

<- DAY 17 ⛤ DAY 19 ->

Taglist:

@senjoritanana

@deans-spinster-witch

@amaryllis23

[darkkitty1208]

on fic writing and fandom: where am i going forward?

So. It's a bloody dull Friday and I'm writing this post--have been meaning to, for a while--because I can't stop thinking about it. It's just a few (a lot, actually) thoughts I've had in my mind the past few days that I've decided to spill into a single post, which turned out far longer than it needed to be, but nothing too important. Under the cut.

I've been a fanfic writer for a while now. Not a long time by any means, but a while nonetheless. My first fic--which is now orphaned like a few of its brothers for undisclosed reasons, though if you're an og you might be able to guess why--was dated back to the 18th of November 2021. 3 years later and I've got a humble 89 works and counting (the orphaned works and unposted wips unincluded). I can safely say I've improved quite a lot since then.

Where are you going with this, then, Kitty? Surely you aren't here just to brag about your writing progress?

Well. Not exactly. But I'll start with this: I guess what I'm trying to say is I've lost the spark.

You know. The old feeling. That boost of serotonin you get after you finish a piece you're proud of, or when you get lovely reviews on ao3, or when you get a kudos email, or a new mutual, or some wild tags under your silly post. The spark. I haven't felt it in a long time, now. The last time it's been so palpable was... I'm not sure. Probably last year's October. That was a lot of fun. I was most prolific in fic writing, that year. It shouldn't feel like a long time ago. Because it wasn't.

Don't get me wrong. I love all this. All that's going on right now. The comments I'm getting--even if fewer than I had before--and all the other interactions, I appreciate and enjoy and love them so, so much. And writing my newer fic projects are well exciting. But it just isn't the same anymore. I'm afraid it never will be.

(Maybe it has something to do with the lack of interactions lately. Maybe? I don't really know, either. I'm sure we're all well aware the fandom is past its peak, and with the current developments in the MCU I am frankly unsurprised, but I dunno.)

I guess that's part of the reason I've been less active lately. I've been inactive as a whole this year, admittedly, and disappearing far too often for far too long (and I notice some of my friends are, too). I just didn't get the same joy from being in a fandom like I had when I first started this blog, or my ao3 account.

In hindsight, I've probably been a little too dependent on fandom to provide me serotonin. The past few years have been hard, the years before that, too. Life just keeps kicking me in the arse time and time again. I guess I've been using fandom and fic writing as a coping mechanism, and once I've had my fill, the joy dies off to something a little more dull. Like a gum I've been chewing for too long that the sweetness has since worn off.

Honestly? I don't want it to be this way. I want to live without being so dependent on my presence online. I want to live without only knowing joy through internet interactions. I've got to learn to. It sounds silly, but it's true. (I think I may be slightly chronically online, oh no. x'D)

So naturally my first instinct is to distance myself a little. I contemplated quitting, but I can't do that. I don't see myself ever doing that, no matter how many times my brain convinces me that I might.

When this year started, I had set some goals for writing. One of them was to write for more whumptober prompts than I did last year or complete them all. I did like 21 prompts or something last year. Of 31. Within a little more than a month. While still balancing all the life stuff I had going on. This is, if not obvious, an extremely ambitious goal. I am not insane. I don't know what I was thinking. I can't possibly do that now, can I? Not with all the stuff that's been happening.

...

Can I?

...

Yeah, no. Definitely not.

See, that's another thing: writing. Probably the thing I'm trying to get at in this post but otherwise derailed completely from. Fuck my brain.

I'm sure many of you have noticed that I've been writing significantly less. I still post, obviously, but not as much as like, last year when the number of works I had went from a few to far too much. That had helped me improve quite a lot, actually, but those days I barely slept because I just insisted to replace my sleep time with Writing Shit For The Gays. It was pretty unhealthy now that I look back at it. My sleep schedule is still shit now but, yk. Some things just never change.

I was really, really caught up on wanting to be good at writing. Like, really good. I wanted to make awesome things. I wanted to write like a real fucking pro. Like all the more popular fandom authors I look up to. I want to be like the big dogs in fandom. It sounds so silly. I did everything; sprinting daily, setting a minimum of 500 words writing sessions every day, trying new writing styles, churning out works after works, writing for prompts and events and gifts and the like. I was enjoying it, yes, but was it really something I did for myself? Or was it because I wanted to please other people or impress other people for their validation, which is something I'm entirely too dependent of? Was it for the numbers?

Well. It was more for that than for me, I realised a little too late.

So yeah. Fuck wanting to be good. I want to write for the hell of it. I want to write something that's for me. Not what the majority of the fandom or other people want to read, but for me. Which is why I absolutely loved writing works like just a matter of time, how to kill a god, or how to become a god, because they're not meant for other people but myself. (Ironically that last work is a gift but, yk. I still liked it.) I know I joke about self-projecting a lot, but it's been seriously helping me rediscover the joy of writing that doesn't come from the incessant need to be good or perfect or focus on producing more and more and more. It makes me feel like a kid again. Also, I'm only realising this now but I'd rather get like 5 people who enjoy reading my works so much and express them to me rather than 100 people who silently thumbs up at me and then go away to consume another fic or demand more. (All this to say I still love interactions, it just shouldn't be my no. 1 priority to get them when writing fanfics.)

But yeah. None of those works are perfect. They're not meant to be. But they're mine. They're me. They represent me. And it's so, so great to feel that in writing. I've been so stuck up on being some sort of content machine. I'm doing this for myself, how could I forget? I've been saying this since the beginning, I don't know why I'm still struggling to do it. God. It's ridiculous.

Anyway. That's that. This has become a very long ramble. Thank you for listening to my Ted Talk. And for letting me waste your time, if you make it to the end of this post.

[insertsomthinawesome]

I'M BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACK!!! Okay so honestly I have been very very inconsistent over the years with just disappearing for periods of time due to various things 😂 So it probably seemed pretty normal to most people.

But it felt different on my side, so I'm excited to be back in business. I took a month long hiatus! 31 days of not drawing digital art. Its not something I talk about on here? But I've been suffering from some serious long term Art Burnout for.... a really really long time. Long enough that I should've taken a break probably years ago. It finally got so bad that I could barely draw. I was scared to do it (cause it always looked "bad" in my eyes [i'll come back to that]) and doing it was exhausting and disheartening.

I talked it over with somebody and realized that the fear and anger and frustration I felt towards my own artwork was uh. Not Normal or Healthy. And I finally committed to taking a real break for once.

I still drew a little bit by hand? Traditional art has always felt like it has lower stakes for me (i don't often share it online, and sometimes I don't even share it with friends) so I did some of that when I felt like it. But Digital art was completely off the table.

I had put such an immense pressure on myself to make my digital art perfect, to make as much of it as quickly as possible to satisfy something. It wasn't fun anymore. I'm proud of what i've made over the years! But for a long time now the stuff I've been making was made while hating every second of making it. With some rare exceptions.

I hated my art! It was a combination of Perfectionism, taking in too many external expectations, and the burnout. If you hate doing something its kinda hard to love it even when you want too lol. It wasn't "Bad" in the sense that the quality was low and it was ugly! It was "Bad" in the sense that it was unhealthy for me to keep doing it at that point in time.

I'm glad to report though, that with my hiatus officially over as of Wednesday last week: I am once again. In Love. With doing art, and being an artist :)

I put off taking a break for years cause I was scared that taking a break would mean that I would never achieve all the things I wanted to do with art. I was scared it was a stupid and lazy thing to do that would mean I'd never achieve my dreams. And Also even though I kinda hated drawing, I also loved making art. Its a weird duality that I can't even really explain??? I hated it but I also loved it. I wanted it but I also wanted to run from it. It wasn't until I was more mature and had more clarity and insight (and unfortunately also until the problems got worse) that I was finally able to let go of those fears and just do it.

And I'm really really glad I did. It was everything I needed. And I hope to strike a better balance in the future with art. Taking more breaks when I need them, or just when other things have my attention like reading or Video games (Some star rail got played during this time xD)

From the outside things probably aren't going to be that different?? At this point I don't really have any sure plans to post anything I've been drawing since my Hiatus ended. I might or I might not xD I'm still a hobbyist artist taking things at her own pace, but I hope that it shows how much happier I am :)

Whumptober 2023 is being officially put to rest by this post btw! I was in major burnout when that event started, and I'm ready to just, move on from all the past expectations I'd shoved on my shoulders. If I feel like filling any of the prompts or going back to any of the ideas I'd come up for it I will! But I'm not going to worry about doing it unless the desire sets in. Thanks to everybody who's been so kind to me throughout my time on here as an artist! Ya'lls tags and screaming and kind words, the fanfic, the asks and the responses? Its been fantastic :) You guys have made me laugh, smile, and cry tears of joy. I hope from here that things only get better and sweeter! And if I have bad days again, that's okay too.

Here's to 2024 and whatever it may bring ya'll :D 🎉🎉✨✨🧡💜

[ifitmeanslosingyouthenno]

i've got your blood on my hands

day 6 whumptober prompt: not realizing they're injured | "it's not my blood"

neil stumbles down the hall towards his dorm

god he’s fucking tired

he doesn’t think they beat him badly, but the hit to his head must have been harder than he remembers, because his head is pounding and he wants nothing more than to fall into bed (or maybe andrew’s bed) and sleep for 8 hours straight

fuck kevin and his night practices for tonight

andrew’s opening the door before he even has the chance to get his keys out of his pocket

most people like to say andrew’s face is a blank slate, but after the years, neil knows better, he can see the worry and rage in his eyes, the way his eyebrows twitch and the corners of his mouth pull downwards

neil almost sighs in relief at seeing him, rage and all

“where the fuck have you been?”

before he can reply, there are other sets of footsteps coming from inside the dorm, nicky with kevin close on his heels

“neil! you’re back! where were– neil! what happened to you?”

nicky’s voice is too loud, and his pounding head reminds him of how much he hates the light and the noise right now

huh he probably has a concussion

andrew physically hauls him inside the dorm, guiding him to a chair in the kitchen, and neil gently tries to swat him off

god his too tired for this shit

“i’m fine, ‘drew, i just wanna go to sleep”

“drew?”

it wasn’t intentional, but his voice slurred just a little bit, he’s that tired

“josten you’re covered in fucking blood and you definitely have a fucking concussion, sit your ass down”

“it’s not even my blood”

“like that’s any better,” kevin grumbles

“what happened neil?”

nicky’s voice is so soft, but he’s carrying the first aid kit they keep under the bathroom sink

wait when did he leave to get it?

“some guys tried to jump me on my run”

“tried?”

“yeah, they had a knife, but they were amateurs… i – i knocked them out”

andrew’s tense posture says everything he’s feeling, but neil hates to be the reason he’s so tense and stressed

“i promise i’m okay, can i just go to bed?”

andrew’s eyes harden, and of course he noticed his growing drowsiness. he’s just tired

“nicky, kevin, get out”

“what- but andrew-”

“andrew you have to make sure he’s not lying, i swear to god if he has to miss practice-”

“if i have to repeat myself it will be with a knife, day”

“jeez okay, we’re leaving”

once nicky and a very grumpy kevin leave, neil smirking at him as he leaves, andrew turns his serious expression on him

“yes or no, neil”

“you know it’s always yes with you”

his lips twitch in anger, but he doesn’t hesitate to pull neil’s running shirt off him

neil’s eyes are feeling droopy, but he’s aware enough to see andrew’s hands clenching into fists hard enough that neil doesn’t know if his shirt will survive the strength 

he focuses enough that he realizes andrew isn’t looking at his eyes, but at his bare, so despite how hard it feels, he forces his head to move, forces his eyes to take in his bare chest and abdomen and–

oh

so that’s why andrew’s angry

“oh”

“oh, he says, it’s not even my blood, he says”

now that neil’s noticed the stab wound on his lower abdomen, it’s like his exhaustion makes sense, and suddenly his brain catches on and nothing but pain engulfs his entire left side

he tilts forward before he’s noticing it, but andrew is there to hold him up with all his strength, pressing down on the wound hard enough that neil winces

his breathing is growing ragged, and oh– oh it makes sense that it’s bloodloss making him feel like this

“i’m sorry, i– i didn’t realize–”

“shut the fuck up josten, just stay awake”

he can feel himself fading, and he hates himself a little for not being able to follow andrew’s instructions

he’s growing soft, a stab wound wasn’t enough to incapacitate him before

“‘drew call abby, there’s– something isn’t right”

“what the fuck are you talking about? neil, neil, don’t fall asleep”

it takes everything in him to stay awake, “not- not the first time stabbed, something isn’t right”

“don’t you fucking die on me junkie, i will bring you back and kill you myself”

neil can feel andrew struggling to get his phone from the kitchen counter as he balances neil’s weight with one arm, “you wouldn’t do it”

“don’t let me prove you wrong”

“you love me too much to kill me”

he doesn’t even hear himself talking anymore, doesn’t feel his body anymore

“neil, don’t fall asleep, come on, open your eyes junkie”

he wants to, god he wants to so badly, he wants to see andrew and his pretty eyes and his handsome face

but his eyes are too heavy, he feels too heavy

and in andrew’s warm embrace, how could he not feel safe enough to drift away?

dw neil was just probably stabbed right in the spleen and needs surgery but he'll be fine title from blood by nothing nowhere, its not at all related but i could not find a single lyric or phrase that i liked for this prompt and i got tired of searching ajsk

[mx-nii]

I was talking with a friend of mine about ao3 and how it’s October so we gotta be careful. We talked abt the main two - kinktober and whumptober. And then I asked for help choosing a fandom to read some whumptober fics of bc if there’s one thing in my life that’s constant, it’s my addiction to angst.

My friend, like an asshole, said LOTR/the hobbit - knowing this would make me cry so hard my eyes would bleed. I explain this, and then have my friend choose between LOTR and The Hobbit. If I’m going to suffer, they need to choose how.

I decided the best way to convey this was by quoting EPIC, saying “The blood on your hands is something you won’t loose, all you can choose is whose”. Quoting epic make me think of all the epic fanfic out there, which prompted me to say: “OOO- the Odysseus angst is good this time of year” followed by “HELP the way I said that- like it’s a ripe fruit”

In short: I referred to Odysseus fanfiction in October as a ripe fruit, and I was correct in that statement. To further prove this, I am going apple picking (diving through the depths of ao3) to find some ripe apples (to find the most earth rattling, mind shattering, toe clenching, timber shivering, hair pulling, hand shaking, eye bleeding, angsty fanfiction I’ve ever laid eyes upon).

HAPPY OCTOBER FUCKERS!