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itswhumpday · 4 years

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Blood Bags | Chapter 6

[Prologue] | [1] | [2] | [3] | [4] | [5]

The Pantry is only equipped with small restrooms to the side of the cells.

Twice a week or so, each of the humans get to go to one of the bathrooms upstairs and take a bath. Baths quickly become Whumpee’s favorite times of the week. Not only because it means a change of scenery from their room and the dining rooms, but because it means time is passing and they’re still alive.

After the terrible experience with the Banquet, Whumpee feels like scrubbing even harder at their skin, like they could somehow purge all the death they had witnessed and survived that night.

Caretaker is always right next to them when they cross the halls. They look exhausted, with dark circles around their eyes. Whumpee wants to ask if they’re okay, but they don’t think they’d like the answer. Maybe Whumper is feeding on them too. That’s a scary thought.

Besides, none of them have been in the mood to talk since the banquet. Whumpee remembered waking up sometime after it and find Caretaker crying in the chair next to the door. Whumpee didn’t know what those tear meant, but they themselves had relief tears upon seeing the familiar prision cell again.

Whumpee arrives at the bathroom and goes inside. Caretaker sits on the chair on the outside of it, closing the door. There are no windows, nowhere to escape. Just the beautiful, spacious bathtub, already filled up with smoking hot water. They take off their dirty clothes and throw them in the hamper. There are new ones already waiting by the sink counter.

The human allows themselves a rare look in the mirror. They’ve lost weight and muscle fast. Their hair looks weaker, their eyes, duller. They’re still pale after the last feeding, the one they thought they were truly done for. They look sick - but they know they’ll never recover from this sickness. There is simply no time for that.

They let out a sigh. It’s not the first time they ask themselves if they’ll make it through the month.

Pushing such feelings aside, they crawl up the bathtub. There is no reason to worry about that now. As they settle themselves into the hot water, their worries feel like a mile away.

In hindsight, Whumpee couldn’t have made it easier.

They had their eyes closed, lowered until their shoulders. The steam would come up to their face, soft against the sharp edges of their recently rediscovered bones. They were so relaxed they could sleep.

That’s when they were pushed down.

It felt like the weight of a brick, suddenly materialized on top of their head. It pushed them straight down, sending a wave of water up their nose.

They struggle. There are no thoughts of Whumper or Caretaker whodunit. It’s desperation at its purest form. They flap their arms and legs around, splashing all the water they can, but the hand only keeps pushing them further. This blind fight wastes precious air and when Whumpee realizes, they’ve already let go of a lot of air in the form of bubbles.

They stop, try to think. The water above is hard to see in, but they can recognize the silhouette of Whumper anywhere. Then, as they stop moving and the water clears, the weirdest thing happens. They start to calm down.

All the cards are already on the table. They don’t have to walk a hallway wondering if they’ll come back. They don’t have to lie awake in bed, wondering if the next day will be the day they’ll be hurt again. They don’t have to look at Caretaker so they’ll give them strenght to endure what was coming. After surprise struck, there was nothing else. Drowining is not the worst Whumper has done.

And that is what they thought for the first minute. Until oxygen really started running out. As their heart started racing and their lungs started contracting, they remember something Caretaker said a long time ago. You’ll find that fear is embedded in you. You’ll find it again.

Even after they give up the fight, their body carries one without them. Their chest spams. Whumpee feels with unusual clarity the water splash against their legs, that are out the sides of the bathtub. Somewhere along the way, Whumper’s hand has found their neck. They’re not even pressinghard anymore. They’re watching from above, waiting. One of Whumpee’s last coherent thoughts was if that’s what food sees from inside the oven.

Pain seizes their chest and they go through another spasm. Something breaks free inside them. It’s just like a hiccup. Bubbles come flooding out. Warm water spills inside their nose, their throat, burning. Whumpee chokes, but there’s only water.

Then it’s cold. It’s hard. Whumper is over them. Whumpee coughs, but they’re facing up, the water just returns to their throat. Whumper is holding their head in place. Their mouth is in Whumpee’s throat, pressing, pulling. Their chest is against Whumpee’s chest, heavy, too heavy to breathe against. Whumpee’s brain is despairing, begging their arms to move, but they’re too weak to do anything but to watch their life darken around them.

There is one more spasm in their chest. From the other side of a tunnel, they see Whumper move with it, but continue to drink. The water around them turns red against the white tile. This is the last they see. ***

There are times in Caretaker’s life that they hate the situation they’re in so much, they could just walk straight out and in the sun.

Whumper hasn’t been the same since the family dinner. Caretaker had never seen them act like this, to take part in those awful demonstrations. Something was changing, it had been since Whumpee got there. They never got one from a breeder before, they never spent so much preparing ideas for the next meal. Caretaker didn’t like it. Vampires should be as apathetics about their blood bags as their servants. That’s what Whumper always used to say.

Caretaker tried to stand in Whumper’s way when they’d gone inside. They said the human was still recovering, that they weren’t ready yet. This wasn’t how Whumper acted. But they looked almost like a child, smiling.

“Out of the way. Now.” They’d whispered. “It’s the perfect time, isn’t it? You know I can’t let them wait for me. I have to keep surprising them, otherwise all this training was for nothing. Step out of the way.”

Caretaker knew it was futile, but they stood their ground.

“I’m protecting your interests, my liege.”

Whumper grabbed them by the hair and pulled them aside. Caretaker couldn’t resist, feeling the pull of their commands wiggle its way into their brain.

“Sit down there and wait.”

Whumper’s commands grab hard at Caretaker’s mind. They try to fight it, but it forces them down. Their throat hurts with the effort of keeping in their screams. There is nothing they can do to stop it. When a vampire lord turns you, you become subject to their desires.

Caretaker can only hope that the fear they see in Whumpee’s eyes is real enough to get this over with quickly.

But long minutes past and it doesn’t end. They no longer hear water, so that must be good. That must mean the feeding began, that it’s close to be over. They wait, their nails digging into the wood of the chair. They keep remembering the night in the woods, when Whumpee clung to them. They’re all Whumpee has, the last failsafe. If anything goes wrong…

This is taking way too long. No live feeding should take this long. Caretaker is about to stand up and knock when Whumper finally emerges from the bathroom, leaving the door open. A trail of blood is dripping down his chin and they don’t move to clean it. Caretaker is still stuck to their seat, looking up at them, waiting from them to release them from the orders.

“Gah, stop worrying. The heart is still beating. My record remains.” Whumper says, almost in a dazed voice.

Caretaker’s heart sinks.

Whumper doesn’t give any more details, and starts walking down the hall. As soon as they’re out of range, Caretaker dashes inside.

They almost slip. There is water everywhere. Blood turns it shades of pink and red and it drips from the bite in the neck Whumpee’s neck. Their naked body is thrown on the floor like a discarded doll, legs in an awkward angle, arms wide open. Water drips from their nose and open mouth. They’re not breathing.

The water splashes when Caretaker drops next to them on the floor. Their head goes to Whumpee’s chest, an old human reflex. Even with their enhanced hearing, it’s hard to hear, but it’s there. A pulse.

Caretaker places their hands over their chest and start compressions. They count in their mind, going up and down with the chest. They push Whumpee’s head back slightly, meeting no resistance. They bend over for the rescuing breaths, and can’t push away the feeling of how cold Whumpee is, even against their own cold skin.

They keep compressing. Whumpee’s weak body moves up and down violently against the floor, splashing water around them. Compression and breaths, compression and breaths. All of the equipment is downstairs, but they know better than to stop. The other servants won’t get it, they won’t help.

It’s been minutes. Whumpee’s lips are turning blue despite Caretaker’s best efforts. Their eyes are half lidded, showing only the white sclera. Caretaker feels the sting of tears cloud their eyes. Stupid, stupid. It happened again, they let themselves care again. Whumpee was so different than the others, so confident, so strong… Why would Whumper change now? Why couldn’t they be in the usual controllable state?

Caretaker keeps compressing and breathing, compressing and breathing, not allowing themselves to stop. They finish the round of compressions, take a deep breath, close Whumpee’s nose and blows into their mouth.

Whumpee comes back with a bang. Water comes out of their mouth so rapidly and strong Caretaker gets all wet. But that’s okay. They pull Whumpee to the side, so they can cough the rest of the water out. Whumpee coughs and chokes, breathing hard and fast. Their entire body is shaking. Caretaker reaches for a towel, covering their nudity. They rub their back, making sure all the water is out.

“You’re back.” Caretaker says, breathless. “You’re back. You’re okay.”

Caretaker sees Whumpee trying to reply, but failing. Their eyes are drooping, closing. Caretaker’s eyes fall to the bite mark on their neck. That’s right! They were fed on. They had still been weak from the last one, it was no wonder their heart almost gave out. It’s better to get them downstairs, get some more blood on their system.

They lift Whumpee in their arms as they stand up. Whumpee’s eyes close, but their troubled breathing is sign enough their okay. They cough occasionally, shivering against Caretaker’s eyes. Their hand is weakly grabbing at Caretaker’s sweater. Caretaker closes their arms tigher around them.

“You’ll be okay. I’m right here. I’m right here with you.”

And the rest of the night, as Caretaker helps them get dry and dressed, starts their transfusion, cover them in blankets, checks their heart beat and oxygen levels, they can’t help but notice that Whumpee is not the only one with uncommon heart rhythm.

As they spend the night in a bedside vigil, cringing at every cough Whumpee gives, carressing their hair until they’re bad to sleep, making tea so they can feel better... Caretaker knows is in more trouble than they thought.

#cpr whump #vampire whump #vampire caretaker #vampire whumper #tw:drowning #tw:blood #beanwhump #this one was VERY FUN to write

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pluto-art · 4 years

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“Death by Elmyra”

1. He expected a bath. Baths were expected, unpleasant as they were. He didn’t expect her to leave him in the tub, filled high enough that one’s feet couldn’t touch the floor... but not quite high enough to get out if one wanted to. An hour went by. Two. He tried to stay afloat -- to keep swimming. He really did. His cries went unheard by Elmyra. She was at school. And Pinky, try as he might, could not squeeze under or open the door. Eventually, he was fished out, of course, and he might have survived, too, had it been several hours earlier. But perhaps it was better this way. After two years of torture, it was the last time he’d ever feel pain.

2. It wasn’t the first time she’d put him in the freezer. But, apparently, he’d said something particularly naughty today and so was punished for it, more harshly than usual. They forgot he was in the freezer, though. Despite his efforts to keep warm, it simply wasn’t enough. His last thought was Pinky -- of all the times they’d spent in the lab, making plans, messing up plans, and remembering that, through it all, they were always together. And thinking of Pinky, imagining him beside him, made dying a bit more bearable.

3. “One of these days,” Brain said aloud to Pinky, “She’s going to be the death of me.” He meant it in jest, not literally. Well... almost. That being said, he would rather have preferred he died of some other means than being thrown against the wall so hard his bones broke. But, in a way, he welcomed the sweet release. There was even a little patch of sunlight to warm his aching body as he slowly drifted off into unconsciousness. How very nice....

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This was done as a series of art studies -- wet fur, cold body, and drab colors that are still somewhat interesting. It was also done as an experiment: Can I draw out poses that very obviously convey that a character has died while still portraying it in a way that’s somewhat peaceful and serene? By way of cartoon logic, he’s able to survive all that Elmyra puts him through. But what if he didn’t?

I made myself sad drawing these....

#pinky and the brain #pinky elmyra and the brain #brain #fan art #tw:death #tw:drowning #tw:drowned #tw major character death #tw death #tw drowning #tw drowned

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skelligiri · 4 years

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Decided to try and write a ficlet to go with this. Hope you like it!

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It had been 3 days.

Or so the angel assumed, as he was making his rounds through the darkness with nothing but a candle to light his way. It was hard to keep track of the daily cycle in the absence of sunlight, after all. The heavy rain had not relented even for a minute ever since the ark had been filled with two of every animal, ready to start the world anew.

Well. Two of almost every animal, Aziraphale was reminded, as he turned a corner towards the outermost stables of the second level of the ship. Aziraphale, who had been assigned to Earth since the beginning, at first thought there had to have been some kind of misunderstanding. But in the end, he had to accept that the ineffable plan was not for an angel to understand, much less to question. He was also faintly aware that bitterness was an emotion unbecoming of an angel, but he found it to be rather hard to suppress after recent events.

Some of the animals roused at his presence and bleary eyes turned on him as he passed stables upon stables, occasionally stopping to pet and reassure some of the particularly confused looking among them. That’s when he noticed a draft coming from the direction of the unicorn’s stable. The poor creature had been quite distraught when it had been loaded on board the ark without its mate.

When he reached the lone unicorn, Aziraphale realized that there was a gash in the wood behind it.

That explained the draft, at least. More surprising, however, was the curled up figure in the stable with the unicorn. The red hair was unmistakable.

The angel tried to ignore the warmth that spread through his corporation at the sight of his hereditary enemy. Instead, he loosened the heavy ropes that were keeping the gate closed with a quick miracle, before stepping inside.

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Crawly knew what he would be telling his superiors in the off-chance that anybody questioned his actions. He was only helping some humans find their loved ones in the panicked frenzy that was Mesopotamia to lull them in some false hope, before it was all ripped away from them. Or maybe he’d tell them that God had wanted those people to die apart from each other, and that he interfered with that plan simply as an act of defiance.

It didn’t matter. He’d cross that bridge later, if he had to. He had other things to worry about in the meantime.

The water was rising fast, and he could see the angel in the distance among the chosen survivors, struggling to get the last of the animals to calm down enough to be loaded on to the boat.

‘Thank you, thank you so much,’ a woman cried over the sounds of the rain coming down in torrents when Crawly handed her the toddler she had lost in the chaos. ‘Don’t-‘, he hissed, but was promptly cut off by a wave hitting him from behind and sending him tumbling. He gasped, and for a brief moment was flooded not only by water, but memories of drowning, except it hadn’t been water and it had been hot. Not just hot, but searing, and all he could think about was how he hadn’t meant to incur Her wrath, he wanted to be let back up and go home and he kept screaming into the void, begging until desperation and regret turned into white hot anger, just to burn out and leave nothing but loss and sorrow in its wake-

He tried to shake the feeling and focus on the present while pulling himself up. But the water kept coming. The lower parts of the city had been long engulfed by the waves, and those that had survived had flocked to the hills. Trying to escape their fate and refusing to go out silently. Crawly only hoped that what was left of humanity would keep that fighting spirit alive.

He looked around and contemplated helping people onto their makeshift rafts as the waters reached his chest and his battered physical form began to lose the struggle against the waves, constantly finding himself underwater just to re-emerge, the rain making it hard to catch his breath. He didn’t notice Aziraphale appearing behind him until he felt a hand grab his arm, which prevented him from being swept off his feet once more. Crawly barely managed to make out the words ‘It’s time, we have to go now,’ despite the angel screaming them on top of his lungs.

Crawly gave him a long look, before tearing himself away from him and making his way towards one of the rafts. ‘Crawly!’

The demon pulled himself on the raft, or at least tried to; he knew he would have lost his weakened corporation then and there if he hadn’t been pulled up by somebody he couldn’t even make out through the rain. Crawly caught his breath and looked around. There was only one more thing he could do.

Some people pointed and recoiled, overcome with terror, when Crawly spread his dark wings and illuminated himself as if on fire so to stand out against the rain, before snarling at the cowering humans. With a powerful flap of his wings, he took off among the screams.

All he could do was hope that his appearance had changed who they were cursing with their dying breath. He hoped he wouldn’t see any of them again. It was the least they deserved.

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‘Crawly?’, Aziraphale asked quietly against the thunderous volume of the downpour outside. He crouched down next to the demon. That’s when he noticed it – Crawly was trembling, his face contorted in distress.

Aziraphale sighed. He hadn’t seen Crawley since they had made it to the boat, and when they did, Crawley had been angrier than he’d ever seen him. The angel had tried to assuage him, which was very difficult given his suspicion that the use of the words ‘ineffable’ or ‘plan’ would cause the demon to burst into literal flames. There was no point in trying to downplay what had happened.

‘I don’t like it any more than you do.’, Aziraphale had opted to say, finally.

And it was true. Crawly knew that it was true. And that’s when Crawly walked away, into the deeper parts of the ship. Aziraphale hadn’t followed.

And here they were, three days later.

Aziraphale sighed. He sat down on the straw, miracled up a blanket and began draping it over the demon.

At first, he didn’t notice him stirring at the gentle touch. He would’ve expected that if Crawly did wake, he’d shoot up and lash out at the angel, still filled with anger over what his side had done. He also would’ve expected some defensiveness at the very idea of being woken from a nightmare. Some snark about how demons don’t have nightmares, that they ARE nightmares, something along those lines of thought.

Or maybe that had been wishful thinking on his part, because Crawly starting to shake uncontrollably, curling into himself and gasping for breath was much, much worse.

Instinctively, Aziraphale put down his candle holder and reached out to pull Crawly close. To his surprise, there was no resistance. He was alarmed at just how thin he felt in his arms.

They would never speak of this, he knew. Crawly would trust him to never speak of this.

The angel wanted to say something comforting along the lines of ‘They are in a better place now’, as if that made it okay. Or ‘It was only a dream.’ If only. Instead, he held his dear nemesis in silence as he allowed himself to mourn, safe in the twilight next to the unicorn, the smell of mildew and sea water emanating from the crack in the hull along with the occasional drizzle of rain whenever the direction of the wind changed.

They sat together for a long time. And although there was a long journey ahead, Aziraphale knew that one day, the storm would pass.

A new dawn would finally break, and he took comfort in knowing that they’d be there to witness it together.

#good omens #aziraphale #crowley #crawly #noah's ark #ineffable husbands #ficlet #not sure how to tag this #tw:drowning #i guess?#someone give them a break #hurt #comfort #skelligiri

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dolly-nova · 4 years

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blood in the water // part one

Mako was still drenched. He looked like a drowned rat, gripping the knife he’d taken from the hidden Cornucopia. Even in the darkness, though, he was in awe of the tunnels. With a smile on his face, he’d repeatedly reach down to test if the sand was dry or reach out to stick his hand through the water. The horror and fear of the whirlpool that destroyed the boat felt like years ago. It was so distant so quickly that both he and Zeppelin were off on their own adventures, set to meet back at a certain spot in a little while.

It was so beautiful, Mako nearly forgot there was more than just him and Zeppelin in here, exploring the underwater maze. He’d seen some fish, and was mesmerized by even the darkest waters rippling above him. Seeing a glow in the distance, he was drawn down one pathway. It seemed like just a mass of faint, wavy lights in the water until he looked above and saw the tentacles of the jellyfish. He’d been stung by them a couple times; and had tried to pee on more than a few stings his friends received. He felt no fear as he watched them slowly float through the water. They were annoying, and he was sore enough from the boat wreck that he didn’t want to put up with a sting on top of it, but he wasn’t very concerned.

When he caught sight of a figure up ahead, he quickly stopped in his tracks. Were him and Zeppelin not the only two who’d found these underwater tunnels? He took a few careful steps, holding the knife behind his back until he was able to get a better view of them.

Edie.

Oh, Zeppelin would be pumped! Mako started to pick up the pace and waved a hand. “Hey, Edison!” he shouted.

But she was already focused on something else, her hand pressed against the water on the edge of the tunnel. “Edie, do-” Too late. She leaned forward too much and went tumbling into the water with hardly a splash. “Damn it, Edie!” Mako started to run, ignoring the pain in his left ankle that was getting worse each time his foot hit the ground. The jellyfish were starting to float near Edie, but her body wasn’t moving. Could she not swim? Damn it, damn it, damn it!

Mako dropped the knife to the sand and took a deep breath before pushing into the water. He tried to squint in the salty water, but it was too blurry with the glow of the jellyfish to get a good look. Kicking back, he ended up falling flat on his back as he receded from the water. He rubbed at his eyes and tried to find Edie where she’d been floating before, but her body was nowhere to be seen at eye-level. He looked from side to side, and up above. Was she trying to swim to the surface?

Some of the jellyfish glided away, casting more light over the ocean floor. Mako saw Edie’s body there, still unmoving, and barely bothered to take a breath before jumping back in. She was drowning! She was drowning! Someone had to help her! With one hand on the sand to navigate him at all times, he pushed forward until he grabbed her ankle, then her shoulder. He should’ve taken a breath, he could feel his lungs starting to burst. Don’t suck in, don’t suck in... Two of them weren’t about to drown. He wasn’t about to drown, not again.

With both hands tugging Edie as fast as he could, Mako had to try to squint in the water to find his way back. Desperate for air, he let Edie go and swam as fast as he could until he broke the water again. He gasped for air once, twice, then returned to the water. The jellyfish were closing in again on Edie, but he didn’t think about it. It only took a handful of powerful strokes to get out to her, and Mako was working as fast as he could to get her back to the tunnel. The light of the jellyfish was getting closer each time he tried to squint through the water. He braced himself for what he assumed would be no worse than the annoying stings he got from the jellyfish in Four.

A tentacle wrapped around his left arm and he couldn’t help himself - he sucked in a mouth full of water out of shock. Not again, not again, notagainnotagainnotagain.

There was blood in the water.

His lungs were on fire, his head was swimming, his vision was little more than a speck as he spun. And he saw red. If there was screaming, the water in his ears blocked the volume. It was muffled. But the red was bright, so bright he practically fell right into it himself as he tried to catch his breath, tried to bring himself back to life.

Had he fallen on the motor this time? Was that what sliced through his left arm? He shoved the weight on his right arm forward and tumbled after it. Was this what it was like to die?

No, he wasn’t dying today. He hit the sand with a loud thud, and groaned before spitting up the water he’d swallowed. Red welts were already forming around his left arm that he couldn’t move. His vision was clear now, there was no black on his periphery. This wasn’t the dock, it was the Hunger Game, and a girl named Edie was in far worse condition on the sand next to him.

“Edie, Edie!” he shouted, tapping at her cheeks a few times. “Edie, now’s not the time to play coy!” His throat was scratchy from the sand and salt he’d swallowed, but he didn’t care. It didn’t look as if Edie would hear him. He tried to bring his good arm down on her chest a few times, but only some water dribbled out of her mouth. Her arms were covered in even more welts than his, and he saw some peaking out from the back of one of her legs. No wonder she couldn’t swim. He could barely breathe without the sting on his left arm bringing tears to his yees.

He placed his right hand flat on her chest and tried to pump, tried to get her weak heartbeat to go faster. But nothing worked. The girl was drowning in the water in her lungs, probably unable to force her body to expel it no matter how hard Mako tried to push down. He looked around, desperate for anything in sight that might help Edie. All he saw were the jellyfish, and the knife.

“I know it sucks, Edie, I’m so sorry,” he muttered, wiping at the tears and spit on his face as he hovered on all fours next to the girl. It did suck. He’d always wanted to be buried at sea, but never to be killed by it. People drowned all the time in Four, and it seemed like a horrible way to go. He knew it was a horrible way to go.

Edie didn’t deserve that. No one deserved that. To die bloody and fast was better than slow and suffering.

Mako crawled over to get the knife and came back to kneel next to Edie. He held the knife near her throat, like Maverick had done to him in training. All he needed to do was apply some pressure and drag. He’d done it to fish countless times. But he dropped the knife suddenly, trying once more to push all his weight into his good hand to try to pump the water out of Edie’s lungs, to get her heart going again as he barely felt it.

It was his last, best effort, and it did nothing. There was only one thing left for Edie to do, and he was making it longer, more painful, each second he wasted. Picking the knife up once more, he placed it to her throat one more time, adjusted his grip once, then twice, then pushed. Blood began to trickle out, there was a sudden spasm, and Edie was spitting up water. Startled, already set on his task, Mako pushed down harder before pulling the knife away swiftly. It dug deep, and he watched in horror as she spluttered up blood and water for what felt like hours. He didn’t move a single limb, even as his injured arm was throbbing. The sight shocked him so much he stopped crying over the pain.

Long after Edie went still, Mako didn’t move. The blood from the knife was still dripping - some went into the sand, some ran into a small pool in his palm, and a couple droplets went all the way down his arm.

It wasn’t until he thought he heard someone else coming that he suddenly scrambled. He threw the knife into the water, wanting nothing to do with it. He kicked at the sand to cover the blood and stuck his good hand in the water to get the blood.

No one was coming, it was probably just a fish flipping its tail too close to the tunnel edge. But that didn’t stop Mako. He had a burial to attend to now.

He cupped the water in one hand to try to wash the blood off Edie as best he could, but he didn’t want to disturb her body too much. He couldn’t move quickly or efficiently with one arm out of commission and now turning redder by the minute. But he still moved along, until he thought he’d done the best he could.

The sun was rising, he could see the water turning a lighter shade of blue and some golden streaks starting to seep through. With his one good arm, he dragged Edie along until she was submerged in the water again.

Was it a burial or a cover-up? How could he cover up what he’d done in front of his parents’ own eyes now? What would Mackerel think of him? Would they understand this was an accident, too? Manslaughter was still slaughter, wasn’t it?

There were no jellyfish to crowd Edie now as he hoisted her feet into the water and pushed her out into the current. The wound on her neck was still fresh enough that crimson clouds began to form around her head.

There was blood in the water.

And it still wasn’t his.

#th:self #blood in the water #blood in the water part one #para #self-para #arena prompt #prompt:stung by a jellyfish #tw:blood #tw:death #tw:violence #tw:drowning #tw: murder #prompt:cry #prompt:Leave or enter an underwater tunnel by walking/swimming through the wall

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danyka-fendyr · 5 years

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Absence of Good - 5

Chapter 5:Head Above Water

Hey everybody guess who’s back from hiatus! Okay, so this is a bit of a long one, which I’m actually rather pleased about. I took a break to let my creative muse simmer, and I think it turned out pretty good! Hotch kind of gets more of a spotlight in this chapter, which is important to me because I want to emphasize reader’s connection with the other characters and not just Spencer. What can I say? I’m a sucker for slowburn. Anyway, hope it was worth the wait! (This hasn’t been proofread so it might not be.)

Taglist: @dreamwritesimagines @rhabakoli

AoG Taglist: @pancakefancake @prettyboyspenerrr

Wordcount: 3844

Warnings: Generally disturbing themes. Mentions of death, sexual assault, drowning and other dark themes.

“War is what happens when language fails.”

-Margaret Atwood

You had never been more terrified of an assignment than this one. And that was saying something.

Through everything that had happened to you in your line of work, there had always been an element of a safety net. Despite all the danger, despite the horrors you saw every day, there was some comfort in the knowledge of two things. The first was that you would get to go home at the end of the day to your loving bed. The second was that you were not the target. You were not the target.

“Are you sure about this?” You asked Hotch, trying to hide the slight wavering in your voice.

“You’ve seen the pictures, Agent Y/L/N. I don’t think I need to tell you how sure of this I am.”

You swallowed thickly, holding the glossy images between your fingers. You hated the texture of them between your hands, had never liked the sticky grip of a fresh printed photograph stealing your fingerprints, so easy to mark up. It stressed you out. These photos did a little more than stress you out though.

“How…this is…”

“Uncanny,” Hotch finished for you.

You two were alone in his office, which should have meant bad news to you on any day, but you had hoped for the best. You had thought maybe he was going to tell you off for helping Reid prank Morgan. Perhaps he had actually called you in to tell you some good news. That had been too happy to hope for though.

“Yes. Uncanny,” you echoed.

“The message seems clear enough though.”

“Say it,” you whispered.

Hotch looked reluctant, like the words would sound almost as bad coming from his as they would from you.

“This unsub is obsessed with you.”

Every girl looked exactly like you. Some of the more recent kills had even been made to look more like you. Hair dyed, styled. One with colored contacts to turn her eyes your same vivid hue. No one could blame you for the single tear that slipped down your face and landed on the dark, lemon scented wood of Hotch’s desk. No one could blame you for your complete inability to look away from all of your dopplegangers.

No…not dopplegangers. Replicas. Created to be perfect mirror images of you.

You felt like you were going to throw up.

“Who-“ You cut yourself off.

“We don’t know.” You had never heard Hotch speak so softly, his voice a gentle murmur. “Agent Rossi and myself are the only two who know about this right now. We thought we should tell you before the rest of the team. We’ve been looking through old cases trying to find someone who escaped but we haven’t met with any luck. Which leads us to believe…”

“That it’s someone I know in my personal life.”

“Most likely.” Hotch’s face was grim, his mouth a thin line.

It aged him, you realized. Every time one of the members of his team was in mortal danger, the years seemed to pile on, making him seem 10, 20, 30 years older than he was. It was jolting to realize that Hotch was not all that old, not in the grand scheme of things. That to Rossi, he was young, comparatively. For a moment you felt you were closer in maturity to Jack, his son, than you were to SSA Aaron Hotchner.

“I’ll go tell the rest of the team,” you whispered.

You tried to move, but you couldn’t seem to do it. For a moment you simply did not have the willpower to rise up out of that chair, an island keeping you afloat just off the continental shelf of the ocean that was Hotch’s desk, a buffer between you two. The terror held you in place, eyes still glued to those pictures, to the broken bodies in them.

“You don’t have to,” Hotch offered, throwing you a lifeline. “Agent Rossi and I can handle it.”

You should have taken it. Should have fallen to your knees and blubbered out your gratefulness. That’s what any sensible person would do. Anyone who had not read too many fantasy stories of heroines who put on a brave face and too many textbooks about how the shock could make you numb to things. If there was anyone willing to play their own brain it was you, and right now you were ready to play it like a fiddle that would be too shocked to process your own grief and terror.

“No. I can do it.”

You wiped your face clean, unashamedly whipping out a compact mirror to make sure you still looked presentable. You didn’t have to bother hiding anything from Hotch. He could care less how much or how little you cared about your appearance, as long as you remained professional. You had always liked that about him. How comfortable he was to be around when it came down to it. How trustworthy.

You didn’t look like you had been crying. That was good. You would lose the respect of 75% of the office if you did, and that was a convenient thing to have sometimes.

“Let’s go,” you said, finally finding the willpower to stand.

You didn’t look at the photos. You couldn’t. Not if you wanted to hold on to the shellshock, the numbness that would buoy you through this briefing.

The bullpen wasn’t ready for your announcement. You could see them all gathered around Spence’s desk, speculating. You knew what they were doing because you had done the same thing on a few occasions. They were trying to figure out why Hotch had called you in, laughing to themselves, smiling. You almost couldn’t bear to tell them, to wipe the smiles off their faces.

You took a deep breath, squaring your shoulders.

Spencer was the first to notice. To see the stone look carved into marble features and to freeze, his amber eyes going dark. It didn’t take the others long to notice, to put together your clenched jaw and Spencer’s tense posture. If there was one thing they knew better than serial killers, it was the face of a bearer of bad news.

“What happened?” JJ asked.

“We have a case. Briefing room, now.” You got there before Hotch could.

There was no hesitation, only an icy edge to the air as you all headed to the briefing room, closing the door behind you. You let Hotch do the setup, the man knowing you well enough to know that you wanted those pictures behind you. You couldn’t look at them while you told the team. It was bad enough seeing Garcia’s gasp as she pieced it together, and Spencer…You could barely look at Spencer, first to pick up the pieces, first to figure things out, first to have a thousand emotions flicker across his face. He was angry, he was sad, he was sick, he was terrified.

You tried to start, but the words stuck in your throat, so Hotch gave you a push.

“We’ve all dealt with unsubs of a more personal nature in the past. As you can all see, this is, unfortunately, one of those times.”

“This unsub has a connection to me. Obviously.” You tried to keep the words from shaking, gripping the edge of the table to hide the tremors running through you while coaching yourself to get a grip. “At first, he chose victims who look like me. He’s become more manic though, with less time between kills. It’s no longer enough to wait for girls who look like me. He’s desperate enough that he doesn’t care what they look like, but meticulous enough to model them after me. Additionally, he is still careful enough to pick girls with similar lifestyles. Low-risk victims with strong educational backgrounds, all the same age as me.”

The words were starting to run dry as it felt like the world might slip out from under your feet. You were sure your legs were going numb, sure that someone was freezing all the blood inside your body in some kind of twisted science experiment. You knew he had frozen the bodies, kept them for a while to do things you didn’t want to think about right now. Oh gosh, oh gosh, oh gosh, you had to make it through this briefing, had to make the words keep coming, but how.

“We believe this unsub is obsessed with Agent Y/L/N, and knowing this we can only assume that as his cooling off period decreases the danger to Y/N increases. There is some good news though. The unsub seems to be deteriorating, which could lead him to make a mistake.” Hotch took over.

“How did so many of these bodies turn up without us noticing?” JJ asked, horror in her eyes.

“The unsub crossed state lines. He’s clever, very much so. Medical reports indicate that he keeps the bodies frozen for a period of time before dumping them, and there are signs of sexual assault, though it appears to have been done with a blunt object. Some of the bodies he brought across state lines, which only further complicates things.”

“But we’re going to catch this psycho, right Hotch?”

Morgan’s righteous anger was normally calming, but now not even he could reach through your panic.

“We’re doing everything in our power to track down this unsub now that it has been brought to our attention. I fought for them to let our team have this case, so I expect you all to be at the top of your game. Agent Y/L/N, for obvious reasons, will not be apart of the investigation, but rather will be in protective custody.”

You swiveled, your legs nearly giving out beneath you but not quite.

“No she will not be,” you protested.

“This unsub is targeting you directly. The safest place for you to be is-“

“Surrounded by my team. At best, cooped up here. But I refuse to be sidelined and tucked away in some safehouse Hotch. You said I probably know this guy. So who better to help track him down than me?” You appealed to Hotch’s sense of reason, that sense that always won out with him. “You need me for this Hotch. You can’t find this guy without me.”

Just when you thought Hotch would agree, Spencer stood from the table, slamming a hand down with more aggression than you thought him capable of.

“Absolutely not!”

You felt the blood rush back to your extremities as it rose to color your face, Spencer’s protest bringing you back to yourself. You clenched your fists, turning the full might of your own fury on him even as he stared at you with eyes that seemed to blaze with fire.

“Reid, she has a point. She’s the only one who knows the unsub-“

“So we’re just going to use her as bait?” You had never seen Spence so livid, his eyes tearing up with the emotion. “I won’t let you put her in danger like that, Hotch. She shouldn’t be anywhere near this case.”

“I’ll be wherever I need to be, and right now that’s here, Spencer.”

There were few people who could match Dr. Spencer Reid. His mother was one of them, an unstoppable force. The eccentric, immutable Gideon, you had heard, was another. You were the third, fire rising to meet fire, washing out any trace of ice, any danger of drowning that might have existed before this moment, this challenge. There were a lot of people Spencer Reid was good and entitled to boss around, but you were most certainly not one of them.

“It’s too dangerous, I won’t let you-“

“Won’t let me? Well I’ve got news for you Spencer, you’re not my boss. You have no claim over me, no say in what I do or don’t do. I’m helping with this case because if you ever want to find this guy, you need me.”

Spencer looked like he was going to say more, but Rossi interrupted him. A dangerous thing to do for anyone other than Rossi.

“She’s right, kid. I hate to say it almost as much as you do, but she’s right. A case like this, could be anyone. You know that. You also know it’s entirely possible that she’s the only person in the entire world who can connect the dots. We’re not just throwing her to the wolves though. We’ll keep her safe.”

You had never seen Spencer looked so betrayed as he had now, looking first to Rossi, then turning to the rest of the table in a silent plea for support. He found none. Reluctant as the team was, you had made your point.

Turning on his heel, Spencer stormed out of the room. You had half a mind to follow him, but it was Rossi who held you back.

“Let him go. He’ll come back soon. He won’t be able to leave you alone at a time like this.”

You didn’t know where Rossi’s certainty had come from, but you could hear it in his voice, and you decided to trust him on this. After all, you would have to trust your team on a lot until this guy was safely behind bars.

The next few days were taxing, to say the least. You had gone through just about every person you had ever met trying to figure out who the unsub was. People you were close to, people you had barely known, and everything in-between. You were about ready to give up, nearly asleep with your head on Garcia’s desk as she cast her sympathetic gaze your way.

“Honestly, it really could be anybody. Sometimes these guys just see you smile at them once in the street and they’re insane for you. They’re wacky.”

“You can say that again.” You sighed.

You were in an extra bad mood tonight. You and Spencer hadn’t been talking lately, not since your fight over whether you should be involved in this. Despite the fact that you were confined to Garcia’s office and that Hotch wouldn’t so much as let you go home, Spencer’s vow of silence did not lift. It seemed as though he was refusing to condone your involvement in this with words.

Which was just as well, you didn’t need him. That was what you were telling yourself. You were just cranky and on edge because of everything else going on in your life. Heaven only knew you had a right to be.

“Boy genius still not on speaking terms with you?”

To add to your stressors, Garcia had been getting unnervingly good at guessing your thoughts.

“I don’t want to talk about him right now. Any activity from the unsub?” You quickly changed subjects.

“Well I haven’t heard from them in a while, but let me ask my brown sugar.”

Deftly pressing buttons, Garcia dialed Morgan, putting him on speaker so you could hear too.

“Hey baby girl.”

“Hello my gorgeous chocolate thunder. I was wondering, could you perhaps update me on the situation?”

“For you? Anything. We just got done talking to the M.E. about the newest body. Apparently he’s now taken to dressing them up as cheerleaders, presumably in reference to Y/N’s high school cheerleading career. Anyway, not much else has changed about his M.O., nothing we’ve noticed yet anyway-“

“Wait…Morgan…did you just say he’s dressing them up in cheer uniforms?” You asked.

“I sure did. Why? Does that mean something to you?”

“Morgan…I was never a cheerleader.” You felt like all the air had been swept out of your lungs. “I don’t think this is about me.”

The team had all headed back to Quantico at record speeds, made faster by the fact that the unsub had been getting closer and closer to Virginia in his killing sprees. They were now assembled in front of you in the briefing room, but this time you hoped to shed more light on the situation.

“When I was 16, I fell in with a bad crowd. Well, not a bad crowd, but you know. Not my kind of people. I was a quiet book nerd and they were party people. Anyway, I was going through some things and I wanted to be cool, so I let them convince me to go to this party. Long story short, it wasn’t fun. The highlight of the night though, I remember, was this girl. Amber Melfort. She and her boyfriend got into this big fight, and it was obvious he was drunk. He hit her, hit her pretty hard, and she fell. Fell into the pool, and didn’t get back out.

Her boyfriend, as you may have figured out, was not a class act. I think he thought that if she really was dead then if he left her there nobody would know it was him. I don’t really know what he thought, to be honest. Don’t really want to know. Anyway you slice it, that didn’t sit right with me. He walked away, but I dived into the pool, fully clothed, and managed to drag Amber out. Did CPR, got somebody half-sober to call 911. At the end of it all, Amber pulled through and her boyfriend, Matt, got kicked off the football team.”

“No offense, but I’m not sure I see how this is related to the case.” Emily’s eyebrows furrowed.

“Amber was a cheerleader,” I said. “Whatever this is about, it isn’t just about me. It’s also about Amber.”

Emily’s eyes widened in understanding, as did everyone else’s at the table.

“It’s certainly worth looking into. Reid, you and Dave go interview Amber Melfort, find out whatever you can. Morgan, Prentiss, I want you to find the boyfriend and make a house call.”

You all collectively scattered, and you and Garcia went back to researching whatever else you could.

“Alright, looks like Amber lives alone not far from here. Apparently she’s been dating a life guard, irony of all ironies, and according to her social media…Oh, major bummer. Turns out up until a couple months ago they were engaged until she broke it off because he was cheating on her.”

“Poor Amber,” you said.

The girl deserved a break.

“Yeah. Okay, so anyway, she hasn’t had any contact with the boyfriend, Matt, in years. He doesn’t live too near here either, which might be why the killings started further out but seem to be circling in.”

“Any stressors in Matt’s life?”

“Oh beautiful baby doll you know that I already looked and weirdly, I have not come up with much. It would seem that, to all appearances, Matt is living the perfect life. In fact, he even just got married. And other than their status as Facebook friends, he and Amber no longer have any kind of connection. He hasn’t even liked any of her posts in over a year.”

You felt the wind get knocked out of you. “I guess my theory was wrong then.”

“Seems like that might be the case. I’m sorry angel cakes.”

You were more than ready to give up. You had been ready to give up for weeks, but now? Now you were convinced you were going to be drowned and buried in a cheerleading uniform.

It didn’t make sense. All of the signs had pointed to a connection to Amber, right down to the drownings which you hadn’t been able to connect before the cheerleading outfit. You were at your wit’s end when your cellphone began ringing.

You did a double take when you saw the number. Spence rarely called, but right now he was angry with you. It didn’t make any sense for him to call. Unless…maybe he had found something. Heard from Amber that there was someone else who was a potential danger.

You picked up the phone, hoping against all hope, only to be filled with cold fear.

“Y/N, it’s Dave. My phone is dead, but we’re on the way to the hospital. Spencer’s been hurt.”

“I’m on my way.” Screw the unsub, you were not leaving Spencer alone in some stupid hospital.

“Okay. Let me know when you get here.”

When you arrived at the hospital, you found Dave quickly and he explained everything that had happened to you. Amber had been the unsub all along, dealing with her trauma the only way she knew how.

Her fiancé cheating on her had been the stressor. Apparently Matt had been cheating on her way back when and that was what they had been arguing about at the party just before he struck her, nearly dooming her to a watery grave. In a twisted reenactment, she had been playing out her memories by killing not herself, but the girl who had come to save her, all in the hopes of gaining your attention. She had become obsessed with you and with your work, and ultimately it led to her revealing herself and having a shoot-out with Spence.

“Is he okay?”

“The doctors think he’s going to be fine. She only grazed his arm,” Rossi reassured.

You breathed a sigh of relief. “Can I go see him?”

“Yes, I think they’re allowing visitors now.”

You didn’t stay behind to listen to Garcia’s speeches about charts before charging ahead.

“Spence.” You breathed a sigh of relief seeing him awake.

He looked towards you and for the first time in days, a hint of a smile pulled at his mouth.

“Hey,” he said. “Did you bring me Jell-O?”

“No. But I can,” you said, turning to go get some.

“No! I mean, that’s okay. Don’t leave yet.”

He looked so pale under the harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital. A white bandage wrapped around his arm and nearly matched his skin as well as the sheets. The dark marks under his eyes stuck out even harsher for it.

You drifted over to his bedside, taking a hesitant seat in the hard, alcohol scented chair next to his bed.

“Listen…Spence…I’m sorry,” you confessed. “I’ve been stupid. When I heard you were hurt, all I could think about was how if you died I wouldn’t have gotten to tell you…Well, I wouldn’t have been able to tell you that I’m an idiot. You were only trying to protect me, and I’m sorry for not seeing that and respecting it.”

“No, it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have gotten so angry at you, shouldn’t have wasted all that time being mad at you for being right. In the end, you were the one who solved the case and the one who saved the day. Even when you aren’t in the field you’re a brilliant agent, and I…I was just worried. I thought maybe I could lose you, and if I did…I don’t want to think about what would happen. So please forgive me for being so selfish and stubborn.”

You smiled softly at him, taking his hand and giving it a squeeze.

“Forgiven.”

He smiled widely at you, a smile you hadn’t seen since before the threat to your life. “I’ll take that Jell-O now.”

“Coming right up.”

“The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because he loves what is behind him.”

-G.K. Chesterton

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fic #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid imagine #dr. spencer reid #criminal minds #matthew gray gubler #matthew gray gubler x reader #tw:sexual assault #tw:death #tw:body horror #tw:selfharm #???#tw:panic attack #tw:drowning

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poppy-battenberg · 4 years

Text

nine lives // self

The first time Soleil should’ve died was when she was just a newborn. Her mother and father were starving, and it was a cold night. They feared even their adult bodies would not make it through the night, let alone their infant daughter’s. They huddled around her as her body went still. They set her on the stoop of a foster home, unable to afford even a tiny casket.

She was found, alive but barely breathing, before dawn the next morning. She was wrapped in warm blankets and held.

The second time she should’ve died was around the age of two, when a particularly big piece of bread got caught in her parched throat. She was all alone in the kitchen, because the Fielders didn’t think their children needed much supervision. Coughing and sputtering, until her vision went dark, her young brain could only understand the concept that she might be falling asleep.

But the walls of the house were weak. Some of her older neighbors were wrestling nearby, broke right through the back door. They spotted the little girl in need and whacked her on the back until the bread flew out of her mouth.

The third time she should’ve died was around the age of nine, when she decided to run through the fields as they were chopping down grain. The Fielders, as always, weren’t looking out for her. Her imagination ran wild in the summer heat. She imagined she was dodging among the pyramids she’d seen in the Games that year. That the golden wheat was really warm sand. A scythe cut through the air, the worker unable to see the spritely little girl running on the other side of the stalk.

But a rock caught her foot. She fell forward, the scythe swinging through the air where her neck should’ve passed. She went home with a stubbed toe and a bloody knee, but nothing else.

The fourth time she should’ve died was only about a month later. She was sitting in the schoolyard, helping some of her friends with their math homework. It was a question about how much grain could be produced if a mill worked a certain amount of hours a week. They were all so caught up, no one saw the cart pulled by a spooked horse coming toward them.

A wall from the flimsy schoolhouse came down suddenly, though, deterring the horse from its course that was on a track to run off the group of little girls circled in the dirt.

The fifth time she should’ve died was when she was twelve, and she found herself locked out of the Fielders home. Maybe they thought she was asleep. Or they simply didn’t care. Unsure of where else to go, she wandered through the darkness on a familiar path toward the schoolhouse. She curled her body up tight against the side of the building, but she still stuck out enough to be noticed.

Especially by a mean drunk. The woman clamped her hand around the little girl’s throat and refused to let go. At twelve, she was to die at the hands of a stranger, apparently. She barely struggled. She didn’t want to go in a way that wasn’t at least peaceful. The grip released suddenly, as the woman fell to the ground on all fours and threw up whatever had brought out such vile behavior. Soleil ran.

The sixth time she should’ve died was around thirteen, when boy brought a knife to school. He wasn’t violent, had just taken it from his father. There were other violent boys at school, though. They took the knife and decided to play Peacekeeper, holding the sharp tool up to the throat of anyone they caught off-guard. They never pushed hard, just wanted to scare. What else was there to do in Nine but scare people for fun?

She thought she’d successfully avoided them all day, until there was suddenly a cool metal at the side of her throat. It stung as it slice through some skin. The boy who held the knife had a look she’d never seen in someone else’s eyes before. But a teacher was taken an early smoke break, and threw a mug at the boy’s head to distract him. Peacekeepers descended on him quickly. Soleil never saw the boy again.

The seventh time she should’ve died wasn’t much later, when One Panem sparked riots in the district. Soleil had been at a friend’s, studying for an exam that her friend said would probably be their last before they had to get jobs. Soleil refused to believe it, but the argument didn’t last long before there was commotion outside. Soleil was certain she could run home before she could be put in the line of danger.

But the riot was even faster than her feet. Bullets and small explosives and knife and rocks and every other form of weapon someone could find was hurled through the air. The pristine outfits of Peacekeepers were soon starting to stain with blood, but she kept her focus straight ahead. A knife flew right for her back, but the hand that threw it was inexperienced. It turned and turned in the air - until the handle hit Soleil’s spine. She let out a gasp but didn’t stop.

The eighth time she should’ve died was when she was eighteen and drunk on moonshine. She’d managed to crawl her way up into her loft bedroom, but she wasn’t yet ready to sleep. She moved some of the roof boards aside and pulled herself up onto the roof. She slipped at first, but managed to catch herself and turn to look up at the stars. They were beautiful, she realized, even if they now danced more than she ever remembered from the past. She wondered if she might become a star when she died. She once had a teacher tell her that some people believed you turned into something else after you died.

She wondered if she could even die. After all the broken bones and bruises from her childhood, maybe her body was indestructible. She used to accept bets to jump off higher and higher places. Moving slowly toward the edge of the roof, she looked down but saw little below in the weak moonlight. The ground never hurt that much, anyway. With wobbling legs, she managed to stand up at the odd angle of the roof and pitch herself over the edge. As she sailed through the air, she smiled. She always loved this weightless feeling. The hay she hit below was only a disappointment.

And the ninth time, she did die. The particulars of this incident have already been broadcast on every television in Panem.

And in District Nine, Goldie Silo and Omer Wheatie watched the 123rd Hunger Games in their separate homes, with their separate families, on separate ends of the district. They watched as their daughter suffered at the hands of a man she loved nineteen years after they thought they’d said their final good-byes to the daughter their separate families knew nothing about.

They watched with tears as they grieved again for their daughter, with hair from her mother and fast feet from her father, who they’d given the most beautiful name they knew.

#tw:death #tw:drowning #tw:blood #tw:violence #the end #nine lives #th:self #self-para #para

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