cinnamon-roll-whump

[cinnamon-roll-whump]

Did I adapt this into a longer scene to go with the stupidly long novel I'm writing two days ago? Yes. Yes I did.

All fae know who Puck is. Bright, bold, and beautiful, he shines by Oberon's side. Sometimes here, sometimes there, sometimes in the shape of a horse, a hound, a chair, a flame. Sometimes even in the shape of another fae. His wit is cutting, and he has a tendency to walk a thin line, slipping just shy of any blame.

No one knows who Puck is. Not really. They see the flame of a fairy carrying out his king's will with glee. They never see the leash Oberon wrapped around Puck's throat long ago. The hold the king has over him is ironclad and unwavering. It allows Puck freedom and protection, but in return binds him utterly to Oberon's will.

Puck loves his king. He does, truly.

But sometimes, he'll lie awake at night, unable to banish thoughts that would surely be considered treason.

He's so sick of being obedient.

[cinnamon-roll-whump]

hey so let's say there's a mage character who was born with a very illegal type of magic, and the government handles these mages by forcing them to wear a cuff to suppress their magic (welded on so it can't be removed) and branding them in case they somehow get the cuff off, so everyone will know

what are the worst easily visible places for the cuff and brand to be?

[cinnamon-roll-whump]

Kane & Jim #57: Indulgence

Chronological masterlist / Writing order masterlist

content: recovery, comfort, starvation, body image issues, fear of torture, whumper turned whumpee

sorry for the long wait! i really do want to write more this year :)

-

Before Kane could get a single word out, he was tackled.

He just barely managed to keep his balance and stop himself from toppling to the ground as Bellamy’s arms wrapped around him like a blanket, pulling him in warm and tight.

“You were dead.” His voice came out squeaky, thick with quick-forming tears. “There was that incident last month, but everyone thought that must have had to have been an impersonator. You’re truly here! Truly!”

“I’m here.” Kane hugged him back, but they only stayed like that a moment before Bellamy pulled back to see his face, still looking quite as though he couldn’t believe Kane were real.

“Where on Earth were you?” he asked, hands still clutching Kane’s arms with the grip of a man who imagined those arms would vanish if he let go.

“It’s a long story.” Kane took a deep breath. “Bellamy, I’ve wanted to say this for a long time. I’m so sorry for how I treated you. I know–”

“Oh, don’t worry about that right now,” Bellamy did free one hand then, requiring it to gesture flippantly and then wipe the tears from his face. “Appreciated, to be sure, but there will be plenty of time for that after more pressing matters. Please, do come in, darling.”

A soft smile grew on Kane’s face. Bellamy wasn’t angry with him, at least. “Thank you. I would love to.”

It was only after he’d crossed the threshold of the doorway that Bellamy dared to let go, though he didn’t let his eyes off Kane for a moment as he made his way to sit on a plush couch in the living room.

“Can I get you something to drink?” he asked, all politeness, though Kane knew exactly what he must look like. What Bellamy must see. Perhaps if Bellamy had seen him months earlier, he would have been unable to maintain such composure.

Not that Kane really minded at all. He was being offered food. “Yes, please.”

Before he knew it–Bellamy having dashed the whole way to the refrigerator and back–there was a pack of cold blood in his hands. “I’m able to warm it up for you, of course, but I do recall that when we were boys, you’d always said the pre-packaged never tastes as good reheated.”

“I don’t mind either way, nowadays.” Truthfully, Bellamy could have tripped and spilled the blood all over the floor and he would have gladly licked it up without much thought. He had before.

He bit into the soft plastic casing and drank. The cool blood was a bit stale, though nowhere approaching spoiled. He wouldn’t have cared if it was. It was delicious nonetheless, and after he’d exhausted what he could suck out through the holes, he tore the packaging apart and licked up every remaining drop clinging to the sides.

“It’s ethically-sourced,” Bellamy commented. “From free, willing, paid humans overseas.”

“It’s really good! Can I have another?” Kane asked before he could stop himself. He’d never been able to indulge before, not since his capture. He was grateful for what Jim had given him, of course. Grateful would be the understatement of the century. But Jim was one human, and he could only give so much at a time.

“Of course!” Bellamy clapped, just once, delighted. And when Bellamy returned, he had two.

Kane downed both, in the same manner as the first. Three meals, just like a human.

“I don’t mean to pry,” Bellamy started slowly, despite that it was very obvious he quite badly wanted to pry. His voice got a touch lower, gentler. “But Kane, my dear. Have you been… eating well?”

Kane crinkled the empty casings, something to do with his hands. He’d really been very proud of the progress he’d made. When he’d first seen himself in Jim’s bathroom mirror, he looked almost like a skeleton, every available bit of fat and muscle his body could spare cannibalized in its attempt to find something to keep him going, until there was nothing left.

He did look better now, after six months of regular meals. He was still far, far skinnier than he was before the hunters, but he had some meat on him now. His cheeks only sunk in a little bit. His collarbone jutted out in a way that just barely bordered ‘passably normal’. You could see the bones of his arms from the inner arm, but not the outer, so as long as he took care to hold his arms just so, no one could tell. Not that he ever really made an effort. His hair didn’t have bald patches anymore, didn’t shed every time he touched it. If he wore layers, which he always did–and not even for that reason–you couldn’t see his ribs. So long as one didn’t look too carefully, he could pass as a regular man.

But Bellamy always looked carefully.

Bellamy didn’t look starved at all. He didn’t have to try not to, of course. His skin was smooth and his face was full. His hair was thick and lucious and styled. He had the figure of a healthy man, one who had food available to him every single day of his life. He only wore one shirt and his abdomen didn’t fall inward from under his ribs like Kane’s did. He smelled like lavender cologne. He practically glowed.

“I… went through a period where I hadn’t been eating very well at all. But as of the past few months, I have,” he answered honestly.

Bellamy sat beside him. “Truth be told, I do mean to pry this time. On account of my increasing worry, you see. Where have you been all this time?”

“Human territory.” Kane looked down at the empty packaging in his hands. The label used the same phrasing Bellamy had–Free, willing humans! “I was captured by vampire hunters when I’d, I’d, ah, hunted f-for a new human. Things were not, um, good there. I wasn’t fed, as you’ve gathered. Then Jim, you remember Jim? He came and got me out. I’ve been living with him for the past seven months. Not owning him!” he clarified hastily, looking up then. “As roommates.”

“I see.” Bellamy’s eyebrows had slowly drawn together in concern more and more the longer Kane had talked. “Well, I’m certainly glad you’re out of there now, dear. I did always like that Jim boy.”

“And I’m sorry,” Kane tried again. “You were right about everything. About humans, about me, about our families, all of it. And I was a bad friend. Even before we parted ways, I always acted like I was better than you. I’ve had a lot of time to think about this. I really am sorry.” And then, before he could stop himself: “Do you think we could try again?”

Bellamy smiled. “Well, I really am right about everything,” he mused. “I’ll admit, it’s all true. It took me a time to see as well, that you really were dreadful, though I never imagined I’d hear an apology from you.”

Though Kane had expected worse to start, it still tore a hole in him to hear Bellamy call him dreadful. Even if he knew it was true.

“That said,” Bellamy continued, “We were children. I was never the one bearing the brunt of your wrongs, and you’ve clearly turned over a new leaf. If even Jim has forgiven you, I see no reason not to. Absolutely, we can rekindle a friendship.”

Jim has not forgiven him: he’d made that clear. But he moved forward anyway. Maybe he could do that himself, too.

“I would love that.” Kane let out a sigh he didn’t realize he was holding, like a weight had been lifted from him after a century. “Maybe–maybe you could visit sometime. If you want to. I’d have to get permission. Do you ever go to human territory? I mean, you shouldn’t, but if I got permission, Jim’s sister is a hunter, you see, so it should–”

“Oh, yes, the sister! Elizabeth, if I recall? Yes, I’ve spoken with her, though well over a decade ago,” Bellamy cut in. “I do imagine she’s quite pleased to have her brother returned.”

Kane blinked. “You know Liz?”

“Oh, Jim and Caroline had exchanged phone numbers that night we met, you see. Caroline and the young girl had had a few conversations, but the girl had stopped at some point when she’d realized we had no way to affect Jim’s situation. I do not mean to imply I know her, I’d merely answered the phone and handed it off to Caroline a time or two. She’d always sounded frightened when I’d been the one to answer, so I did not linger,” he explained. “My, she must be grown by now. How time flies!”

“Oh. That’s–she never mentioned,” Kane stammered. “Is Caroline still…?”

“Alive and well, I assure you, though she has moved on to greener pastures. She’s found love, you see. She lives with her boyfriend nowadays, though she’s over often enough that my kitchen is still stocked with human food.” Bellamy reached to collect Kane’s empty packages, which he reluctantly released.

“So she’s back in human territory?” he asked.

“No, just across town. Her boyfriend is no human.”

Kane’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh. Oh my.”

He supposed he shouldn’t be too scandalized by the thought of a human and a vampire together. Humans were people, he knew that now, he’d accepted it long ago. Still, it felt… odd, in a way he could not adequately explain.

Bellamy laughed. “You must get with the times, darling.”

-

They sat there chatting for hours, and Kane had almost never felt lighter. It was like he was someone else, a version of him he’d never been before, where he was not horrible to anyone and no one had ever been horrible to him. Bellamy didn’t know what happened, not really, and with him, it was like he could forget, too. Just for an evening.

Just until he happened to glance at Bellamy’s clock and notice the time.

He startled out of nowhere. “It’s late,” he gasped. “I’m not–am I going to be able to get home in time?”

“Well, I’m not sure, as I’ve no idea where you live,” Bellamy points out. “Will you?”

It was the wrong thing to say. Kane grabbed Bellamy’s sleeve, terror striking his heart. “Please don’t make me go out there,” he begged. “I can’t–please, Bellamy, please.”

“What?” Bellamy put his hand over Kane’s, though he made no effort to remove his hold. “Of course, dear. You may spend the day if you wish. Why on earth would I force you into the morning?”

It was all crumbling apart. Of course he couldn’t be normal.

“I’m sorry,” Kane squeaked out, tearing up, but before he could say more, he found himself enveloped in a hug.

“It’s alright.” Bellamy held him as he struggled to collect himself. “You needn’t explain. Or you can, if you’re ready, or once you’re ready.”

“Thank you,” Kane breathed.

It was silent, then. He didn’t want to explain. Not yet.

When he’d stopped crying–not that long after, by Kane’s standards, to his pride–Bellamy pulled back. “You know,  I was wondering… how you’re getting blood? Is it still Jim?”

“Oh, yes,” Kane sniffled. “He’s very generous. But he’s actually just recently stopped, and I’m to provide my own from now on. I was meant to go to my parents and clear my status as deceased, but at the last second I decided to come here.”

“I’m flattered,” Bellamy said haughtily, a hand on his chest. “You’d mentioned my going to visit you. What if I were to bring you blood? The kind you’d ‘sampled’ tonight.”

“You’d really do that?” Kane asked. The idea was beyond tantalizing–he could have all the blood he wanted, and not have to run across human territory, even the part with friendly hunters.

“I do. I would so like a chance to visit human territory without scaring the locals, besides!” Bellamy enthused. “A win for us both!”

The next night, Kane returned home with a bag full of blood packs. For once, he could see a future for himself.

-

…

He reviewed the grainy VCR footage captured by the security cameras at the de Sang estate. It was the strangest thing: he just ran up to the gate, stood there for a moment, and ran away. And everyone else was ready to write it off as if it had never happened, all hush-hush. The boring lot of them.

Anton smiled. “Well, look who’s not dead.”

-

taglist in reblogs

[cinnamon-roll-whump]

It’s been such a long time since I continued this!! I’m hoping to do a lot more writing in the New Year!

Previous | Masterlist | Next

Warnings: mentions of offscreen death/bleeding out, mention of shooting, mentions of drinking, mentions of murder

Taglist: Taglist: @blackrosesandwhump @i-can-even-burn-salad @whump-in-the-closet @annablogsposts @livingforthewhumpstuff @nicolepascaline @cinnamon-roll-whump

ASO Part 5: A Sharp Look-Out

“Wind’s back!”

The call from the crow’s nest was rather unnecessary; every soul onboard the ship had seen the sails flutter, then flap, then billow out against the mast like a bird in flight. In a moment the deck was alive with people- the helmsman dashed to the wheel, the bosun to his post, the sailors to the rigging. And the captain stepped outside his cabin, a satisfied smile on his face.

“Which heading?” called the helmsman.

“Take her straight for Storm’s Eye,” the captain called back, and a rousing cheer went up from the sailors.

The boy, on his hands and knees trying to scrub out the last stains of the mutineers’ blood, did not join them.

Thompson and Beckett were dead; Marsham would be soon. Beckett had died at the mast, bled out. Thompson had held on for a day later, then at sunset he, too, had been dumped over the ship’s rail. Marsham was giving it his all, but everyone aboard knew it was only a matter of time before he succumbed.

I wish the captain had just shot them, the boy thought. It was a more violent thought than any he had yet had in his short life, and it showed how the pirate ways were beginning to affect him. No one could live long on a pirate ship without picking up a little of the rough pirate manner, and in time a bit of the violence too.

Storm’s Eye was a pirate stronghold, located on an island to the east of where the ship lay. The island had once been verdant and green, and the pirate village had begun on the beach. But since it was a very small island, the entirety of the place had now been taken over by rickety wooden buildings and walkways. The whole island bristled with ramshackle shops and houses, and some had even begun to extend out into the ocean itself.

No one who was not a pirate themselves would dare approach Storm’s Eye. The pirates that frequented the place were the most vicious and bloodthirsty. One would find no gentleman pirates there- only the cruelest thieves the sea had ever seen, interested solely in what they could buy with their ill-gotten gains, or steal at the end of a knife or a musket.

The boy had been there a few times, though he had never been on the island itself. He was afraid of the pirates that lived there, for they were the few that could almost match the captain in cruelty. And they knew how to tell when someone was not one of their number, when someone came to their island who did not plunder helpless ships or murder poor sailors (the boy thought of Captain Dawson when he thought of this.) There were stories of foolish travelers trying to resupply on Storm’s Eye, or misguided missionaries believing they could save the souls of the pirates there. All of the people in the stories met with terrible fates in the end.

The pirates, however, loved the place. They could drink and fight and make merry in the rough, cruel ways that only pirates can, and they could do it without restraint. Storm’s Eye had no constables, no governor, no magistrate, no law at all. If a man was found murdered in an alley with his wallet missing, the people of Storm’s Eye would have two reactions to it: laughing at the dead man for being so easy a target, and laughing at the robber for not taking the man’s gold earring and wedding band too. Then, of course, they would take whatever of value was left for themselves.

The ship arrived at Storm’s Eye sometime in the afternoon- the sun had not yet begun to set, but it hung low in the sky like a flag at half-mast. The crew had gotten themselves ready to make merry. The ones who planned to stay the night had put on their best clothes (not that many of them had very nice outfits, but it does not take much to impress a pirate, or the sort of person who courts one.) The ones who planned to drink and gamble had filled pockets and pouches with the gold they had earned, ready to lose it all in the pubs and dens. A few of the most sensible had offered to help resupply the ship before they could be ordered to do it- at least this way they might get into the captain’s good graces. And in the captain’s good graces was a relatively safe place to be.

Marsham was still clinging to life like a barnacle clinging to the hull of the ship. Few of the sailors spoke about him; none spoke to him. It was unclear what might happen if he, by some miracle, survived the ordeal. The captain might simply forget the whole matter, or he might shoot the unfortunate man for daring to live when he wanted him to die. He might do worse than shoot him. It all depended on his mood.

The boy crouched on deck, half-hidden behind a coil of rope nearly as tall as he was, pretending to be untangling a knot in it. The captain would be going onshore with the rest. If no one noticed the boy until then, he could spend a night in relative peace. This was the greatest pleasure he could look forward to onboard the pirate vessel- a night without being ordered about and bullied.

But on this night, it was not to be.

A rough hand seized the boy by the back of his shirt, hauling him up and over the coil of rope and dumping him on the deck at someone’s feet.

Mercifully, it was not the captain. The feet were barefoot, not clad in shiny black leather with gold buckles. It was the ship’s cook, instead, who had dragged him out of his hiding place.

It was a mercy, but not much of one, for the boy feared the cook almost as much as he feared the captain. Cookson, for so he was called, had only two tempers: bad and worse. He swore with every breath and swung a fist the size of a grapefruit at anyone who got in his way. The sailors gave him a wide berth. The boy couldn’t escape so easily.

“Whaddya think you’re doin’ hiding back here, ya little rat?” Cookson growled. “I’m goin’ ashore to stock up, and you’re comin’ with me.” He grabbed the boy by the hair and pulled him up onto his feet. “Go on, get a move on,” he snarled, accenting his words with a sharp shove to the back.

The boy stumbled onshore and into Storm’s Eye.

The place was chaotic; noise and color swirled around him like the storm it was named after. Merchants hawked their stolen wares; people shouted and laughed and brawled with each other; coins clinked and knives flashed. A cacophony of cursing and threats and blows being traded assaulted the boy’s ears until he wanted to run back aboard the ship and hide himself in the darkest, quietest, most lonely corner of the hold. But he couldn’t do that, so instead the boy stood staring, his heart pounding in his chest like thunder.

“Move!” barked Cookson, pushing the boy forward. The center of Storm’s Eye was a vast, sprawling marketplace, and it was there that the ship’s cook was headed. The little island had every kind of merchandise for sale, brought back to it from the ships that sailed into port, and almost everything that had been put up for sale had first been stolen from someone else. Even the stands that sold only fruit and vegetables had ripped their wares out of the hold of some unfortunate vessel.

Cookson was well-known in Storm’s Eye; all the pirates on the ship were. But it was Cookson’s bad-tempered reputation that set him apart. Shopkeepers never dared try to sell their goods for more than they were worth; Cookson always had a kitchen knife stuck in his belt, and he didn’t hesitate to use it if he felt he was being cheated. If he named a price, the merchants were quick to accept it.

A ship couldn’t be entirely restocked at Storm’s Eye; it was a gamble what would be for sale, contingent on what stolen goods had recently been brought back. But the marketplace still offered a chance to replenish some supplies until the next pirate island comes within reach.

Cookson wandered up and down the stalls from dusk to long past nightfall, elbowing sailors out of his way and once or twice stopping to exchange friendly curses with someone he knew. He bought what he wanted for the ship and sent it to be delivered- many of the stalls offered this convenient service, carrying goods back to a sailor’s ship for them in exchange for a small fee. Cookson didn’t trouble himself over the ones that didn’t offer such a service. He bought his supplies anyway, and loaded the boy’s thin arms with them until he staggered under the weight. This was as close to enjoying himself as Cookson ever came.

The boy looked about him nervously as he stumbled after the ship’s cook. Even after so long spent with a crew of pirates, they still sent shivers racing down his spine. Woman, man, walking on meat legs or wooden ones, eyes shining bright or concealed with a patch- it didn’t matter. He knew from hard experience that they were all cruel.

Still, it did not escape his notice the wide berth most of the pirates gave Cookson. It was not solely due to the man’s unpleasant nature. He’d noticed it in other places too. The ship he was unfortunate enough to be bound to was, for some reason he had never been able to fathom, feared more than the rest. There were pirates, and then there were those pirates, and they were not equal. Somehow, the ship he sailed with had elevated itself above the rest.

The boy’s mind tugged that problem around and around the corners of his head, batting it about like a kitten bats a ball of yarn. There was nothing especially fearsome about the pirate crew he was trapped with. They were, of course, deadly fighters all. But so was every other pirate on the seven seas.

It couldn’t be the ship. There wasn’t anything special about her. She looked like every other pirate galleon, with no secret weapons or unusual structure to set her apart.

If it isn’t the ship or the crew they fear…

The boy happened to glance at a small mapmaker’s shop as he hurried to keep in sight of the ship’s cook’s broad back. He stumbled and almost fell. There stood the captain, bent over the mapmaker’s table, stabbing his long finger into a large map. “I don’t want the place marked!” that hated voice snapped. “An X will do.”

The boy glanced fearfully ahead. Cookson was trading insults with a shopkeeper he apparently knew. Slowly, so that he wouldn’t be noticed, the boy set down his load and crept closer to the mapmaker’s. He didn’t even know why he was doing it; some instinct or long-buried curiosity drove him. It was far preferable to being goaded by fists and curses.

The mapmaker had a quill pen in her right hand and a smaller map on a board in her left, adjusting it as the captain pointed out various changes he wanted made. Her face was grim, almost afraid. The boy certainly understood her feelings.

But why is he getting another map made? And why doesn’t he seem to want anybody to know about it? The captain kept making furtive glances around him that were just a little too casual to be real, making sure that no one saw the map. Not even his crew.

The boy frowned. The captain’s behavior had been getting more and more erratic of late. Even the bosun had expressed concern a few times. The captain fell into black moods and then swung back out in a cruel cheer. He swore and raged one moment, and joked and laughed the next. And he kept secrets from the crew. The failed mutiny had been sparked by it, and they’d all seen how well that had gone.

What is he hiding? And why?

“Boy!” barked the cook, and the boy jumped guiltily, scrambling to catch up.

In the shadows of the mapmaker’s shop, the captain raised his head, looking around with narrowed blue eyes that burned red in their centers.

[cinnamon-roll-whump]

I'm not dead. Hi.

Anyways I forgot where I was going with this AU and I know it's been a year and a half but uhhhhhh I'm about 90% sure someone's OOC in this SORRY

Previous

"Please don't hurt my cat," is the first sentence out of Melkor's mouth. If he can get Manwe's promise, he knows his brother will hold to his word. He's honorable like that.

Manwe frowns at him. "Pardon?"

Melkor can feel the vibrations of her purr against his chest. The journey was long, and when Anna got tired he'd scooped her up and cradled her in one arm. Now, he braces his staff in the crook of his elbow so it won't clatter to the floor, and he carefully lifts Anna just enough for his brother to see. "My cat. Whatever you're going to do to me, please find somewhere safe for her. That's all I ask."

"Brother..." Manwe takes a step towards him. Melkor flinches, the staff lifts from the floor, and then–

And then Manwe's hands are on the staff and on Melkor's arm, steadying him, keeping him on his feet.

"Thank you," Melkor gets out after a second. He leans down to set Anna on the floor, and she immediately starts exploring.

"Of course." Manwe steps back, eyes tracking Anna, and there, it's a bit easier to breathe now. He looks sad, though, even with the small smile he wears now. He always looks a bit sad. "Tulkas said you'd met with Sauron. Are you-?"

Melkor's shaking his head before Manwe finishes the sentence. "No. No. I wouldn't risk Anna, please believe me."

"Then why was he seen leaving your home?" Sinking into a chair, Manwe rests his fingers against his temples and looks right at Melkor. "I want to believe you've changed, Melkor. I want to believe that you've turned over a new leaf, that you're trying, that you won't attempt to hurt anyone again. Have you? Or has this all been an act?"

Melkor nearly laughs. "I could lie to you right now, say whatever I want. How would you know?"

"I'd know," Manwe says simply. "Please don't. I don't want to have to do anything we'll both regret."

"...I can't," Melkor says softly. He can't give them reason to hurt Mairon. "Please just–"

The door swings open. Melkor turns, expecting Tulkas, but it's not. It's not him at all, it's Mairon.

"Mai..."

"This is private," Manwe begins.

"He's innocent," Mairon snaps back. "I went to visit him. I knew the risks, it was my choice, blame me. Whatever your punishment is, leave him out of it."

"Mai, don't."

Mairon brushes a quick kiss to Melkor's cheek, and then positions himself between him and Manwe, folding his arms and glaring up at the Vala. "He has changed. Breaking your rules wasn't his fault this time."

Mairon's shaking. He's terrified, Melkor realizes. He sets a hand on Mairon's shoulder and pulls him back, bracing himself on his staff like that Maia who likes to go around among humans. "If you ever cared for me, brother, leave Mairon and Anna out of this."

Manwe rubs his temples. "No, I don't think I can. I'll have to think about this. Until then... I suppose there's no harm in letting you stay together. Don't prove me wrong."

[cinnamon-roll-whump]

I'm not dead. Hi.

Anyways I forgot where I was going with this AU and I know it's been a year and a half but uhhhhhh I'm about 90% sure someone's OOC in this SORRY

Previous

"Please don't hurt my cat," is the first sentence out of Melkor's mouth. If he can get Manwe's promise, he knows his brother will hold to his word. He's honorable like that.

Manwe frowns at him. "Pardon?"

Melkor can feel the vibrations of her purr against his chest. The journey was long, and when Anna got tired he'd scooped her up and cradled her in one arm. Now, he braces his staff in the crook of his elbow so it won't clatter to the floor, and he carefully lifts Anna just enough for his brother to see. "My cat. Whatever you're going to do to me, please find somewhere safe for her. That's all I ask."

"Brother..." Manwe takes a step towards him. Melkor flinches, the staff lifts from the floor, and then–

And then Manwe's hands are on the staff and on Melkor's arm, steadying him, keeping him on his feet.

"Thank you," Melkor gets out after a second. He leans down to set Anna on the floor, and she immediately starts exploring.

"Of course." Manwe steps back, eyes tracking Anna, and there, it's a bit easier to breathe now. He looks sad, though, even with the small smile he wears now. He always looks a bit sad. "Tulkas said you'd met with Sauron. Are you-?"

Melkor's shaking his head before Manwe finishes the sentence. "No. No. I wouldn't risk Anna, please believe me."

"Then why was he seen leaving your home?" Sinking into a chair, Manwe rests his fingers against his temples and looks right at Melkor. "I want to believe you've changed, Melkor. I want to believe that you've turned over a new leaf, that you're trying, that you won't attempt to hurt anyone again. Have you? Or has this all been an act?"

Melkor nearly laughs. "I could lie to you right now, say whatever I want. How would you know?"

"I'd know," Manwe says simply. "Please don't. I don't want to have to do anything we'll both regret."

"...I can't," Melkor says softly. He can't give them reason to hurt Mairon. "Please just–"

The door swings open. Melkor turns, expecting Tulkas, but it's not. It's not him at all, it's Mairon.

"Mai..."

"This is private," Manwe begins.

"He's innocent," Mairon snaps back. "I went to visit him. I knew the risks, it was my choice, blame me. Whatever your punishment is, leave him out of it."

"Mai, don't."

Mairon brushes a quick kiss to Melkor's cheek, and then positions himself between him and Manwe, folding his arms and glaring up at the Vala. "He has changed. Breaking your rules wasn't his fault this time."

Mairon's shaking. He's terrified, Melkor realizes. He sets a hand on Mairon's shoulder and pulls him back, bracing himself on his staff like that Maia who likes to go around among humans. "If you ever cared for me, brother, leave Mairon and Anna out of this."

Manwe rubs his temples. "No, I don't think I can. I'll have to think about this. Until then... I suppose there's no harm in letting you stay together. Don't prove me wrong."

[cinnamon-roll-whump]

I'm not dead. Hi.

Anyways I forgot where I was going with this AU and I know it's been a year and a half but uhhhhhh I'm about 90% sure someone's OOC in this SORRY

Previous

"Please don't hurt my cat," is the first sentence out of Melkor's mouth. If he can get Manwe's promise, he knows his brother will hold to his word. He's honorable like that.

Manwe frowns at him. "Pardon?"

Melkor can feel the vibrations of her purr against his chest. The journey was long, and when Anna got tired he'd scooped her up and cradled her in one arm. Now, he braces his staff in the crook of his elbow so it won't clatter to the floor, and he carefully lifts Anna just enough for his brother to see. "My cat. Whatever you're going to do to me, please find somewhere safe for her. That's all I ask."

"Brother..." Manwe takes a step towards him. Melkor flinches, the staff lifts from the floor, and then–

And then Manwe's hands are on the staff and on Melkor's arm, steadying him, keeping him on his feet.

"Thank you," Melkor gets out after a second. He leans down to set Anna on the floor, and she immediately starts exploring.

"Of course." Manwe steps back, eyes tracking Anna, and there, it's a bit easier to breathe now. He looks sad, though, even with the small smile he wears now. He always looks a bit sad. "Tulkas said you'd met with Sauron. Are you-?"

Melkor's shaking his head before Manwe finishes the sentence. "No. No. I wouldn't risk Anna, please believe me."

"Then why was he seen leaving your home?" Sinking into a chair, Manwe rests his fingers against his temples and looks right at Melkor. "I want to believe you've changed, Melkor. I want to believe that you've turned over a new leaf, that you're trying, that you won't attempt to hurt anyone again. Have you? Or has this all been an act?"

Melkor nearly laughs. "I could lie to you right now, say whatever I want. How would you know?"

"I'd know," Manwe says simply. "Please don't. I don't want to have to do anything we'll both regret."

"...I can't," Melkor says softly. He can't give them reason to hurt Mairon. "Please just–"

The door swings open. Melkor turns, expecting Tulkas, but it's not. It's not him at all, it's Mairon.

"Mai..."

"This is private," Manwe begins.

"He's innocent," Mairon snaps back. "I went to visit him. I knew the risks, it was my choice, blame me. Whatever your punishment is, leave him out of it."

"Mai, don't."

Mairon brushes a quick kiss to Melkor's cheek, and then positions himself between him and Manwe, folding his arms and glaring up at the Vala. "He has changed. Breaking your rules wasn't his fault this time."

Mairon's shaking. He's terrified, Melkor realizes. He sets a hand on Mairon's shoulder and pulls him back, bracing himself on his staff like that Maia who likes to go around among humans. "If you ever cared for me, brother, leave Mairon and Anna out of this."

Manwe rubs his temples. "No, I don't think I can. I'll have to think about this. Until then... I suppose there's no harm in letting you stay together. Don't prove me wrong."

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So. Anyone else like Epic the musical? Because uhhh. Six Hundred Strike. Y'all.

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This is a short one but I’m gonna say it’s fine because my last one actually went over (I’m trying to keep my Whumptober pieces under a thousand words.) So it all balanced out!

Whumptober taglist: @whumperofworlds

Prompt used: AI-less Whumptober, self sacrifice, “I’m the only one who can do this.”

Featuring: aaaaaaaangst, royal whump, emotional whump, medieval whump, references to offscreen torture

Whumptober Day Six: The Conscience of the King

"With all due respect, Your Majesty, you can't do this."

"With all due respect, Lady Saralin, I am the only one who can do this." The king picked up his sword from the waiting cushion and tested its balance in his hand. He wore no full armor, only a light mail shirt emblazoned with his crest. "Have you seen Lady Sennarose yet today?"

"Er- no, Your Majesty, not since-"

"She is in her chambers, weeping, where she has been for the last three days."

Lady Saralin sighed, sitting down in a nearby chair. "If you'll let me speak plainly, sir- Captain Tarius knew the risks. He is one of your soldiers. He knew that some day he might lay down his life for you."

"And what would that say about me? I will not be the king that sat on his throne and allowed a man to die for him. Battle is different. You cannot predict what happens on the field of war. But this? This premeditated holding prisoner my captain of the guard? This I can stop. And I will stop it, Saralin." The king took up his sword and placed it firmly into its scabbard on his belt. "It is arranged already."

"Arranged? Arranged how?"

The king sighed, knowing that his words would not please his advisor. "I made a visit to the witch's palace. We talked."

"Alone?" Lady Saralin's voice cracked. "She could have taken you prisoner too!"

"No, she couldn't have. Not unless I allowed it. But we've agreed. I will give myself up, and she will let Tarius go."

"Your Majesty-"

"I saw him." The king's voice dropped to a low, sad tone. "In her palace. She was torturing him. He can no longer walk."

Lady Saralin pressed a hand to her mouth in dismay.

"How could I tell Sennarose that I let her lover suffer for me? How could I see her treating my captain so cruelly and turn my back?" The king went to the open window, gazing out over the kingdom. "You are my regent. I know you will look after them." He drew a deep breath. "It is nearly sunset. I told her I would come at nightfall. I- I am going now, Saralin. Please watch over my kingdom, and protect my people. See that Tarius' wounds are attended to, and that he heals well." A small smile played on the king's face. "And make sure that he and Sennarose are married before too much longer." He took the crown from his head and set it on the chair. "That is yours now. I know you will wear it well, Saralin. I trust you."

The advisor's eyes swam with tears as her king turned to go. "Your Majesty, she will kill you."

The king turned, and he was smiling. "I know she will. But she will not hurt anyone else. That makes it all worthwhile. I am the only one who can do this. And so I will."

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This probably isn't enough for an actual drabble, but I'm currently thinking about the idea of both Kane AND Jim waking up in the past at the same time. Just Kane running downstairs to fee Jim like he did in the AU piece you wrote, and finding Jim who is an absolute MESS cuz he thought he was back in Hell 🥺 cue Kane trying to calm him down like "no its ok Jim, its me! Well... the nice me? You're safe."

throwing this in the vault to drabble at some point

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OK I was thinking about this and I had to doodle it.... don't have my sketchbook so it had to be digital

i take a balloon and rub it against Kane’s hair really fast until it sticks out all over the place due to the static electricity >:) take that vampire

Kane sits there and lets you do it without complaint, though his confusion is plain in his eyes.

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i take a balloon and rub it against Kane’s hair really fast until it sticks out all over the place due to the static electricity >:) take that vampire

Kane sits there and lets you do it without complaint, though his confusion is plain in his eyes.

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Kane & Jim #55: Feeding

Chronological masterlist / Writing order masterlist

content: recovery, vampire whumpee, whumper turned whumpee, whumpee turned caretaker

happy 2 year anniversary to kane & jim~! hard to believe it's been 2 whole years since i started writing...

wrote while listening to melodies of refresh by tenno gabni

-

Kane woke and looked to the door. Just like every morning the past week, it was a normal door. No silver. No lock.

He changed and washed his face, creeping upstairs with the hesitancy of someone who knew he wasn’t allowed, despite knowing full-well that he was: Jim had made that clear. He felt too quiet, his ankles free of chains.

It was early morning, early enough that the sun hadn’t risen yet–that terrifying tell-tale glow didn’t shine from behind the curtains. Jim wouldn’t be awake for hours, resting upstairs while Kane slunk around in the dark, in his own house.

Kane couldn’t fathom how much trust that must have required. He still couldn’t believe he’d earned that much.

The fact that Jim was still feeding him his own blood was a miracle in itself. He’d given a time limit of one month. One month for Kane to get used to freedom, to going out on his own, traversing society like a normal person after years as a prisoner. An adjustment period, Jim had called it, his mercies never-ending in the face of Kane’s fear of running to and from the border on his own.

There was no way Kane could ever repay it, not in a thousand years. But he at least had to try.

He turned the knob on the stove. It was something familiar, having owned a stove himself for heating up the contents of blood-packs in his time before he came to own Jim. Human stoves, like their food itself, were more complicated: four burners instead of one, all with dials offering various degrees besides just ‘on’ or ‘off’.

And it was something he hadn’t done since before.

The circle of flames flickered to life, blue and hot and threatening.

He quickly turned it back off, luckily managing to control his strength and not break the delicate knob.

Deep breaths, Jim had said, more times than Kane could count now. Look at me. You’re okay. No one’s gonna hurt you. You’re safe here, remember?

Kane took a deep breath in, playing Jim’s soothing affirmations through his head, exhaling slowly. That’s it, there you go, the memory of Jim’s voice encouraged. You’re alright. No hurting.

After a few more of those, he turned the burner on again. The flames flicked back to life, and Kane watched them silently.

-

Jim woke, shook off the nerves, and marked another day off his calendar. Seven days down, twenty-one more to go, and then no one will take his blood ever again.

He could stop it now, if he wanted to. He knew he could. Kane hung on his every word like he was some kind of divine prophet. But once he stops, Kane has to start getting blood from vampire territory, and he’d have to talk to his parents to get the money to buy it… and it was too obvious he wasn’t ready.

Jim knew that feeling, going from years of captivity and isolation to suddenly being a person again. He knew how hard it was, even with support. There was no reason for Kane to have to rush into it immediately. The guy could barely go outside at night on his own he was so afraid, and he was a vampire. No, a month’s time would do him well.

Still. He couldn’t help but count the days until it was over.

As he stepped into his slippers and headed downstairs, he stopped in his tracks, hearing someone futzing around in the kitchen.

It was going to take Jim a while to get used to that, Kane roaming freely in his house. At night, even. He knew he could ask Kane to leave once he finds his bearings, but… despite the deep-seated terror, he knew he was safer with Kane here than without. Kane brought Laken home, after all. If any vampire came for him, Kane would save him, too. At least, he hoped so.

He continued down. “Kane?”

“Good morning!” came the cheery reply. That set Jim’s nerves at ease, at least. Right. Kane was friendly, now.

“Morning. You sleep okay?” Jim asked. As he made his way through the living room toward the kitchen, he noticed a distinctly… delicious smell. That couldn’t be right.

“Better! And you?” Kane appeared in the doorway, a big, fanged grin lighting up his face. It was a sight Jim had already long gotten used to by now, one that brought him pride instead of fear.

He shrugged. “You win some, you lose some. Hey, are you, uh… cooking?”

Kane held out a hand. “I am! Please come sit?”

Now he was smiling, too. “Haha, okay.”

Jim took his hand and let Kane lead him to the kitchen table, where a plate full of blueberry pancakes sat. They looked a bit off–undercooked, a little torn up–but the fact that they were there at all was astounding.

He sat down. “How did you even do this? You don’t cook.”

“I watched you,” Kane admitted sheepishly. “In the mornings. I really wanted to make you something, and I didn’t want to waste food by just guessing and doing it wrong, so I started paying close attention, and this seemed like the easiest thing to copy… are they okay?”

“Well, let’s see!” Jim cut into one– definitely undercooked. It oozed out around his knife, but Liz’s failed attempts at cooking had given him ample practice in this field. He popped it in his mouth without a care. “It’s great, Kane. Especially for your first time ever cooking anything. Thank you.”

Kane brightened up even further at the praise, sitting in the chair adjacent. “I know it’s not the same at all, but I wanted to feed you too, somehow. Like you feed me. I was wondering… if you could teach me to cook?”

“You don’t have to–”

“I want to,” Kane insisted. “I really, really do. But I don’t want to impose! I can always ask Laken.”

Jim cut away the less-done bits of the pancake he was working on, scooping up another bite. “Alright, if you’re really sure. Yeah, I can teach you. Doesn’t human food smell, like, really bad to vampires, though? Like it’s rotten or whatever?”

“I’ll manage.” Kane bore no obvious worry of the issue. Clearly, a bad smell was not something that registered to him as a concern any longer. “Thank you.”

It wasn’t until Jim had finished his breakfast and was about to get up that Kane spoke again, the smile fading from his face. “There was something else, actually.”

“Oh?” Jim put his plate and utensils back down.

Kane got down from his seat to kneel on the floor.

“Kane, buddy,” Jim said softly, sliding into that placating tone he always used when trying to calm the vampire down from one of his panics, “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know. It’s– it’s to show respect. Please.” As Kane looked up at him with those intense red eyes, Jim could see no fear at all.

“Well, okay then, I guess. What’s up?” he asked.

“I want to thank you. For everything,” Kane spoke carefully, as though each word was precious. Rehearsed. “For taking me away from the hunters. For not hurting me, even though you could have, even though you had every reason to. For helping me calm down when I panic. For feeding me, your own blood, even though it’s so hard for you, just so I wouldn’t starve. For giving me clothes and bedding and music and happiness again. You gave me my life back, but I owe you so much more than just my life. Because without you, I wasn’t dead, I was– I was there. And you saved me.”

Tears welled up in Kane’s eyes as he stared up reverent, overcome with emotion. “And I was thinking about all the times I’ve apologized to you, I was too afraid to do it right. I was just– I really was sorry, I’ve been sorry for a long, long time, but in those moments, I’ve always just been focused on not being hurt… but you would never hurt me. I see that now. Jim, I am so, truly sorry for hurting you. For every single time I hurt you, big and small, for those five years and since, I am so, so sorry. I was unimaginably cruel to you, and no one deserves that, but especially not you. I know that back then I told you the opposite, but I was wrong. You deserve to be happy! And I took that from you.”

Kane placed a hand over his heart. “And I swear to you, I will make it my life’s mission to give you back that happiness. I am loyal to you, Jim. Forever.”

He put his hand down. “That–that’s all. Thank you for listening.”

Jim sat in silence for a moment, absorbing it all. Wasn’t this why he’d originally taken Kane in? Wasn’t that the excuse he’d used– he wanted Kane fear-free enough to have an actual discussion about back then, without him devolving into a terrified, sobbing mess? He could do that, now. How long had he been waiting to hear Kane admit that he hadn’t deserved it after all? Fifteen years?

Oh, he was so unprepared for this conversation. He needed all kinds of psyching-up before they could have that talk.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Kane added quietly. “I just wanted you to know.”

“Right. Yeah,” Jim said, snapping out of it. Just because Kane was ready didn’t mean it had to be now. It could be any time, when he was ready, too. “That’s… wow. Hey, it’s okay,” he tried, far more comfortable comforting Kane than the other way around. He grabbed a tissue, handing it to him. “I mean, not the–not what you did. I mean it’s okay now. Um, thanks, is what I mean, I guess. For really apologizing.”

Kane wiped his eyes. “It’s the absolute least I could do. Everything I have is something you’ve given to me. Nothing hurts anymore.”

“Good.” His sincerity brought a smile to Jim’s face. “You know, maybe cooking isn’t the best idea if you’re afraid of burns? It’s not gonna happen every time, but even I get myself once in a while. Just thought I should warn you.”

“You give me blood,” Kane pointed out. He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. “Plus, you’ll be there. Right?”

“Yeah. I’ll be there.” Jim patted him on the shoulder.

Kane smiled back up at him. “Then I’ll be okay.”

-

taglist in reblogs

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i really really REALLY love the gradual switch from iesin being furious and righteous and fierce to small and terrified and cowering in essylt's lab, it's just fffakidfuhofkjah so good. and when talvos held him and brushed through his wings to soothe him to sleep? daohiefAFLQLWRHIFJ can we get more talvos soothing the wild desperate fae boy?

This is set about midway through Iesin’s time in Essylt’s lab!

The fae yanks his hand away as Talvos unbuckles the restraints strapping it to the table. Talvos doesn’t look up as he moves down the table to his ankles, accepting the petty defiance for what it is - the creature’s last bastion of independence, the only way he still has left to communicate his wild nature and unbroken scorn. He finishes releasing the fae from the rest of its restraints and steps back, knowing if he tries to assist the creature it will just swipe at him. The fae sits up, his movement slow and as it stretches spans of stitching of various ages across his body, and swings his legs over the side of the table. His hands wrap around the edge as he braces himself to hop down, and Talvos eyes the gap between his bare feet and the floor doubtfully. But the scratches on his own arms and shoulders, and one fresh from yesterday wrapping around the edge of his jaw, all bear witness to what will happen if he approaches or attempts to touch any more than strictly necessary, so he waits.

The fae makes his move, but the edge of his wing catches on the table on the way down. Sensitive pinion feathers, each one meticulously flayed down the center of its length, halved to expose the inside of the feather’s shaft for Essylt’s examination, break and snap at the blow, the strength and elasticity that would have allowed them to bend and absorb the strike taken by precise, pitiless knifework. The fae’s startled cry of pain is swallowed by the muzzle, and he staggers, clapping one forearm onto the table to keep himself upright, but his arm slips in the pearly blood speckled across the smooth surface, and he crashes to the ground, snapping more feathers when he smacks across the floor, wings twisted awkwardly beneath him. The entire fall takes less than a breath, flashing across Talvos’ wincing gaze even as he darts forward, too late to break the fae’s fall.

Keep reading

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please please oh please make your whumpee beg your caregiver to knock them out (on drugs, or with a hit to the head, whatever) because they just can’t take the pain anymore

i the sproo will be eternally grateful

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Rapport

For once, it’s a quiet morning in the lab. Essylt is out, called away by her responsibilities as a lady of the land, and Talvos putters about the workroom, cleaning surfaces and sterilizing tools. Iesin leans on one shoulder against the cage bars, watching him through hooded eyes while he picks absently at what he can reach of his wings. The hoops that used to keep his wings folded up are out for now, but he’s got holes in his wings where they once were. The edges are healed over, and he’s pretty sure the holes are permanent, now – at least as long as he’s here, cut off from the starsong. The rest of his wings aren’t much better. They’re dirty, and ragged, and the down is matted and the feathers are misaligned and some are bent or broken partway up and some are just gone, plucked for experiments or amusement or pain. They’re ugly. He runs his fingers down the inside of one of his wings, using his nails to comb through the knots and tease the vanes of each feather straight. It’s calming, straightening and combing and sorting each feather. He focuses in, blocking out everything around him and seeing, hearing, feeling only his wings.

Talvos clatters a pair of pliers against a tray, and Iesin’s flinch drags his claws down his wing, shredding the vane he was working on. The barbules are ripped, he scratched the rachis, his feather is ruined. Seized by a sudden rush of anger, he grips the feather and yanks it out. It wasn’t anywhere near ready to molt naturally, and he bites out a fretful whimper, squeezing his eyes tightly shut against the pinch of streaking pain that flares up his wing and into his shoulder and neck. He drops the feather to his feet and tries again, taking his time, combing through downy feathers and straightening vanes one by one.

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22: place a cup of water just out of my muse’s reach - Iesin!

The assistant has left a glass of water atop the cart that holds the rest of the implements that carve into Iesin's body. It's slightly clouded, sullied with Iesin's blood when the human woman - Lady Essylt, the other humans call her - rinsed off a scalpel before tending to it with far more care than she has shown Iesin's body, but it's water and it's wet and Iesin is so, so dry.

He's been left on the table for the moment, strapped down with leather stretched tight across his body and limbs, but the edge of his thumb-talon, if he curls and strains it, can just reach the leather cuff on his wrist. Iesin fixes his gaze on the glass as he scrapes his talon back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. He doesn't know where the assistant went - he was cleaning up after the Lady left, and his pattern has been to put Iesin back in his cage after he finishes that, but he was called away by another servant and he hasn't returned, even though the light from the narrow, high windows is moving across the floor.

Iesin tests the strap again, straining with what little leverage he can exert in his bound, prone position. The leather creaks, and he feels it rip a little more. His whole hand aches with the effort of staying in its forced, twisted position, but it's easy to drown it under the louder calls of the burning, throbbing ache of the bone-deep cuts on his chest and the cavernous thirst etching dry channels into his throat.

The cuff snaps. Iesin's arm jerks, flopping off of the edge of the table with the force of his pent-up efforts. He twists his head back and forth, rubbing the edge of the muzzle against the table as he hooks fingertips against the edge of the cart. All he needs is to reach the water, and get this thing off of his face, that's all. That's all. He can do it, he just needs to drag the cart closer--

Heavy wheels move reluctantly, shaking the contents of the cart as it jolts over the edge of a flagstone. Iesin watches pearl-clouded water slosh against the edge of the glass, spilling a scattered series of drops over the edge of the cart and across his wrist. He keens, rubbing the edge of the muzzle against the table again in a rush of frustrated, coiling energy. He needs that water, all of it!

After a fraught moment to catch his breath, Iesin strains against the cart once more, inching it closer. The effort pulls at the fresh stitches on his chest, and he feels more blood start to sleep through them, running in slow rivulets down the side of his torso in a mocking echo of the liquid his parched body needs.

The cart settles again, rocking slightly. It's close enough, it has to be-- Iesin stretches, reaching up across the top for the glass. A scalpel knicks his wrist, but his focus has narrowed entirely to the glass and its contents. A finger brushes against the smooth, cool column, and then another. He can taste it, it's so close.

He doesn't hear the door opening behind him, but the assistant's startled exclamation as he sees Iesin reaching across the cart of blades sends a jolt of alarm through Iesin, and his hold on the glass slips. It crashes to the ground, shattering in a wash of water and glassine shards.

Iesin freezes for a moment as the assistant rushes forwards, caught up in the sensation of water sliding across his skin. He just wanted a drink -- but the planes of the muzzle, pressing harsh and unrelenting against his face, and the assistant's adept grip as he re-imprisons Iesin's arm, and even the carefully blank look which meets his frustrated, muffled screech, all remind him that here, what Iesin wants will never be a consideration.