#And I also just think it's funny and ironic if Tails' journey has Tails growing more independent from Sonic while choosing to be around him‚

[hadesknockedupintheunderworld]

Insane again thinking about Sonic and Tails

Everyone always talks about the ways in which Tails is dependent on or revolves around Sonic. We talk about the ways in which he's depended on Sonic to save him, the way he likes tagging along on journeys, the way Sonic has inspired him, the way he always maintains Sonic's plane, leaves his door open for him with place to rest and good food to eat

But we rarely talk about the ways in which Sonic is secretly dependent or reliant on Tails

In a large portion of the games, if Tails isn't straight up on the journey alongside him, Sonic has the security that Tails can communicate with him from afar, and Tails usually appears to help out at some point during one of Sonic’s solo journeys. He doesn't have to be without Tails for long

And we see what happens (especially in Sonic Frontiers and Sonic Prime) when Tails is inaccessible. In Frontiers, he wonders where Tails aloud is unprompted, wanting to find him. Sonic's other friends even convince him to bother with the secrets of the starfall islands because doing so may lead him to Tails. He wants to find Tails so Tails can make sense of what's happening. And in Prime, Sonic ends up scrambling without Tails around. Especially in Prime S1 while things make the least sense, he seeks out Tails first (and then later hopes variants other than Nine can fill Tails' role) because he trusts him. He trusts that if Tails is here, then he can just tell Sonic what to do (come up with a plan for him to execute). With Tails around, Sonic doesn’t have to worry about not understanding the situation because Tails can figure it out. Without Tails, Prime!Sonic often shifts between trying to handle things himself to the best of his knowledge while rolling with the punches, and deferring to someone he can trust as a smarter strategizer to tell him what to do (a role Nine fills most notably, but other characters such as Rebel and Shadow fill on the occasion).

Of course there's also the earlier mentioned way in which Tails takes care of Sonic as well. I'm sure Tails isn't Sonic's only friend that he could crash with, but it's Tails who goes to such lengths to open his arms for him. If Sonic wants to crash in an actual house, if he wants to eat his favorite food, if he just wants to hang out, or if he needs help, Tails's home is open to him, accommodating his every need.

In my eyes, Sonic is the one who is surprisingly codependent here, who flounders a bit when everything goes to shit, Tails is nowhere to be found and can't be contacted, and there's no one else that can help him make sense of things. He takes Tails with him on so many journeys, even in games like Colors, where Tails largely follows behind Sonic while Sonic does a lot of the physical work. Tails doesn't need to be "useful" to tag along. He likes having Tails around, he wants Tails around. When Tails can't go with him or it's something Sonic should go alone for, he can always communicate with him and hear his voice from afar. And I'd argue there are more examples than Sonic Prime that may demonstrate Sonic trying to find someone to fill Tails' role the first chance he can get when Tails isn't around and can't be contacted.

The conclusion here is that a lot of people talk about Tails being dependent on Sonic or revolving around him, but they truly are partners. Sonic wants to be around Tails at this point perhaps as much as Tails always wants to be around Sonic. The two are strong together, they fill each other's gaps in ability. They both feel more secure when the other is around, and they rely on each other's presence. They are each a comforting existence to the other in similar and different ways.

[yukipri]

On the Baratie, Prologue - a One Piece Mermaid AU Text Story

Thanks to everyone who sent in their opinion on the East Blue stories poll! I think Sanji’s had the most, so we’re starting off with more Baratie!

While there’ll be a continuation, here’s a bit of prelude, because they need a different reason to go to the Baratie. The ASL Pirates already have a cook after all!

Like a prologue to On the Baratie, Part 1

~~

When Thatch makes up his mind to accompany Ace back to East Blue, he knows that there's one place he wants to visit no matter what.

He's only been to East Blue once, and it was honestly ages ago, and he doubts there'll be another chance in the near future. Not many opportunities to visit the weakest Blue as a commander in an Emperor's crew, after all.

And while Thatch doubts he'd travel halfway around the world for the sole purpose of visiting this spot, he's lucky. Because on this particular trip, it's practically along the way. They're passing right by the area on their way back to re-entering the Grand Line, so there's no way in hell he's letting this slip by.

It's the only request Thatch has made on this journey, and Ace and Luffy, who are the Captains and therefore technically get to decide where they go, have no objections. Luffy's already bobbing up and down in excitement, despite their guides estimating that they still have a ways to go.

"The Baratie, huh," Ace grins. "Never heard of it, we didn't pass by our first time through, did we Deuce?"

"You've never heard of it because you lived in the middle of nowhere, in a jungle with barely any contact with human civilization," Deuce says pointedly. "Most people in East Blue at least know of it, it's kinda famous."

Ace just shrugs, and Luffy whoops as the movement of his shoulders momentarily boosts her higher. Ace indulges her and repeats the movement more aggressively until she's bouncing, and Deuce sighs. The two captains' attentions have shifted, and now they're preoccupied by the most important topic of all: food.

"Food~!" Luffy sings, hopping from one arm to the other as Ace switches to spinning her around, and Deuce has to duck to avoid her tail. "Yummy yummy food at a restaurant! It's gonna be amazing!"

"It really will be amazing, if Zeff hasn't lost his touch," Thatch agrees, and Luffy and Ace cheer. "I've never eaten at this restaurant of his, but I was a fan of the Cook Pirates when I was a kid." 

His expression darkens, and Ace stills, recalling that Thatch mentioned they all died or something.

"Sucks what happened to them," Ace offers.

But Thatch just shrugs. It was around a decade ago, and shit happens out at sea. "I'm just glad Zeff survived. He'll have trained the new cooks well, and it'll be funny to see the old man actually settled down as a civilian."

Thatch was still a teen the last time he saw Zeff, who was Captain of the infamous Cook Pirates back in the day. They were always picking fights, and picked the wrong one with Pops, and predictably lost. Pops let them live, and they had a grand party, and Thatch remembers being captivated by their culinary expertise.

Thatch chuckles to himself, and the two brothers look at him curiously, blinking with adorably similar expressions.

"I just remembered, Zeff tried to scout me. Pops wasn't thrilled."

Ace barks a laugh, hefting Luffy into a more comfortable position before she suddenly squirms out of his arms. Luffy makes a grabby motion towards Thatch, and Ace obligingly if reluctantly moves closer to let her swing up onto the taller man's shoulders.

Thatch perks up at the sudden attention, because it's not every day that the little mermaid chooses to climb someone other than her brother. Thatch knows she doesn't need it, but offers her a hand to get settled more comfortably, which she takes with a pleased little purring sound that makes his heart skip a beat. Thatch pointedly doesn't look at Ace, but he can still feel his burning gaze.

He's not sure what prompted the sudden transport transfer, but suddenly Luffy's leaning forward over his shoulder to peer directly into his face, and she's close. Thatch tries very hard not to blush.

"But if the Zeff-dude cooks are that good, are they better than you, Thatch?" Luffy asks, eyes wide. "That can't be right, because Thatch's food is the best in the world! Better than even Makino's!"

Those words do make Thatch flush crimson, and Ace snorts. Thatch ignores him, too busy trying to control the warmth bubbling up inside his chest.

Thatch doesn't think he's arrogant, but he also isn't unused to his food being praised. As ungrateful as most of his brothers back aboard the Moby usually are, he's still the head chef who leads the culinary division of their entire fleet, and it's a position he's earned. He's personally trained and assigned all of the cooks on every Whitebeard ship. He knows he cooks well.

But there's something special about Luffy's unique brand of painfully genuine praise. Even though they've been traveling together for a few weeks now, she never gets bored of singing her appreciation at every mealtime with, if anything, increasing enthusiasm. It's like every time is her first time trying his food. Thatch in no way needs her compliments to adore her, he was besotted far before she even knew he was a cook, but boy does he appreciate them, and he doubts he'll ever really get used to them.

Thatch has been called the "Best Cook in the World" by many, and he'd accepted their words politely. But to hear them from Luffy feels like the highest honor he can ever attain.

Thatch feels unbearably fond as he reaches up to fluff Luffy's hair, and she leans into his hand, eyes curving up into slits like a happy kitten, her tail curling back and forth at his back.

Ace cheerfully ruins their moment.

"We'll just have to see, Lu, and maybe if you like their cooking better, we can ditch Thatch and kidnap one of their cooks." Ace leers like the evil little shit he is, and Thatch gasps with exaggerated indignation.

"No, no!" Luffy boos her brother, clinging to Thatch like he's the embodiment of all the meals Ace had threatened she'd lose, before she swings her tail around to smack at Ace none too gently until he grudgingly raises his arms in surrender.

"If we like their cooking, then we can keep Thatch AND kidnap one of their cooks!"

"Lil Seastar, you're not satisfied with just me, even if my food is the best in the world?" Thatch teases, and sticks his tongue out at Ace when he scowls. The young Captain isn't so thrilled with Thatch's new nickname for his baby brother, and Thatch thinks it's fair revenge for him being mean. 

"Thatch's food is the best!" Luffy cries again, and Thatch glows. "But if we steal a Zeff, then we have two cooks, which means more food!" She nods, pleased with her conclusion. "More food is always good!"

Well, she's a little confused, but her point is made. They hopefully won't steal Zeff himself, as Thatch doubts he'll be happy to part with his beloved restaurant, but perhaps nabbing one of his assistants isn't a terrible idea.

While handling even Ace and Luffy's appetites is no problem for Thatch, who's used to feeding the entire Moby Dick, some company in the kitchen might not be bad.

(And, a voice whispers in his head, that they'll need a cook that Thatch approves of when he inevitably has to leave to return to Pops. It's a voice Thatch ignores, so that he can enjoy this moment, for now.)

~~

~~

I don't think it's actually ever officially stated whether Thatch's Division is actually in charge of dining, but there are other divisions that are specified, so I thought it would be interesting, so I made it that way ^ ^;

(Edit: Actually it IS explicitly stated that the 4th Division is in charge of dining, this is canon and not just a headcanon whee~!)

And if Thatch as the head of the cooking division, then to me it makes sense that he'd be insanely good at it, not just your average chef. Because I mean, they're the Whitebeard pirates. And sure, they're not as food-centric as the Big Mom Pirates, but the WBs always have quality. Cooking, I feel, is a lot more subjective than say, "Strongest Swordsman in the World" but I don't think it'd be a stretch to say that Thatch is Up There.

This isn't at all to shit on canon!Sanji or his cooking which is probably also insanely good, but Sanji's a lot younger, and the places he's been, the people he's learned from, and the people he's cooked for are far more limited. He, like everyone else, is learning rapidly by stepping out into a far larger world.

Thatch, in comparison, has been on the Grand Line for a loooooong time, traveling with the most infamous crew currently in existence, and probably has picked up a LOT of things from a lot of people. While he doesn't have an official canon age, given the ages of the other Commanders (Marco 45; Jozu 42; Vista 47), I'm putting him at 41 here. That's decades of difference in experience.

It's one of the reasons why I think exploring Thatch and Sanji's mentor-rival relationship in this AU could be so much fun, because think of how much Sanji could grow with someone like Thatch in the crew.

Luckily, Sanji's dream is to find All Blue, not to defeat the cooking equivalent of Mihawk in Iron Chef Grand Line, so outside of fighting for the heart of the love of their lives, I think they can get along quite well ^ ^;

(also do u like his nickname for Lu. I had to consult a friend. But I think it's beginning to stick for me ^ ^;)

As always, any thoughts or comments make my day! Thanks for reading <3

❀ ❀ Send YukiPri an Ask! ❀ ❀

Read the next part: 👒🐟On the Baratie, Part 1

~This ask has been added to the Mermaid AU Text Headcanons Compilation post~

[whumping-every-day]

Vampire Whump 6: The Journey

I’m back at it again with more vampire whump!!! Have another 4k words of Callum and this nameless vampire, traipsing through the desert and being dumbasses. 

Content Warnings for this one: Conditioning, aftermath of torture, using ‘it’ as a pronoun, blood, fear, some comfort, reluctant caretaker, kindness, but the whumpiest kind, ??? It will get fluffier as we go, also, it’s fluffier than it sounds 

Tagging the amazing @jay-whumples @pepperonyscience @learningtowhump @robinshouseofwhump @shameless-whumper @whumpingmydarlings @whump-em and @silverinkgoldenquill, who asked for more :)

Masterlist

~~

The journey is long, and the vampire spends most of it totally numb and disconnected. Something horrible is waiting for it back in its own body, it always is. But it has not struggled, and so far, it has not been hurt. The very idea of mercy in return for obedience is ludicrous. And yet, Callum’s hand has remained, soft and gentle on its back, seemingly with no purpose other than to comfort. It had frightened the vampire, at first, thinking it was being held down. But time is trickling by, and the hunter’s hand has stayed.

It’s the longest the vampire can ever remember being touched without pain.

But as the hours tick by, even the vampire’s distance from its own body can’t ease the growing discomfort. With its arms bound behind its back, most of its weight rests on abused ribs. The pressure from being slung over the saddle is becoming harder to ignore.

The transition from uncomfortable to painful takes several hours, and as it happens, the vampire only clenches its jaw shut tighter. The creature doesn’t understand what is happening, or where it is being taken. But it is determined to stay quiet, and still, and obedient. The muzzle could be put back on at any time. Its ribs are broken, and the discomfort spikes into agony with every sway of the horse. But the creature is still covered by the bag, keeping away from the scorching sun. This is still better, the vampire reminds itself, even as tears of pain start to prick at its eyes. This is still better.

“Hey. You alright down there?” The vampire flinches at Callum’s voice. It’s immediately tense, and its fingers flex fearfully behind its back, feeling the pull and tug of the rope. It hasn’t moved, hasn’t made any noise. It’s trying to behave. But somehow, it’s still managed to do something wrong. The vampire’s breath hitches as the horse slows, biting the inside of its cheek.

“You’re shaking,” Callum murmurs, and this time it sounds like he’s talking to himself. The vampire hangs there in petrified silence, swaying slightly with the motion of the horse. “Hmm. Maybe we’ve been going long enough…” The sun it gone, the vampire realizes belatedly. The warmth sinking into the fabric has been slowly easing, and now there is a breeze nipping at its feet through the end. “Alright. Just another few minutes. I’ll find somewhere to stop.”

When the hunter pulls them to a halt next, the sound is different. It echoes slightly, distorting the clack of hooves on stone, and there is the babbling of fresh water. Callum pulls the mare to a stop, and there’s a few moments of silence as the vampire just dangles there, waiting for the inevitable.

“Alright. Easy does it…” The hunter has dismounted, and he is unusually gentle as he pulls the vampire from the saddle. “There we go. That was a long ride, I know. Jeez, you’re going to need more blood, aren’t you…” It doesn’t feel like the hunter is talking to it, and the vampire just curls into itself. It is fully expecting to be dropped, or thrown, and so is surprised when instead, it’s carefully set on the ground. “Stay.” It’s said with a hint of warning, but punctuated with another one of those little pats. The vampire whines softly and immediately goes limp, and its breath is frozen in its lungs as the hunter’s footsteps move away.

The creature is still bound within the fabric, and it can’t do much more than lie on its side, but that is still a relief. How many times, during its existence of torment, had it longed to simply lie down? The outside air is fresh in its lungs, on its tongue, and the vampire takes a moment just to feel it. There are no shackles grinding against broken bones, no muzzle burning into its mouth, no unexpected kick to its unprotected stomach. It still can’t see, or move, and its broken knees were never healed to begin with… but that is a small price to pay for the moment of rest.

There is a soft thump as something is dropped onto the floor. Then there’s the sound of shuffling, a faint clinking, and then the hunter is crouching down over it again. The vampire’s whole body tenses, and it quickly squeezes its eyes shut. The gentle handling will stop now, surely. There was no reason for it to begin with.

Instead, the man speaks. “Careful now. I’m going to take the ropes off.” The bindings begin to loosen, ankles first, then knees – and the ropes were tied more carefully there, for reasons unknown to the vampire. The hunter’s hands are cool, and his fingers are calloused and rough, but they are careful while he works at the rope.

Once the materials fall away, the creature isn’t restrained at all, save for where its arms are tied behind its back. The vampire is still naked, and the air is cool on its skin. It doesn’t dare look anywhere near the hunter’s face. Callum does not need a reason to hurt it, after all, and the man has several… even besides the obvious. It is evening now, edging into night. Soon, the hunter will have to make sure the creature cannot run.

“You with me?” There are fingers waved in front of its face, and the vampire jolts away with a pathetic little whimper. There’s no hesitation, just blatant fear, and Callum sighs. “Yikes. Alright. You just sit tight, then.”

The man pushes upright and walks away, and the lack of pain is dizzying.

The creature is left alone, and it isn’t chained down. Callum is moving about the camp, and the vampire’s gaze lingers on his back, wide-eyed and wondering. The hunter is tall, and broad, and he excludes confidence and strength. He is also scarred, and while the only visible weapon is the knife at his belt, something deeply instinctual tells the vampire that this is a man accustomed to violence. This is a hunter just like the others, with anger and wrath in his blood. But the vampire glances down at itself, and at its lack of new injuries, and it can’t reconcile the information. The confusion hurts, thinking hurts, and soon enough the creature just squeezes its eyes shut and hides behind its knees.

The hunter has left his pack by the old, discarded firepit, sitting there so innocuously. There are chains and a muzzle in there, the vampire knows, and probably other things. It wonders, absently, if all the hunter’s implements are iron-free, or if that is a mercy reserved for when the man is feeling generous.

There’s a small commotion from where Callum has tied the horse, and the vampire flinches again, abruptly snapping back into the present.

“Whoa there, steady girl. Steady. I know, I know.” The hunter is murmuring to her, soft, soothing little nothings, and it’s familiar. It’s the exact same way Callum has been trying to soothe the vampire, and it is… bizarre. Some humans are kind to their beasts of labor, of course; those certain humans with more empathy or compassion than others. But it makes no sense directed towards a captive vampire. A vampire offers no labor, only sick, twisted amusement.

The creature can only watch as Callum dips the bowl under the shallow cut in the mare’s shoulder… which must have been the source of the commotion in the first place. The hunter is slipping his knife back into his belt, and the horse stamps a foot, clearly displeased, but she lets the hunter stroke her neck. When Callum offers her a bit of sugar, she accepts the bribe.

The bleeding stops quickly, and Callum rubs a bit of salve into the tiny slice as the mare nickers and swishes her tail. It is only when the hunter approaches with the full bowl that the vampire understands. It hardly dares to look up, as if looking at the bowl will give away how hungry it is. There will be a price to pay, it is sure, before it will be allowed to drink. Its knees are nearly whole again, and its hip is no longer grotesquely out of place… it can crawl, it thinks, if the hunter wants it to. It can grovel and beg.

“Here.” Callum sits, and he’s so close so abruptly that the vampire jerks, whining softly. Such proximity brings punishment, always. Especially when it’s feeding time.  

From where he’s sitting, Callum can only watch the vampire as it cowers in place. It’s so skinny, and the creature is still visibly broken in places. Its lower legs don’t sit right, and there is an old ring of bruises around its neck, mottled yellow and green. There’s so much filth and grit covering its skin, Callum can’t even tell what color it’s supposed to be. The hunter sighs again, and the creature flinches and immediately goes silent.

“I’m going to untie you now,” Callum says, setting the bowl aside for just a moment. “No funny business.” The knife is in his hand again before he even thinks about what he’s doing. Were it any other vampire, Callum wouldn’t have even considered letting it free. These things weren’t human, after all; they were just human bodies, dead and come back again, overwritten with mindless bloodlust. This creature would kill him in a heartbeat, as soon as it was able to. And yet, Callum looks down at the poor thing, quivering in place and face still half-healed from the muzzle, and he can’t do it.

“Steady,” he murmurs, and slices the rope. The vampire squeezes its eyes shut until the knife is put away, and even then, the creature is huddled low to the ground, eyes darting fearfully between the bowl of blood and Callum’s feet. It still hasn’t looked up at him.

If anything, it seems like the creature is more scared now that its arms are free. They fall forward automatically when the rope is cut, and the motion earns a pained gasp. They’re still very much broken, Callum notes, as the creature cradles its brutalized wrists in its lap.

No matter the case, there’s no way it can drink on its own. Callum just shakes his head and picks up the bowl again. “Okay. Come here.”

He keeps it as brief as possible, but there’s no way to feed the creature without touching it. Callum steadies it by leaning it against his side, and the vampire is thin and fragile against him, quivering like a small, broken bird. It is difficult to imagine this creature as one of the monsters he hunts.

“There we go,” Callum murmurs as the vampire downs the last of the blood. There’s a faint flush staining its cheeks, and it is a little out of breath as Callum pulls the bowl away. Horse blood isn’t much better than pigs, in terms of how much it will heal the creature… but it is better than nothing, and Callum knows he can’t give any more yet.

It is entirely habitual to reach up and pat the creature’s head once it finishes, just like Callum does with his horse, or the stray dog he sometimes feeds in the back alley. It feels natural, and he realizes only after that it is not something he should be doing.

The vampire, for its part, seems almost drugged. Its eyes are hazy and distant, and it slumps against Callum, leaning the entirety of its weight – which is almost nothing – against the hunter’s chest. It is a startling display of trust, or perhaps simply of vulnerability. The vampire has proven that it understands its position; it has not made a single aggressive move since Callum laid eyes on it, and it doesn’t seem inclined to do so now.

“Well.” Callum is mostly nonplussed, and it is vaguely uncomfortable to have the vampire’s fangs so close to his skin. Really, he ought to have the creature muzzled… doing otherwise is foolishness, any hunter would tell him so. And yet.

The man sighs, and the vampire whines softly in response, curling its injured wrists more closely to its chest. The creature doesn’t seem that old, for a vampire. Of course, age could be difficult to tell with these things… but if Callum had to guess, he’d call it young. Very young.

“You didn’t even do anything to deserve this, did you,” he murmurs. He can feel the creature hesitate against him, but there is no response.

Considering the state of its body, the vampire should still be starving… and a starving vampire should be trying to rip Callum’s throat out. But the creature is only sitting there curled into him, meek and completely docile. It’s trembling against him, faint but present, and the moment is far more intimate than it should be.

“Okay. Alright.” Callum firmly pulls away. The creature is still kitten weak, and Callum pushes back to his feet and leaves it by the firepit. It’s still unrestrained, and somewhere, somehow, Callum knows that’s a bad idea. But instead of rectifying the problem, the hunter just fixes the vampire with a warning look and jabs a finger in its direction. “You had better stay where you are.” The words or else are perfectly clear, if unsaid, and the creature flinches and nods frantically.

This was not how Callum had seen this going. When he’d first set out, he’d been expecting a vampire like the vampires he hunted; strong, fast, and absolutely hellbent on bloodshed. He’d been expecting a mission of containment. But this creature he finds himself in possession of… none of the old rules apply. The old rules can’t apply, or Callum won’t be able to live with himself.

In the end, the hunter can only sigh, again, and dig into his pack for dinner. He eats, then collects firewood from the surrounding area. It’s the dry season, and he doesn’t even have to let the vampire out of his sight to find enough wood. The creature seems to have taken his words to heart; it hasn’t moved since Callum told it to stay, and it flinches and shrinks down smaller every time it sees Callum checking on it.

The perfect obedience is unsettling.

The hunter is pulling out his bedroll and blanket when a new thought occurs. He can’t leave the creature free at night, that is too far, even for him. But Callum can still see how red and raw the vampire’s wrists and ankles are, even from the other side of the fire.

Silently, Callum digs out a less-used shirt from the bottom of his pack, and then fills his traveling pot with water. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he mutters to himself as he tears the shirt into thin strips and sets the pot to boil. It takes some time to heat up, and Callum pretends he doesn’t hear the terrified, bitten-off gasp when the liquid starts to boil. He waits while it cools, and once it is no longer steaming, Callum takes both items and comes to crouch in front of the vampire again. Its eyes widen as he approaches, and the creature whimpers and flinches away… but it’s trapped against the log. It can’t go anywhere, and it twists its face away when Callum lifts a hand.

“Let me see your wrists.” The vampire trembles, and it lets out a frightened, choked sob. But it still offers its bloody wrists, and Callum winces at the sight of the distended flesh. They aren’t even set properly, and there are still open wounds, weeping blood and puss from where the shackles had bitten into skin. “Okay. Breath, buddy.”

The vampire is still expecting to be hurt, but its terror of displeasing him seems stronger than whatever it fears Callum might do to its wrists. It is deathly still, aside from the initial cowering. Callum is as gentle as he can be as he dabs at the torn flesh, making sure the water isn’t too hot. When the wounds are at least mostly clean, Callum carefully winds the strips of cloth around the creature’s wrists. He’s got nothing to set the broken bones with… but the wraps will provide some support, and protect the open wounds from irritation. Infection is a long-lost battle, but hopefully being immortal means he doesn’t have to worry about that.

“There we go.” The vampire stares at its bandaged wrists for a long moment, and its expression is flat and uncomprehending. But its gaze flickers slowly from its wrists to the empty bowl of blood, then back to its wrists, then up to Callum, and the naked gratitude in the creature’s eyes hits him like a punch to the gut.

It’s the first time the vampire has willingly looked up at him. Caring for its wrists is a small kindness, but clearly, it’s more than the vampire is used to. Callum’s throat bobs as he swallows, and in the end he has to look away. “Right. Just… just sit tight for a sec.”

Callum uses the trip back over to his pack to clear his head. He can’t leave the creature unrestrained during the night, no matter how harmless it seems. Even a weak vampire can crawl across a camp site and slit his throat. But Callum had been expecting a vicious beast, and he’d packed accordingly. He isn’t prepared for this tiny waif of a vampire that flinches and cowers at every sudden move. He’s not going to muzzle the creature or clap it in iron chains, there’s no way.

But the vampire, when he returns, is clearly expecting both. It has shifted to its knees, palms held loose in its lap, even though Callum knows the position must be agony. It’s waiting for him, head bowed low, and it flinches when Callum drops his pack. He’s already got the rope out as he crouches.

“I’m in a pit of a pickle, here,” Callum says absently. “See, I can’t leave you free during the night… But I don’t really want to chain you up.” The vampire is frozen, and it is projecting fear with every ounce of its body. It dares a glance down to its unshackled wrists, then up to Callum as the hunter lowers himself to the packed earth.

It still hasn’t spoken, hasn’t tried to form anything except gasps. But it watches Callum, and eventually its eyes fix on the rope. There is silence for a long moment. Then it moves, very, very slowly, to hold out its wrists. They’re visibly swollen under the wrappings, and Callum knows that even the faintest pressure would bring agony. Yet still the creature holds them out in offering, head down, like it’s trying to appease him. It’s quiet for a moment, and then the vampire makes a soft, questioning kind of noise.

Callum just stares at it for a long moment, and then groans and drags a hand down his face. “Jesus, kid. You’re making this hard on purpose, aren’t you.” It’s said without any real malice, but the creature still flinches in response. It’s trembling again, and it won’t look at him, but it is still holding out its brutalized wrists. Callum stares some more, and suddenly, out of the blue, he’s frustrated. This isn’t how this trip was supposed to go, and this one vampire has somehow managed to fuck the whole thing up. “Fucking Christ, put your hands down,” he snaps. “What kind of vampire are you, anyway?”

The vampire folds under his tone like a stack of cards. One second it’s kneeling, silent and waiting to be tied up. The next it’s flat on the ground, whimpering and shielding its face. The creature doesn’t understand what it’s done wrong, but it understands that tone. That tone heralds a flurry of kicks and blows, and the creature bleats in terror as the hunter stands. It remembers those boots, heavy and spurred, it knows how much being kicked will hurt.

There’s silence, and it quivers, and waits. There’s a lot of waiting with this man, it seems – waiting to be hurt, waiting for the hunter to snap, waiting to be treated the way it deserves.

So it waits.

And waits.

And waits.

And – and there is nothing.

The vampire is sobbing against the dirt, curled into the smallest shape it can possibly manage. The position protects its vulnerable innards from the hunter’s wrath, but leaves its back and sides exposed. But there is still nothing, even as the vampire’s breath comes in panicked heaves. At some point, abject terror starts to mix with confusion. Perhaps the hunter is waiting for it. Or perhaps punishment will come the next day, when the sun rises again.

There is a faint clank nearby, and the vampire jumps like it’s been electrocuted. It wheezes in alarm, and it collapses in on itself, trying to curl its arms more around its head. But there is nowhere to go, and even if it could run… the creature knows better. How could it have forgotten so soon? Pain will come for it, no matter what it does. Pain will always come for it.

“Easy, bud.” The hunter speaks from somewhere nearby, and even though the voice is calm, it still has the vampire absolutely petrified. It thrashes and screams when it is touched. “Jesus, kid – still! Hold still.” The grip on its ankle tightens, and the vampire gives one last terrified moan and goes limp. “Holy fuck,” the hunter mutters. The vampire can’t think, or see, or move. It is consumed by the fear, and there is nothing left to do but be still and wait. “Still,” the man repeats, and the vampire whimpers.

In the end, there is no pain dealt. Instead, something closes around the vampire’s ankle, cold and rigid. The creature knows what a manacle feels like, but the metal does not burn. And that means… that means it isn’t iron. That means that even after the little scene it had caused, the hunter is still showing it mercy. There’s no burning, just cold steel, and the vampire covers its face and cries with relief.

The hunter, it seems, is done trying to talk to it. The log it is lying under is ancient and gnarled, and Callum loops the attached chain through one of the many openings, and locks it closed. It leaves the vampire with only a few feet of loose chain, but it is only bound by one ankle. It is an almost unimaginable amount of freedom.  

The vampire expects to be left like that, curled on the ground and still shaking. Instead, the human’s footsteps approach one more time. There’s a pause, and then a quiet sigh.

“I’m… I’m sorry, kid. I shouldn’t have yelled at you. Try and get some sleep, okay…?” Something soft settles against the creature’s skin, and its eyes fly open, flinching back hard enough to hit its head on the log. It winces at the dull pain, but the thing covering its skin is bizarrely soft. A blanket?

The vampire’s thoughts grind to a halt for a solid ten minutes, during which Callum hesitates, tucks it in, and goes to bed.

There is blood, singing warm and soothing through its body, and exhaustion looms, heavy and foreboding. But the creature cannot quite tear its attention away from the blanket. It’s so soft, and so warm… and it smells like Callum. Even after everything, after the trouble it has caused, and after knowing what it deserves… the hunter has still chosen to give it a blanket.

The creature does not fault the hunter for ensuring his own safety. But for some unfathomable reason, Callum has decided to bind it in a way that does not hurt. The vampire is… astonished. It is reminded, suddenly, of that morning, when it had felt Callum crouch down above it for the first time, with his gentle voice and careful hands. It remembers thinking that it had felt a lot like mercy.

It is slow, and fearful, but eventually the creature’s fingers wind into the blanket. It’s like holding onto a cloud, and the vampire whimpers and immediately clutches it closer. The blanket is big enough to cover its whole body, and it is softer than anything the vampire can remember touching. It’s comforting. It’s soothing, of all the things, and the vampire is greedy in how it latches onto the comfort. It rubs its cheek against the fabric, and shudders silently at the softness of it.

In the end, the vampire is completely covered, save for the tuft of hair that peeks out at the top. The creature has crunched itself up into a tiny ball, and the blanket is tucked carefully underneath all the edges. The only thing sticking out is its ankle, and it’s the most comfortable the vampire has been in months. Or maybe ever. There are bruised fingers wound into the blanket in a death grip, and that grip is the last thing to loosen as sleep approaches.

Morning will bring a new swath of horrors, the vampire knows, because it always does. But in that moment, it is warm, and comfortable, and fed. The hunter has been so gentle with it, and the vampire can’t understand. But it does not need to understand to be grateful, and the creature tucks its nose against the soft blanket and closes its eyes. Maybe now it can rest. Just for a little.

--

[END]

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For anyone that doesn’t know Toneye Eyenot you are missing out on an amazing writer and a truly wonderful friend. I have loads of love and respect for him. He is a man of many talents but his passion for writing just blows me away. I have yet to read anything he has written that I didn’t like. Toneye is a lover of wolves and his Facebook family are his pack with lots of wolfbrothers and wolfsisters. Some of the best people I have ever met. He is always ready to help another author and lend a hand giving feed back or help with editing a story. My best advice is for you to make sure to pick up his books. It will not be a decision you will regret. Please help me welcome Toneye Eyenot  (my wolfbrother) back to Roadie Notes…….

    1. It’s been awhile since we talked what new books do you have out now? Latest release?

Toneye: Hi, wolfsis, It has been! A whole year since our last little pow wow and in that year, eye have only released the before-mentioned Blood Moon Big Top, which was awaiting release last time we talked. That dreaded anthology addiction eye mentioned last time, and my resolve to curb it, failed miserably hahahaha. So, 2016 saw several more short stories released in a variety of anthologies, with a hefty handful still yet to be released. But speaking of anthologies, eye did release one which eye ran called Full Moon Slaughter through JEA Press. It was a massive undertaking which culminated in a near 400 page book, 35 authors with 37 ‘tails’ of lycanthropic madness in which eye was honoured to have the esteemed Sisters of Slaughter – Michelle Garza and Melissa Lason as our feature authors. It was a highlight of 2016 for me. It did really well on release and continues to be quite popular. So much so, that eye am now on the verge of closing the call on Full Moon Slaughter 2: Altered Beasts. This one expands on the werewolf theme into the realms of Therianthropy, which is open to include a myriad of werebeasts. We have a wereoctopus, a werehedgehog, wereants, among many other strange and bizarre creations. There is also still a healthy dose of werewolf amongst the submissions as well. This one is gonna be a real killer! 2. If you could pick any author alive or dead to have lunch with who would it be? Why?

Toneye: Oh, that’s easy! Why, Dawn Cano, the Baby Cooker, of korpse!! There’s the ‘who & why’ right there hahahaha!

3. What is the strangest thing a fan has ever done?

Toneye: Y’know, eye thought this one would be easy, but honestly, eye can’t come up with an answer. There’s probably hundreds of things, but eye myself am a little bit strange, so the strangest things everyone does are completely normal to me. Maybe this, from my fellow author and wolfbrother Matty-Bob Cash might qualify. He sent me this portrait of me and him hahahahaha

4. What is the one thing you dread to do when writing?

Toneye: Run out of coffee or lungrots. Eye always make sure eye have enough to get me through the night, after the shops are closed.

5. Did you have imaginary friends growing up? Tell me about them

Toneye: Didn’t we all? Mine was my favourite teddy bear. His name was Robot Teddy because he had pointy, square shoulders, and he used to talk to me. He told me he liked KISS, so one day eye got a black texta and gave him the Gene Simmons makeup. He didn’t like his ears either, so eye cut them off for him. He was very grateful.

6. Do you go to conventions? If not why?

Toneye: No, not yet. Despite my somewhat colourful online presence, in real life eye am a bit of a hermit. Just recently discovered a con here in Sydney, but it was after the fact. Maybe next year, or if eye find out about more in my area before they happen. Eye really should get out more. The conventions eye see on farcebook over in the U.S. and U.K. look like a lot of fun and a good way to meet other authors…maybe even score some new readers.

7. How many times did you have to submit your first story before it was accepted?

Toneye: Only once. Funny and ironic that the acceptance would be for a certain anthology which goes by the name of REJECTED For Content hahahaha.

8. Ever consider not writing? If so what made you continue?

Toneye: No, never. Been writing for over 27 years now, if you include poetry. Since 2011, writing stories has become my obsession. Although there were a couple of years, during a train-wreck of a relationship, that my writing suffered greatly. That’s why it took me 3 years to write The Scarlett Curse, but giving up was never an option. Married to my writing now and that works best for me eye think.

9. Ever thought about writing in a different category?

Toneye: Absolutely. That children’s story eye mentioned in our last interview…well, eye am still trying to find my inner 6-year-old haha. That one hasn’t made any progression, but it’s still on the cards.

10. Any new additions to the family?

Toneye: No. Still just the one son, who eye would kill and die for. My writing family continues to grow though J

11. What is coming up next for you?

Toneye: Full Moon Slaughter 2: Altered Beasts is the next thing eye will be releasing with JEA Press. Then once eye clear my current commitments of anthology submissions, eye am steering clear of anthos altogether and getting Book 3 in The Sacred Blade Of Profanity series finished once and for all! It’s been far too long since Joshua’s Folly was released and eye have readers waiting to continue that journey. Eye have been a good wolf this year though and stuck to my guns. My problem is eye hate saying ‘No’ to people, but eye have turned down several invites to anthologies this year. Maybe there is hope for me yet hahaha. Eye have been involved in a massive and secret project for the past year though and that is nearing completion. All will be revealed with that very soon.

12. Do you do release parties? Do you think they work?

Toneye: Yes, eye have done a few. They are great and they do tend to work, despite Fuktbook making it difficult every step of the way. It’s not uncommon for event organisers and guest authors to be locked out of their own event because Fuktbook thinks they’re ‘going too fast’. If you’ve ever organized one, or even just been to one, you’ll know just how crazy they can get. ‘Going fast’ is the only way you can keep up, especially if you are hosting the event. Eye always come away from them mentally exhausted but eye love ‘em! J

13. Do you have crazy stalker fans? Have you ever had one you wish would go away?

Toneye: Yes hahaha, they’re ALL crazy! My kinda crazy, of korpse. They’re not all stalkers though. Eye do have a couple who get a bit freaked out and worried when eye disappear for more than a day, but they are special to me and eye love ‘em. They can stalk me for as long as they like hahaha.

14. Do you still have a “day job”? If so what do you do?

Toneye: No day job. Eye do help my brother out every now and then though, but that’s only very occasionally. Installing floors.

15. What is your process for writing? Do you have a voice in your head?

Toneye: First and foremost…COFFEE! Once that has been taken care of, eye might sit with my characters for a while and throw some ideas around until we can all come to some kind of agreement on which way the story will go. Depending on the story, the characters can either be a breeze to work with, or they can be real troublesome bastards. Take Marnard for instance. He came into The Sacred Blade Of Profanity series during book 2 – Joshua’s Folly. Eye like Marnard, we get on well and for the most part, he goes where eye tell him. Halfway through book 3 however, and the stupid kid goes n falls in love with some wolf girl in Mellowood Forest! Eye don’t write Romance, so this has thrown me a curve ball and caused me all kinds of distress. So to refer to your earlier question about writing in a different category, Marnard is forcing my hand to include a romantic element to my otherwise dark and horrifying story. Eye will be taking every step in keeping this element to a minimum, but yeah. To say eye am not impressed by his rampant teenage hormones is a massive understatement.

16. Is there a book you want to make a sequel to you haven’t yet?

Toneye: Yes! Book 3 in The Sacred Blade Of Profanity series hahaha. Book 2 being the prequel, this one really, REALLY needs to be finished.

Fangs so much for having me back, wolfsis! Eye hope eye have given you and the readers a little more insight into what makes me tick! As a treat, and a thank you, here’s a poem eye wanna share with you. It’s from Rejected For Content 3 by JEA Press and is my fave poem that eye have written so far. Enjoy, and until next time, Kopulater Desekraters!

Thank you Toneye for coming back and giving us an update! It is always a pleasure and honor my wolfbrother!!

FRED, THE DIS-EMBODIED HEAD Written by Toneye Eyenot “Well, fuck me dead!” exclaimed poor Fred, the freshly dis-embodied head. Rolling off the foot of the bed, he saw his body twitch. “I shouldn’t care but this ain’t fair! You psychopathic bitch!” As he hit the bedroom floor, his killer bolted for the door. Her hatchet, bloody, in her claw. Her vengeance justly sated. “You got what you rightly deserved and no more,” Dolores stated. She swung the bedroom door ajar, ran from the house and to the car as sirens sounded from afar. There had been some commotion. She slammed the gears and threw the beast into a forward motion. Tearing ‘round the corner wide, the car performs a sideways slide. She near collects a passer-by, who hollers as he dives, “My god, I can’t believe I’m still alive!” Back in control, Dolores starts to breathe again. Her pounding heart now skips a beat, beside her on the seat sits Fred…The freshly dis-embodied head. “Hey Dolores, look at me! In killing me, you set me free! Free to do most anything. I think I might just sing.” His ghastly chords and horrid tones chilled poor Dolores to her bones. She cast him from the window to the swiftly passing road. Not a soul in sight, she was once again alone. Shaken, Dolores speeds towards her home. Once inside with bolted door, Dolores falls onto her floor. On her homeward ride, she was terrified and stunned by what she saw. Guess who rolls out from her bedroom door? “Hey Dolores, fancy that! You threw me out, thought that was that. Well, here I am to prove you wrong. How ‘bout another song?” Dolores screamed and held her ears. Fred began his jests and jeers in off, discordant baritones that rattled poor Dolores’ bones. She hastily scrambled for the telephone. “What is your emergency?” The voice enquired indifferently. “Help me, please!” Dolores screamed. “He will not leave me be! I’m on Flinder Street. Eleven sixty three. I don’t care how, just get here now. You have to understand, he’s killing me!” As sirens wailed, her sanity failed whilst Fred the dis-embodied head assailed. He sang of times of happiness. Of times they’d felt their lives were blessed with the truest love, through all things, would prevail. His voice carried the agony of ripped and broken nails. Bursting through her bolted door, reached the long arm of the law and grabbed Dolores off the floor, her mind destroyed, in tatters. Fred the dis-embodied head lay silently and surely dead. Dolores’ bloody hands are all that matters. Taken into custody, she was labelled with insanity. Her life was spent in deep repent, never to be free. Left without hope to atone, in her padded room alone, with Fred, the dis-embodied head to keep her company. © Toneye Eyenot 2014

  You can connect with Toneye Eyenot here:

https://www.amazon.com/Toneye-Eyenot/e/B00NVVMHVA/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_3?qid=1494147021&sr=8-3-spell

Twitter: @ToneyeEyenot

    Some of Toneye Eyenot books:

Getting even more personal with Toneye Eyenot For anyone that doesn't know Toneye Eyenot you are missing out on an amazing writer and a truly wonderful friend.