whumpeesblog

[whumpeesblog]

Beneath the hollow oak part 11-12

Content Warnings: (for the full fic) Emotional trauma, captivity, medical experimentation, body horror (mild), violence, PTSD, chronic illness, anxiety, grief, supernatural themes (vampires, werewolves, ghosts), found family, recovery, and healing after trauma

The camera feed flickered slightly on the monitor.

Issac sat in his father's study, no longer alone. The house had come alive overnight with quiet footsteps, murmured excitement, and the efficient rustle of files and coats. Strangers were everywhere now. Researchers. Scientists. All part of the project.

All part of this.

On the screen, Vinnie was curled on the bed in the observation room, too still for someone usually in constant motion. His hair was mussed from where he'd raked his hands through it. His jacket hung loose around his shoulders, like it didn’t belong to him anymore.

He looked... wrong in that room.

Like a brilliant painting stuffed into a filing cabinet.

Issac had to look away.

“Your work has been nothing short of extraordinary,” said Dr. Merrin, a tall, wiry woman in her early sixties who had apparently been studying vampire biology since Issac was in nappies. “We’ve never had such a clean entry. Most vamps fight. Bite. Burn. But this one... this one came in willingly.”

“He’s not an animal,” Issac said, a little sharper than he intended.

Merrin didn’t flinch. “No. But he’s dangerous. That’s the problem.”

From across the room, someone else. Dr. Kleve, who’d introduced himself with a handshake like a vice, spoke as he adjusted a tablet. “We’re all very aware of what happened in Geneva. The glamour response is our top concern. If he gets a lock on even one of us, we’ll be compromised.”

Issac’s stomach twisted. Glamour response.

They made it sound like a malfunction. Like faulty wiring in a machine.

He looked back at the screen.

Vinnie had stirred, rubbing his eyes with the back of one hand. Even from here, Issac could tell he was still sluggish. Muddled. Confused. The most confident person Issac had ever met was now curled in on himself like a kicked dog.

Someone wheeled in a sleek metal case, unlatched it, and revealed the prototype.

“It’s still in early stages,” said Merrin. “But we think the collar will be effective.”

Issac’s eyes widened at the device.

Thick, matte-black metal. A thin seam revealed a UV light band beneath the surface. There were patches on the inside, some kind of chemical dispersal points. On one end, what looked like a needle, long and thin, sharp enough to punch into flesh.

“UV suppression to weaken,” Merrin explained calmly. “Pheromone neutralizers to block the glamour effect. Electrical deterrents in case of aggressive behavior. And, as a last resort, a spinal inhibitor that will cause temporary paralysis.”

Temporary, Issac thought numbly, but it still felt like a knife in his gut.

“We’ll have to monitor his physiological response to the glamour triggers,” Kleve added. “So far, we know it starts with an iris expansion, then ocular lock, a type of direct eye contact. The pheromone release follows milliseconds later. It’s almost imperceptible unless you’re watching closely.”

“Has anyone considered that he won't use it, that this whole collar thing is a bit harsh?” Issac asked bitterly, surprising himself.

A few of the team chuckled like he’d made a joke.

“No offense,” Kleve said, “but you’ve known him for, what, three months? These creatures live for centuries. They’re experts in manipulation. He might seem friendly, but don’t mistake that for harmless.”

He helped me fix my washing machine, Issac wanted to say. He taught me how to line up a pool shot. He made me hot chocolate when I had a panic attack.

Instead, he nodded mutely, staring at the collar. His mouth tasted of copper.

They were going to use it.

They were going to lock it around Vinnie's throat like he was a rabid dog.

He looked back to the screen again, just in time to see Vinnie sit up fully. His shoulders hunched forward as if the air itself hurt to breathe. He ran a shaky hand through his hair again and glanced at the camera.

Just for a second.

Just long enough that Issac flinched, half-convinced Vinnie was looking straight through it.

Straight at him.

________

The hiss came before the panic.

A thin, silvery mist vented into the room through narrow slits high in the walls, it was quiet, almost like a whisper. It danced in the light like steam, curling low and fast.

Vinnie jerked upright on the bed.

His pupils contracted to slits. He coughed once, then again, sharp and startled.

“The hell?” he muttered, blinking rapidly.

His body swayed as he tried to get to his feet. His knees buckled. He caught himself on the wall, fingers splayed, breath shallow. Already his skin was damp with sweat.

On the other side of the cameras, Issac stood frozen beside the researchers. His own breathing was shallow too.

“Sedative mist,” explained Kleve calmly, arms folded as if this were routine. “He won’t be able to mount much resistance. Enough gas to take down a bull. But given his metabolism... we’re not taking chances.”

Issac's knuckles whitened around the edge of the desk.

Inside the room, Vinnie was panicking. Not in the screaming, flailing way, but the kind that sets in your bones. The kind that makes even the bravest animal bolt for the darkest corner.

And Vinnie did bolt, stumbling to the far end of the room, pressing his back into the wall, hands shaking. His eyes were wide and glassy, barely able to focus. His teeth clenched.

“Oi.. hey, hey now,” he slurred toward the camera, trying to grin, trying to be himself. “I don’t know what you lot are on about, but this, this isn’t my usual Friday night in.”

No one laughed.

A mechanical click echoed in the hallway.

The heavy door opened. Five people entered the room, three in reinforced coats with visors, two with padded gloves and containment equipment. One held the collar, cradled like a weapon.

“Okay, okay, okay, easy now,” Vinnie croaked, trying to focus. His legs nearly gave out. “C’mon, no need for the team tackle. I’ll go quietly, promise.”

They didn’t stop.

Vinnie raised his chin, eyes straining through the haze to find someone's face, anyone's. His irises expanded, locking as best they could on the nearest guard. A weak attempt at a glamor, uncoordinated with the sedatives clouding his brain.

It was weak. Sloppy. The attempt to glamour stuttered, flickered like a candle in a storm.

The collar snapped to life around his neck.

There was a shrill electric crack and a burst of ultraviolet light across the metal band.

Vinnie reeled, his back arching, a cry torn from his throat. He slumped down, gasping, every muscle locked for a breathless second.

Issac flinched.

“Oh Christ,” someone muttered. “It works.”

Vinnie looked up from the floor, shaky, stunned, but trying. “Bit rude to tase a bloke on an empty stomach,” he mumbled, giving a shaky half-smile. “Don’t suppose one of you's got a snack, or?”

They crowded him. Gloves. Hands. Straps.

He struggled again, weak and half-hearted, like a dying bird trapped under a boot. Another burst from the collar stopped him cold.

“No, hey,don’t, don't touch me!” he gasped, choking as the metal sat around his throat. His fingers clawed at it instinctively, eyes wide, terrified. “Don’t do this. Please.”

Issac felt like he was going to be sick.

“It’s secure,” someone confirmed.

“Sedative uptake’s tapering. Begin monitoring vitals and prep for Phase Two.”

Issac couldn’t stop staring at Vinnie. He was lying curled on the floor now, arms wrapped around himself, the collar burning faintly with a pulsing blue light.

Still trying to joke, still trying to survive.

But for the first time since Issac had known him, Vinnie looked small.

And deeply, deeply alone.

[whumpeesblog]

Beneath the hollow oak

Content Warnings: (for the full fic) Emotional trauma, captivity, medical experimentation, body horror (mild), violence, PTSD, chronic illness, anxiety, grief, supernatural themes (vampires, werewolves, ghosts), found family, recovery, and healing after trauma

Part 8 - 10

The pub was quieter than usual, a sleepy hush settled into the low hum of the jukebox playing something jazzy and strange. Vinnie lounged behind the bar, twirling a straw in a glass of something red that definitely wasn’t wine. He looked tired, but more importantly, he looked hungry. His movements still had that careless grace, but they were slower today. More deliberate.

Tom ducked through the doorway, shoulders hunched like he was hoping not to be seen. The scent of oak and rain followed him in.

Vinnie perked up instantly. “Tommy-boy,” he grinned, lifting his glass. “Didn’t think you were brave enough to walk in here on a full moon week.”

Tom grimaced. “Don’t call me that.”

“Oh, I will.”

He slid onto a barstool, eyes scanning the room. “We need to talk. Somewhere not here.”

“don't be so dramatic, we're alone, no need to go out in the cold,” Vinnie said, gesturing to the empty bar. “Everyone’s at the bakery quiz night. You’re safe. Or are you just afraid my vibe will corrupt your big hairy morals?”

Tom leaned in, voice low. “I don’t like the scent coming off that kid’s dad.”

Vinnie froze for a moment, straw paused at his lips. Then he resumed swirling. “Don’t think I’ve asked you to like him.”

“You should’ve. It’s... off. Familiar. Chemical. The kind of sterile you only get in hospital basements. And I’ve bumped into him three times this week. In town. He’s not subtle.”

“He’s a doctor.”

“He’s a hunter, maybe. Or something worse. You’ve got the instincts, you must smell it too.”

Vinnie exhaled through his nose, irritation flickering across his face. “I’ve been alive a long time, Tom. I know when I’m being watched.”

“And you’re still sticking around?” Tom snapped. “This some kind of martyr act, or are you just finally going full suicidal?”

Vinnie smiled thinly. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Tom looked away, jaw clenched.

“Issac’s a good kid,” he muttered. “Weird. Anxious. But... decent. I’m not saying ditch him. I’m saying swap. Change your face. Back off. You’ve got a thousand identities stashed in your creepy undead pockets. Pick a new one.”

“I like this one,” Vinnie said, tone suddenly sharp. “I like the pub. I like the people. I like Issac.”

Tom gave him a long, steady look. “Then be careful. ‘Cause whatever his dad’s doing, it’s not just parental curiosity. That man’s hunting something. And if he finds you, he’s not stopping with you. If you fall, I burn with you.”

Vinnie waved a hand. “Dramatic. And besides, I’d never let that happen. I’m far too pretty to die.”

Tom didn’t smile. “This isn’t a joke.”

Vinnie rolled his eyes, but the sharpness in them lingered. He turned to grab a bottle from the back shelf, movements deliberately breezy.

“My hospital supply’s dried up,” he said after a beat. “Nurse must’ve transferred or gotten sick of my face. Unreliable humans. So yes, I’m grumpy. A bit low-energy. Been topping off on the locals like usual, but it’s not ideal.”

Tom straightened. “That’s why you’re sloppy.”

“I’m fine,” Vinnie growled. “No one’s noticed anything. Just a few headaches. A little forgetfulness. Harmless glamour work.”

“You know this is how it starts. You lose control, someone dies. Then the pitchforks come out.”

Vinnie looked up sharply, the joke finally dropping from his face. “You think I don’t know that? I built this life, Tom. It’s messy and loud and mine. ”

Tom exhaled, the weight of history between them heavy and unsaid.

“I’m warning you,” he said, quieter now. “Because... despite everything, you’re still that annoying bastard who saved my gran from the Blackwoods in ‘77. And I don’t forget favours. So don’t make me regret giving a damn.”

Vinnie leaned forward, elbows on the bar, fangs barely glinting behind a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I appreciate your deep, heartfelt concern. Truly. But I’m not running.”

Tom stood, tension still knotting his back.

“You should be.”

He left without another word.

Vinnie sat back, swirling the dregs of his glass, expression unreadable. The jukebox clicked into a new song, an old track from the ‘60s with a lonely trumpet line that curled around the empty room.

He muttered, mostly to himself:

“Life’s too short not to have fun. Even when it’s longer than it should be.”

And then he went to pour another drink.

_______

Vinnie had visited Issac’s house three times now.

Each time at dusk, each time flippant, charming, and bright-eyed as he slipped through the front door with a bottle of wine (usually pilfered from the pub) and something irreverent to say about the house’s sterile aesthetic.

“This place gives me library basement vibes,” he’d muttered the second time, poking at Issac’s colour-coded bookshelf. “If the books were all manuals and the basement had been cleansed of joy.”

But Issac didn’t mind. He liked seeing Vinnie in his space. He liked watching the way Vinnie softened when he found something interesting—an old photo album, a peculiar lamp, a family photo. That night, Vinnie had played a melody so old it made Issac ache with the strange beauty of it.

He’d tried to ask about it, but Vinnie just smiled and changed the subject, as always.

Tonight was different.

Mr. Cross had lingered after dinner, unexpectedly warm and hospitable. He’d even offered Vinnie a tour of the wine cellar, as if he’d forgotten he wasn’t the kind of man who gave tours. Vinnie, curiosity piqued, had followed him..leaving Issac upstairs frowning slightly, his sense of unease quietly gnawing.

When they emerged nearly an hour later, Vinnie was carrying a small antique box and a puzzled look.

“Your dad’s got weirdly good taste,” he’d said to Issac. “Where’d he get this 17th century relic? It smells like plague years.”

Issac had tried to laugh, but then noticed how the hallway was tinted gold with early morning light.

Vinnie blinked at the window. “Shit.”

The morning sun had risen.

Vinnie was stuck.

He didn’t say it aloud, but it changed him instantly. His energy dimmed, his shoulders tensed, his grin dulled. He’d stretched out on Issac’s bedroom floor near the blackout curtains and just stopped moving, like a drained battery.

Issac stood by the doorway, twisting his fingers together.

“You okay?” he asked eventually, voice quiet.

Vinnie didn’t look up. “im a party all night, sleep all day kind of guy.”

“I can keep the curtains shut. We could, watch a film or something?”

No answer.

Issac hesitated, then sat down beside him, careful to stay close but not touch.

“how was the basements tour?” he asked. “You’ve seemed weird since then.”

Vinnie exhaled. “I’m always weird.”

“You know what I mean.”

Another pause. Vinnie turned his head slightly, eyes half-lidded. “My usual... supplier... is gone. Bit of a snag. Makes things itchy.”

“Itchy?”

Vinnie smirked faintly. “Metaphorically. And literally.”

Issac frowned. “Why didn’t you say anything? What kind of narcotics are you missing? ” he said narcotics when asking, but he knew, it was blood Vinnie wasn't getting.

Vinnie rolled onto his back, stretching with a lazy wince. “Because you’d look at me like that. All worried. Like I’m made of cracked porcelain.”

Issac hesitated, then looked away. “You’re not.”

“I might be. Little bit.”

They sat in silence for a while. Outside, the birds began to sing. Vinnie flinched like the sound physically annoyed him.

Issac looked at him again, at the way the daylight made even his pale skin seem bruised, the way his eyes were dulled like old glass. He looked... wrong in this light. Like something that shouldn’t exist at this hour.

So Issac did what he always did when someone looked fragile: he tried to fix it.

He rummaged in his drawers and pulled out a glittery hair clip, one left over from some charity shop outing with his mum. He clipped it carefully to Vinnie’s fringe.

Vinnie blinked.

“Am I beautiful now?” he asked flatly.

“Radiant,” Issac said, deadpan.

A beat. Then Vinnie huffed out a laugh and reached up to touch the clip.

“You’re such a freak,” he murmured.

“You have a napkin in your coat pocket from 1982, don’t call me a freak.”

And for a moment, the tension cracked. Vinnie smiled again, softly this time, tired but real.

“Thanks,” he said, so quietly Issac barely caught it.

Meanwhile, down below, Mr. Cross was cataloguing and calculating. He had DNA samples from the wine glasses to examine.

He adjusted his gloves, made a careful note.

"Sunlight exposure successful. Subject fatigued, less reactive. Potential vulnerabilities confirmed. More observation needed."

He smiled faintly, the light from the wine cellar’s security monitors dancing across his eyes.

Part 10

The house was too quiet without Vinnie.

Issac sat in the lounge with the lights dimmed low, a half-finished mug of tea going lukewarm in his hands, and a heavy fog clinging to the edges of his brain. He hadn’t slept properly in days. Not since Vinnie started hanging around every night, pulling him into his whirlwind world of music, wine, arguments over film trivia and chaotic experiments with the toaster.

It was fun.

Addictive, even.

But now that Vinnie had bolted back to the pub the second the sun dipped , like he’d been waiting for the shadows , the contrast was stark. The silence wasn’t peaceful. It was clinical. Like the house exhaled once he was gone.

Issac leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling. His chest felt tight. Not from asthma. From everything else.

He’d missed two deadlines on his online course. His tutors had sent polite but passive-aggressive emails. He’d flagged them but hadn’t replied. Every time he tried to open his coursework, his brain just fuzzed out, like it had more pressing things to deal with.

Like his dad.

And Vinnie.

And Tommy, who still made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, no matter how often he told himself the guy was just… awkward.

Issac rubbed his eyes and stood, his legs unsteady. He should go to bed. But his feet moved him somewhere else.

His father’s study.

The door wasn’t locked.

It never was. But the room always felt locked emotionally. Cold, controlled, and not for him.

Still, he stepped in, drawn by something he couldn’t name.

The shelves were stacked in perfect rows. Medical journals. Ancient-looking books with no titles. Labeled boxes with faded handwriting. One was marked “Occult: Folklore”.

Curiosity tugged harder than anxiety.

Issac opened it.

Inside: yellowed newspaper clippings, handwritten notes, brittle photographs. One showed a gaunt man in a waistcoat standing beside a horse-drawn carriage, unsmiling. The eyes reminded him of someone. He moved on. Headlines caught his attention:

“Man Survives Hanging, Escapes Morgue”

“Series of Animal Attacks Leave Locals Baffled”

“Victims Drained of Blood in Isolated Hamlet”

Issac read each one in silence, heartbeat dull in his ears. There were names. Places. Witnesses. Diagrams of teeth. Shaky sketches. And in one article, blurry and barely visible in the background—

A man at a bar.

His profile. Sharp and familiar. The curl of a smile. Hair longer, clothes older.

Vinnie.

Issac sank to the floor with the papers fanned around him like autumn leaves. The conclusion didn’t hit him like a bolt of lightning.

It seeped in.

Slow.

Chilling.

Unstoppable.

Vinnie was a vampire.

A real one.

He sat there for a long time, absorbing it. Letting his body tremble in a quiet, exhausted way. Not out of fear, not exactly. Just… weight.

And then, in the stillness, he spoke aloud.

“So what?”

He ran a hand through his hair and laughed, hollow and dry.

“Of course he is.”

The signs had been there. Vinnies random antiques, The no sunlight. The wine obsession. The blood jokes that felt a bit too practiced.

But Vinnie had been his friend for nearly three months. He’d never hurt him. Never snapped or cornered him or even asked for anything. If anything, Vinnie gave more than he took. His attention, his chaos, his music, his stupid homemade cocktails. And his endless, relentless curiosity about Issac.

Issac gathered the papers and tucked them back carefully. Then he stood, shaky but steady.

Maybe there were other vampires out there.

Maybe some were dangerous.

But Vinnie?

Vinnie was his friend.

And whatever his father thought he was doing , cataloguing, testing, observing , it wasn’t based on who Vinnie was, only on what he was. Not the man who stole wine and made Issac laugh until his stomach ached. Not the man who played ancient songs on an out-of-tune piano with dust on his knuckles and a sparkle in his eye.

Vinnie was... Vinnie.

Issac went back to his room.

He tried to sleep, but in his dreams, Vinnie’s shadow curled around the house, restless. And Mr. Cross stood just behind him, always watching.

---

Vinnie sprawled across Issac’s bed like he owned the place, one socked foot bobbing rhythmically to music that wasn’t playing anymore. He had a glass of wine in hand , something too expensive to sip so casually and was flipping through one of Issac’s childhood sketchbooks like it was the most fascinating artefact on earth.

“You really went through a phase with dragons, huh?” Vinnie smirked, holding up a page. “I like this one. Looks like it’s been stabbed and is still apologising for it.”

Issac sat at his desk, fingers limp on his laptop keyboard. He hadn’t typed a word in ten minutes.

He’d been watching Vinnie instead.

Watching how he moved : too quick, too precise. Watching the light catch those pale irises and how his grin never reached his eyes when he thought Issac wasn’t looking. Watching the way Vinnie always chose the darkest part of the room without meaning to.

Now that he knew, it was impossible not to know.

Vinnie caught the look.

“What?” he asked, the word light and teasing, but his gaze sharp. “You’re staring like I’ve grown a second head. Which I promise I’d tell you about. Eventually.”

Issac hesitated. His throat felt tight, words hovering in the air between them like static.

“You ever get... tired of pretending?” he asked carefully.

Vinnie tilted his head. “Pretending to be this fabulous? Never.”

Issac didn’t smile.

Vinnie’s expression didn’t falter, but his fingers stilled on the page.

Then, casually , too casually , he took a sip of wine, licked a drop from his thumb, and said, “If this is about the ‘my friend might be a vampire’ thing, I should warn you...”

He leaned forward, wine glass dangling from his fingertips like an accessory.

“...you start dropping hints like that in public, people might start worrying about your mental state. Could end up in one of those nice padded rooms. Then we’d never get to hang out.” He winked. “And I hate fluorescent lighting. Doesn’t do me any favours.”

Issac exhaled through his nose, quiet.

Vinnie watched him. Not teasing now, not quite.

Then he flopped back again, eyes on the ceiling. “Besides,” he added breezily, “no one would believe you anyway.”

Issac let out a soft laugh ,not bitter, not really. Just tired. “That’s the most vampire thing you could possibly say.”

Vinnie grinned.

He didn’t deny it.

Didn’t affirm it either.

Just let the moment stretch, warm and weird and sharp-edged, before reaching out to steal the leftover biscuit from Issac’s desk.

“I like it here,” he said suddenly, quieter. “This house. Weirdly comfy. Even if your dad gives me serial killer vibes. No offence.”

“None taken,” Issac muttered, still watching him.

Vinnie caught the look again and narrowed his eyes playfully. “keep undressing me with your eyes and see what happens.”

Issac squeaks, "I'm literally just looking at you, don't be so weird" Then “You’ve been coming here a lot,” Issac said, more observation than accusation.

Vinnie shrugged. “Creature of habit, remember? And you’ve got central heating, decent wine, and the world’s most neurotic sock drawer. What more could a guy want?”

Issac looked away, to the window — the last blush of twilight fading from the sky. He swallowed, unsure why the next question hurt to ask.

“What happened to your... usual supplier?”

There was a beat.

Then Vinnie’s smile thinned, just a touch. “She ghosted me. Not entirely surprising. These things happen.”

“You said she supplied you with... stuff.”

“I did.” Vinnie raised his glass. “Technically true. Just not the kind of stuff you were picturing, I’m guessing.”

Issac’s eyes flicked to the wine.

Vinnie caught it.

“No blood in this one,” he assured. “Just grapes. Disappointing, really. So pedestrian.”

“You’re hungry,” Issac said softly. “Aren’t you?”

Another beat. Another shrug.

“Hungry’s a state of being,” Vinnie replied. “But don’t worry your pretty little head about it. I’ve got my backups.”

“You mean the locals?”

“Most of them don’t even remember. Glamour’s a mercy, honestly. If only more people could forget the stupid things they say at 2am over a jukebox and a pint.”

Issac didn’t laugh this time.

Vinnie sighed and set the wine down carefully. For a moment, he looked older. More tired than he ever let on.

“You’re not scared of me,” he said. Not a question. “You should be, probably.”

Issac shook his head. “I’ve seen you cry over spilt nail polish. I think I’ll survive.”

Vinnie cracked a grin, genuine this time. Then he nudged Issac’s knee with his foot.

“Still. Careful with those accusations, Professor Cross. You start collecting too many ‘coincidences’ about me and the local wildlife, and you’ll start thinking like your dad. And that’s when the real trouble starts.”

Issac blinked at him.

“You think my dad’s dangerous.”

“I think your dad sees things like puzzles. And people like pieces. Which is fine when you’re talking equations. Less great when you’re dealing with people like me.”

Vinnie leaned back again, arms folded behind his head, grinning like a kid at a sleepover.

_____

“Hypothetically,” Issac began one evening, tugging at the cuff of his sleeve like it might hide the nervous itch beneath his skin, “if someone, say, had to drink blood to survive, how often would they need to, do you think?”

Vinnie, sprawled across Issac’s bed with his shirt half-buttoned and his feet hanging off the side like a particularly smug housecat, didn’t even blink.

“Hypothetically?” he echoed, eyes lazily tracking the ceiling. “Probably every few days. More if they’re injured. Less if they’re lazy. Some of them—hypothetically, of course—might even enjoy drawing it out, just to make things more theatrical.”

Issac paused. “And where would they get it from? I mean, still hypothetically.”

“Donated. Borrowed. Stolen. Shared. Depends on the vibe. Some people are very generous. Some aren’t. Some need a little nudge.” Vinnie gave him a wink that was all teeth. “But that’s just folklore, right?”

Issac rolled his eyes but didn’t press. Instead, he sat next to him on the bed, the mattress barely dipping. It was getting easier — the sitting close, the sharing space. Vinnie always took up more than his fair share, but he somehow never felt intrusive. Maybe because Issac had never met someone who made the world feel so easy to step into.

He reached for a bottle of fizzy orange Vinnie had brought ,apparently pilfered from some village kid’s snack stash and passed it over. Their fingers brushed.

Vinnie’s grin softened. “Careful,” he said, “you’re getting used to me.”

Issac didn’t deny it.

Later that week, Tom found Vinnie nursing a glass of wine and fiddling with his golden rings by the pub’s battered jukebox.

“You’ve been seeing a lot of the Cross boy lately,” Tom muttered, folding his arms and lowering his voice.

Vinnie raised his eyebrows. “Getting possessive? I didn’t realise this was a custody battle.”

“I’m serious.”

Vinnie sighed and tilted his head back, letting the amber light of the pub catch the sharpness in his cheekbones. “Tommy, no one believes in vampires. I could tap dance across the village green in a cape and fangs and they’d still think I was in some ironic student theatre project. You need to get your tail out from between your legs and chill out.”

Tom’s jaw ticked. “It’s not you I’m worried about.”

“Cross Senior hasn’t done anything,” Vinnie said firmly. “Not a thing. I’ve been to the house loads. Stayed the night once. Woke up to a headache and too much sunlight. No silver bullets, no garlic traps, no net. Just a nice , super clean, house and some weirdly good piano acoustics.”

Tom hesitated. “Still doesn’t feel right.”

“Nothing ever does to you.” Vinnie gave him a look. “But he’s fine. Weird, sure. But so are we. Besides..”

He glanced over at the pool table, where Issac had just sunk a stripe and looked quietly pleased with himself.

“you’re warming up to him.”

Tom huffed. “He fixed my laptop. Doesn’t mean I like him.”

“You let him beat you at pool.”

“I did not let him” Tom stopped mid-sentence, then gave up and rubbed the back of his neck.

Vinnie grinned, sharp and smug.

“Don’t worry,” he added lightly. “If anyone was going to hurt me, they’d have done it already. The only real danger here is Dr. Crosses wine cellar running dry.”

The pub had started treating Issac like part of the furniture, in the fondest way possible. Someone always saved him a stool. Old Marcie brought him pickled eggs unprompted. Even Benny started calling him Crossie, which Vinnie insisted was a promotion.

But it was in the quiet moments that the shift really showed.

Vinnie would reach for him absentmindedly now , a hand brushing Issac’s arm when he was talking, a lazy stretch that ended in their shoulders pressed together, a shared blanket on the couch at his house when the heating took a while to kick in.

Issac, who’d flinched from contact for most of his life, barely noticed anymore.

One night, Vinnie curled up beside him on the bed with a stolen novel, flipping pages as he read aloud in a mock-posh voice, leaning against Issac like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Issac didn’t even tense. He just turned the lamp a little lower, so Vinnie wouldn’t squint.

“Would you ever turn someone?” Issac asked, quiet, out of nowhere.

Vinnie paused mid-sentence. “Hypothetically?”

Issac nodded.

Vinnie took a breath and closed the book. He didn’t answer right away.

“I think,” he said slowly, “if you really liked someone, you wouldn’t wish this on them. Not unless they begged. And even then... maybe not.”

Issac looked at him, eyes soft.

“That’s a no, then?”

Vinnie smiled, this time small. “It’s a probably not. Unless they were really cute. And good at pool. And kept fizzy orange in their fridge.”

Issac snorted.

And for a moment, the question drifted away, like the wine, like the whispers in the dark, into the warm hush of shared air and the sound of a page turning.

_______

Issac had come looking for Vinnie, at the hollow oak as usual, but he paused when he heard the raised voices behind the back entrance to the pub. The door was cracked open, shadows slanting across the alley. He meant to call out. He didn’t.

“You don’t trust him,” Vinnie snapped, low and bitter. “You never have.”

“I trust him more than I trust this,” Tom shot back. “This situation. You. When you get like this.”

“Like what, Tommy?” Vinnie’s voice was brittle, sharp. “Like I believe in something? Like I care about someone? I’m allowed.”

Tom exhaled hard, like he was trying to hold something in. “You act like you’re indestructible, Vinnie. But you’re not. You’re immortal. That’s not the same. You’re going to get hurt.”

There was silence for a moment.

Then Vinnie said, softly, “Maybe I’d rather get hurt than spend another fifty years watching everything go by like it means nothing.”

Tom’s answer came out a growl. “You don’t get to use him to feel alive.”

“I’m not” Vinnie cut off, angry. “You don’t get to decide that.”

Issac stepped back, heart hammering. He wasn’t supposed to hear this. He didn’t want to hear this. He slipped away before either of them noticed.

Later, Vinnie got a text from Issac:

“Wanna come around mine tonight instead?”

The reply came almost instantly.

“Absolutely. Need a change of scene. Pub’s all bark and no bite tonight ;)”

Vinnie showed up not long after dusk, hoodie hanging off one shoulder, hair tousled from the wind. “Hope you’ve got wine,” he joked as Issac opened the door. “I’ve had a day.”

Issac laughed and waved him in, relieved to see him. “Yeah, we’ve got plenty. Dad always stocks the cellar. Sit, I’ll grab some.”

He didn’t see his father watching from the hallway.

Mr. Cross double-checked the security system before heading down to the cellar. Reinforced doors. Sensor locks. Shutters set to close at dawn. All working perfectly. Not just to keep people out but to keep something in.

He moved to the hidden cabinet behind the wine rack. A dark vial sat beside a measured syringe.

Vinnie was resilient, yes. He’d read the patterns. Seen the signs—sudden crashes, the way he rubbed his temples when no one was looking. His metabolism fought anything foreign hard. But tonight… tonight, he’d get the dosage right. He had to. The results needed to be observable. Controlled. Humane, of course. He wasn’t a monster.

He selected a vintage, one of the deeper reds, already laced.

By the time the bottle was half-finished, Vinnie had gone from curled up on the couch with his usual banter to slouching heavily against the armrest, blinking slow and rubbing his forehead like the world had tilted sideways.

Issac frowned. “You okay?”

Vinnie forced a grin. “Yeah. Just… wow, this is strong.” He laughed weakly. “Remind me to never outdrink a Cross.”

Mr. Cross appeared then, walking into the lounge with his sleeves rolled back, calm as anything. “You don’t look well,” he said, voice low and measured. “Let’s get you lying down. I’ll take care of it.”

Something about the way he said it made Vinnie’s eyes flick to him sharply. “Don’t touch me,” he slurred.

“It’s okay,” Mr. Cross said gently, crouching beside the sofa. “You’re just sick. I’m a doctor, remember? I’ll sort it out. Make you better.”

Issac, startled by how pale Vinnie had gone, looked between them, unsure. “Should I call someone?”

“No,” his father said quickly. “I’ll handle it.”

Vinnie tried to rise, a look of panic fluttering behind his eyes, but his legs buckled under him. He was shaking.

“Don’t” he muttered, voice breaking. “Something’s wrong.”

“Shh,” Mr. Cross whispered, catching him. “You’re in the best possible hands.”

Issac watched, heart in his throat, as Vinnie slumped fully against his dad’s side, eyes fluttering shut.

He was in and out of consciousness, clearly frightened.

Vinnie was slumped sideways on the couch, hair falling into his eyes, skin unusually pale. Issac knelt beside him, trying to get his attention. “Vinnie? Hey—hey, can you hear me?”

Vinnie stirred, lids fluttering. “S’fine,” he mumbled, words thick and clumsy. “Just... too much... haven’t been drunk like this in… decades…”

Issac’s heart skipped a beat. “What?”

“Meant weeks,” Vinnie slurred quickly, barely audible. “Just call Tommy. Or drop me at the pub. Don’t… don’t take me to a hospital.. don't keep me here”

His hand came up, weakly, pushing at nothing. He blinked like he was underwater. The confident gleam in his eyes, the one that always made Issac feel like nothing could touch Vinnie, was gone. In its place: anxiety, vulnerability. He kept trying to sit up but collapsed again, groaning softly.

“Issac, help me move him,” Mr. Cross said smoothly. He crouched beside them with a blanket and a level gaze. “He’s in no state to go anywhere. We'll keep him here and monitor him.”

“I don’t know,” Issac muttered. “He doesn’t want to stay.”

“He’s delirious. He doesn’t know what he wants. Come on. We can’t drag him outside like this.”

They managed to get him to a guest room, a room Issac had never been allowed into before—Vinnie swaying, mumbling incoherently under his breath, trying to pull away from touch like it burned. Issac sat beside him while Mr. Cross fetched water and “monitoring supplies.” The room was clinical, white, it didn't seem like an appropriate place to put a friend.

Vinnie stirred again, eyes opening just a sliver. “Issac...”

“I’m here.”

“You gotta…” He frowned, trying to focus. “You gotta let me out.”

“You’re not trapped,” Issac said quickly. “You’re just sick.”

Vinnie gave a weak laugh that ended in a coughing fit. “Don’t… sound like me, do I?”

“No, not really.” Issac reached out but stopped short of touching. “You’re usually louder. Cockier.”

Vinnie smiled faintly, then shifted uncomfortably on the pillow. “Don’t… like this. Not used to feeling like this. Not... supposed to.”

He dragged his gaze up to Issac’s face, and suddenly his expression sharpened, just for a moment. like something inside him had jolted awake.

“Look at me,” he said. Or maybe ordered.

Issac did. Vinnie’s eyes darkened, the pupils pulling wide. There was something strange about it, something magnetic and old and impossible, but whatever he was trying to do faltered, flickered, and then collapsed entirely.

Vinnie groaned and shut his eyes, exhausted. “Damn it. Thought I could still—” He shook his head. “Forget it.”

Issac didn’t move. “What were you doing?”

But Vinnie was already slipping again, muttering something like don’t let them, or maybe don’t tell them. He turned his face into the pillow, arms curled in close. He looked small like this, not the chaotic, confident Vinnie who threw his legs over Issac’s lap and laughed too loud at movies.

Issac stayed with him until he heard the creak of the door.

His father stood in the doorway, calm and composed, a clipboard in hand.

“How is he?” he asked.

Issac hesitated. “…Not good.”

Mr. Cross smiled faintly. “Good,” he said, and stepped into the room.

_________

Vinnie woke with the slow, lead-heavy drag of poisoned blood.

His eyes cracked open to a room that was too sterile, too quiet. The walls were a clinical off-white, not chipped and papered like the pub. No windows. No clocks. Just the steady hum of ventilation and a subtle, buzzing pressure in the air—like something deeper than electricity.

He pushed up, and immediately regretted it. His head swam. His stomach lurched.

What the hell…?

His body felt wrong. Sluggish. Like moving through syrup. His mouth was dry, throat tight. The taste in his mouth was metallic and foul, like the aftertaste of too many painkillers washed down with whiskey. He sat up anyway, blinking away the blur, trying to force his senses to catch up.

He didn’t recognize the bed. Or the chair. Or the thick steel door with no handle on the inside.

The panic didn’t come all at once. It crept in slow, cold, and insidious, like frost forming across a mirror.

He stood, barely, and staggered to the door. Pushed.

It didn’t budge.

He tried again. Shoved harder. Hit it once with the heel of his palm.

Nothing.

The buzz in the air hummed louder when he got too close to the walls. Some kind of field. Some kind of trap.

“Oh,” he muttered hoarsely, and then again, like a whisper to no one. “bollocks.”

---

Above, in the house , Issac stood stiffly in the hallway outside his father’s office.

Mr. Cross leaned against his desk, unusually animated. He smiled the way he rarely did, genuine, warm, proud.

“You’ve done remarkably well, Issac,” he said. “Remarkably. You’ve earned something very few people ever do, my respect. My trust.”

Issac felt that warmth rush in, uncomfortably close to relief. He hated how much it mattered.

“I just… I didn’t mean to” he faltered.

“You didn’t need to mean to. You followed instinct. You built rapport. You got him inside. That’s exactly what we needed. This is bigger than you or I, this is history.”

Issac blinked. “What do you mean?”

His father tilted his head slightly, face glowing with intellectual fervor. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve searched? How many false leads? For decades, the scientific community has been chasing myths, dust, and bones. We haven’t had a living specimen since the Geneva incident in 1972—and that ended in ashes and lawsuits. But this? This is different. We have him alive. We have him contained. And we have you to thank.”

Issac’s mouth went dry. “You’re saying… Vinnie”

“Is a vampire,” Mr. Cross said plainly. “Of course he is. You’ve suspected, haven’t you? It’s not that difficult to put together. But the real miracle is that he’s comfortable with you. Trusts you. He’ll be calm for you. Cooperative. You’re a critical part of this study. Containing a live specimen, it's miraculous.”

Issac felt like his lungs had shrunk.

“But he’s not just some specimen.. hes my friend, Dad.”

His father nodded, completely unfazed. “Yes. And that’s what makes this so extraordinary. You’re part of something that will change everything we understand about his kind. You should be proud.”

Issac swallowed hard, stomach knotting. His father’s praise was like sugar in his blood. Addictive. Dangerous.

But underneath it, beneath the warmth and approval, something icy and awful was blooming.

Vinnie trusted him.

And he’d brought him here.

---

Back in the room below, Vinnie sank onto the floor, breathing shallowly. He pressed his forehead against the cool tile and shut his eyes, trying to stay still, trying to think.

They’d spiked him. That much was obvious now.

And Issac had invited him over.

He didn’t want to believe it. Couldn’t believe it. But—

The wine.

The way Issac hadn’t panicked when he’d collapsed.

The way he’d stayed close. Almost like he expected it. He'd tried to glamor his way out of the mess, but it didn't work, he couldn't make them forget, or make them let him go.

Vinnie groaned, curling his fingers into his hair. “Oh, Tommy’s gonna kill me.”

---

[whumpeesblog]

Beneath the hollow oak

Content Warnings: (for the full fic) Emotional trauma, captivity, medical experimentation, body horror (mild), violence, PTSD, chronic illness, anxiety, grief, supernatural themes (vampires, werewolves, ghosts), found family, recovery, and healing after trauma

Part 5, 6 and 7

Issac sat stiffly on the edge of the leather seat in his dad’s home office, a clinic room. It might’ve been called that for legal reasons, but it felt more like a surgical theatre pretending to be a family space. Framed anatomy diagrams on the wall. A faint antiseptic scent even though nothing had been cleaned in the last five minutes. The blinds were half-drawn against the daylight, casting sterile grey stripes across the desk.

His dad moved around with the quiet efficiency of someone who treated their own son like a patient before a person.

“Let’s go over your triggers again,” he said, tapping into the laptop with fingers too fast to follow. “Dust, animal dander, pollen, emotional stress...”

Issac offered a weak shrug. “All the fun stuff.”

His dad didn’t look up. “And you’re still spending a lot of time at the pub, the hollow oak?”

Issac blinked. “Yeah. It’s warm, and Vinnie has a lot of... cushions.”

That finally made his dad look up.

“I see,” he said mildly. “This Vinnie. He’s, what, a friend?”

Issac hesitated. “Yeah.”

That word still sat oddly on his tongue. Warm, but uncertain. A first.

“I’d like to properly meet him,” his dad said, voice carefully casual. “You could bring him here. Invite him in.”

The phrasing felt… odd.

Not have him over. Not see if he wants dinner. Invite him in.

Issac frowned faintly.

“He’s not really the house visiting type,” he said. “He lives above a pub. He drinks Baileys out of a teacup. Your tile grout would give him anxiety.”

His dad didn’t smile.

In fact, he was watching Issac too closely now.

“Hmm,” he said. “Has he touched you?”

“What?”

“I mean has he ever, say, held your wrist, or patted your shoulder. Even just to guide you?”

Issac’s brain hiccupped over the memory of Vinnie spinning him away from the bar last night. The gentle tug of fingers on his wrist. The closeness. The smirk.

He flushed. “What’s that got to do with asthma?”

“I’d like to run a blood test,” his dad said briskly, already opening a drawer. “You’ve had fatigue recently. Your histamine response has been reactive in the past, and if you’re experiencing immune suppression, we may want to”

“Dad,” Issac interrupted, voice brittle, “I’ve had asthma since I was five. You’ve done every possible blood test on me. You made me log my antihistamine doses in a graph. Nothing about that has changed.”

His dad just opened the alcohol wipe packet. The scent hit like a cold slap.

“Things can change,” he said. “Especially with new… variables. It’s important to be proactive.”

There was something beneath the words. Not just medical concern. Not even parental worry. It felt like suspicion. Like Issac was infected.

For the first time in years, Issac hesitated.

“I don’t want a blood test,” he said. Quiet. Firm.

His dad didn’t argue. Just stared at him for a moment, eyes sharp behind his glasses. Then he closed the drawer.

“Very well,” he said. “We’ll keep monitoring.”

But the air didn’t clear. It stayed heavy.

Issac glanced around the room. The desk was perfectly aligned. The chair at ninety degrees to the window. His own reflection in the dark monitor screen looked like a shadow, a ghost between the files.

He thought suddenly of Vinnie’s attic. The tangle of clothes. Crushed velvet, old cassette tapes, ashtrays, colour and clutter and barely controlled chaos. The feeling that time didn’t apply there. That the world could fall away and no one would notice except the bats in the rafters.

This place, by contrast, felt vacuum-sealed.

“Why are you so obsessed with him?” Issac asked.

His dad stood up. Smoothed down the crease of his trousers.

“I just think it’s important I know who my son is spending time with.”

But it sounded like what instead of who.

Issac didn’t answer. He just stared at the plastic model of a lung on the side table.

For the first time in his life, he didn’t want to breathe deeply in his own house.

Part 6

“Okay,” Issac said, squinting across the bar, “but seriously—where did you learn to make that cocktail?”

Vinnie grinned like a magician caught halfway through a trick. “Instinct.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Sure it is. Just not the one you wanted.”

He slid the drink across the bar with a flourish. It was garnished with a maraschino cherry and something suspiciously glittery. Issac wasn’t sure if it was edible or a mistake. With Vinnie, either was possible.

They were alone, technically. The pub door was locked as it was just after hours. Vinnie had put music on, something synthy and absurdly upbeat, and was dancing behind the bar with a tea towel tied around his head like a bandana. The light flickered, bouncing off the liquor bottles like stained glass in a very tacky church.

Issac tried again.

“You’ve got paintings in your flat that are at least a hundred years old. And a typewriter. And a photo of you with someone who looks like Winston Churchill in the background.”

Vinnie did a little spin. “You’ve been snooping.”

“I live for puzzles.”

“And I live for cocktails,” Vinnie said, raising a bottle like a toast. “And music. And fun. You’re trying to turn me into a crossword clue, Issac, and I won’t fit.”

“But how do you afford all that stuff?” Issac pushed. “You don’t even work.”

“I do emotional labour.”

“That’s not?” Issac huffed. “Okay, fine. What is your job, then?”

Vinnie leaned forward on the bar with a glint in his eye, that playful tilt of his mouth like he’d never told the truth in his life.

“I’m everyone’s favourite local eccentric. It’s a full-time position.”

“You’re something, alright,” Issac muttered, sipping his suspiciously glittery drink.

Vinnie beamed.

But the more Issac asked, the less he got. For every question, Vinnie danced around it, answered with a joke or a riddle or a story that only ended in more questions. Somehow, in the span of twenty minutes, Vinnie had wrangled Issac’s star sign, childhood pet names, and shoe size from him. Meanwhile, Issac still didn’t know Vinnie’s last name.

“I bet your dad’s the same,” Vinnie said suddenly, perching on the bar like a cat. “Always knows more about you than you know about him.”

Issac froze slightly.

He had no idea how Vinnie always did that, how he found the one thread that unraveled everything.

“I just want him to... see me,” Issac said finally, voice quiet. “Mum used to say we think alike. That we’re the same brand of weird.”

Vinnie’s gaze softened just a hair. “And you want me to come over. To meet him.”

“I think... he’d like you,” Issac said, ignoring how untrue that probably was. “And maybe if I brought you there, he’d pay attention. In a good way.”

“Your dad doesn’t sound like my biggest fan,” Vinnie said lightly.

“You’ve hardly met.”

“Exactly,” Vinnie said, grinning. “Smart man.”

Issac sighed. “He’s got a wine cellar. And a medical license.”

That got Vinnie’s attention. His posture straightened like a cat who just heard a can opener.

“Medical license, you say? So, prescription access and possibly a very expensive drug cabinet?”

Issac nodded slowly.

“And wine,” Vinnie added, eyes sparkling now. “Old wine. With proper corks. None of that screw top insult.”

Issac smirked. “You seem to already know the year you want.”

“I’ve got... a vintage palate.”

There was a pause.

Then, dramatically, Vinnie clinked his glass against Issac’s.

“Fine. I’ll come. But if your house smells like antiseptic and repression, I’m leaving through the chimney.”

“Deal.”

Part 7

Dr. Everett Cross , Issac's father, stood in the dark of his study, the glow from his monitors lighting the edges of his sharp cheekbones and cold, analytical eyes. He’d watched the grainy security footage a hundred times: Vincent behind the pub bar, moving like smoke, ageless, fast, far too fast sometimes when he forgot to perform slowness. That moment where he’d caught a wine glass before it fell, inches from the ground, too smooth. The camera time-stamp didn’t lie.

He’d been chasing ghosts for decades. Newspaper clippings were spread over the oak desk like an altar. A rural coroner’s report from 1964, photos of animal attacks that didn’t align with any known species, reports of missing bodies from hospitals, and one autopsy photo from 1981 that still haunted him: a man hanged for an unproven crime, eyes open, limbs unbroken, no sign of struggle—and later... missing.

And Vincent was in the background of one of the grainy photos. Same face. Same damn smirk.

Everett leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled.

Observation first. Always observe. They gave more away when they didn’t think you were looking.

His son had finally invited the creature in. He smiled. That was the first step. Not baiting a trap.. just... hospitality. Warmth. Familiarity.

And then, once the creature felt safe, once it came willingly, again and again

Then the real work could begin.

Later..

Vinnie stood at the threshold of the Cross household, blinking at the pristine marble and rich walnut wood.

“Wow,” he muttered, slipping his sunglasses down with theatrical flair. “It’s like stepping into a showroom. Is this where souls go to be judged?”

Issac, awkward in his own home, gave a sheepish shrug. "Dad likes .... order.”

Vinnie wandered in, light on his feet. His steps echoed off the clean tiles, his boots scuffing softly against the too-perfect floor. The air smelled like lemon oil and something sterile.

“Do you have a shoe protocol?” he asked seriously, toeing at his boots.

“I... no?”

“Brave. I like that.”

Issac’s room was no surprise to Vinnie: immaculate, methodically arranged, shelves of puzzle boxes, books in careful order, cables neatly wound. Vinnie let out a delighted gasp.

“Ohhh. It’s worse than I imagined.”

He picked up a labelled USB drive like it was an alien artifact. “This one’s labelled Backups—Secondary—Redundancy B. Issac, sweetie, are you okay?”

Issac swatted at him, already blushing.

The lounge, however, held something that genuinely surprised Vinnie: a grand piano, black as night, keys gleaming.

He sat without asking and played.

The music was older than anything Issac had heard,complicated, wistful, and full of longing. Something that didn’t belong in modern halls. Vinnie played with grace that didn’t match his chaotic persona, his face suddenly distant, like he was somewhere else entirely.

Issac watched silently, goosebumps crawling up his arms.

“You never said you could play.”

“You never asked,” Vinnie murmured, then grinned. “Didn’t think I had the brain cells for classical training?”

Issac shook his head. “I didn’t think you had the attention span.”

They laughed.

Later, Dr. Cross emerged with a rare bottle of wine. He smiled, polite and cool.

“I believe this one’s from 1927. Rare. You might appreciate it.”

Vinnie’s eyes glinted. “How thoughtful. That’s actually a great year. You know, assuming you like fruit-forward reds and long, complicated wars.”

They toasted. Dr. Cross’s hand lingered near the base of his glass a second too long.

Vinnie drank deeply, either too bold or too confident to worry about poisoned gifts.

They watched an old black and white movie in Issac’s room. Vinnie narrated in an overly dramatic voice, making Issac snort-laugh against his will. Dr. Cross checked in a few times, polite, charming.

Vinnie charmed back, flirted, even. Played the fool. "Don't flirt with my dad, it's gross, he's too old for you" Issac protested. "You're just jealous" Vinnie purred.

It was a game. Issac didn’t know the rules.

And somewhere between Vinnie trying to guess the twist of the movie and mocking Issac’s alphabetized CD rack, Issac relaxed. Just a little.

Maybe his dad was trying. Maybe this could work. Maybe he was imagining the wrongness in the air.

But something about how his father watched Vinnie with quiet, hungry curiosity, something about how he was just a little too polite, a little too engaged, set Issac’s skin crawling again.

Still, he smiled.

Because he wanted them both to like each other.

Because Vinnie was the first real friend he’d ever had.

And because part of him wondered if this whole thing, his feelings, his friendship, his life, was just another puzzle being solved by someone else.

[whumpeesblog]

Beneath the Hollow Oak

Content Warnings: (for the full fic) Emotional trauma, captivity, medical experimentation, body horror (mild), violence, PTSD, chronic illness, anxiety, grief, supernatural themes (vampires, werewolves, ghosts), found family, recovery, and healing after trauma

Part 4 :

---

The Hollow Oak was at its cosiest tonight. The kind of warmth that clung to your jumper and made your drink taste stronger. Issac sat tucked into his usual spot at the corner of the bar, half-sipping something pink and fizzy in a glass that definitely wasn’t meant for men trying to look serious.

“Is there actual candy in this?” he asked, turning the drink in his hand.

“Two jelly babies, a cherry and a cursed amount of grenadine,” Vinnie called from behind the bar, tossing a bottle back onto the shelf like a circus act. “It’s called a ‘Vampire’s Nipple.’ House special.”

“I didn’t need to know that.”

“You did,” Vinnie grinned.

Issac smiled despite himself, and leaned back against the bar’s worn paneling, glancing around the pub. The crowd was the usual mixed bag—locals who looked like they’d always been part of the woodwork, nursing pints and chatting in low tones. No one ever really stared at Vinnie, no matter how flamboyant he was, no matter what colour eyeliner or strange earring he wore that night. It was weirdly comforting.

Or it would be, if it weren’t… weird.

Issac was just starting to zone out when a figure slid into the seat beside him. Broad shoulders, an earthy scent like moss and smoke, and eyes that flicked to him too fast.

Tom.

He’d seen him before—tall, gruff, often loitering outside as if allergic to staying still for more than ten minutes. He was the kind of man who looked like he’d been carved out of a forest stump and given an ill-fitting hoodie.

“You’re Issac?” Tom said. Not asked. Said.

Issac blinked. “Uh, yeah?”

“I’m Tom.”

Silence.

Issac glanced toward Vinnie, who was pretending to mix a drink while keeping a sharp eye on them both.

“Oh. Hi.”

Tom’s gaze swept over him like he was doing some kind of checklist. “You’re the one Vinnie’s been spending time with.”

“Is that… a problem?”

“Should it be?”

Issac’s fingers tightened around the glass. “I don’t know. You’re the one asking questions.”

Tom tilted his head slightly, nostrils flaring like he was smelling something. Which was absurd. Probably.

“You’ve got asthma,” Tom said.

“Right,” Issac said slowly. “What gave it away, my subtle wheeze or my weak, anxious aura?”

To his surprise, Tom smiled. Just briefly. “Both.”

Issac shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t like the way Tom looked at him—not threatening, exactly, but like someone assessing the risk of something fragile.

“I just mean to say,” Tom continued, voice lower now, “Vinnie’s not what you think.”

Issac’s mouth went dry. “What do I think?”

Tom didn’t answer. He leaned closer, eyes serious now.

“He’s old. Older than you know. He doesn’t live in the same world you do. People get close to him, they get… pulled in. And he forgets to let go.”

Issac frowned. “You talk like you’ve known him forever.”

“I haven’t,” Tom said, voice sharp. “But my gran did. She said he saved her life once. Said he was chaos wrapped in charm. Said he’d burn down your house just to stand in the warmth.”

“Sounds poetic,” Issac said, trying to cover the spike of fear with sarcasm.

Tom looked at him for a long beat. “It’s not poetry. It’s warning.”

Before Issac could reply, a loud clatter interrupted them.

Vinnie had dropped a shaker, very much on purpose, and came sauntering over, grinning. “You two getting along? Planning my intervention?”

Tom stood, barely looking at him. “Just catching up.”

“Sure,” Vinnie said, eyes sharp under the joke. “Why don’t you catch up somewhere else, Tommy? You’re scaring my favourite regular.”

Tom looked at Issac again, like he wanted to say something else, but only nodded once. “See you around.”

As he turned and headed for the door, Issac noticed something strange—none of the locals even looked up. As if Tom didn’t exist, or at least didn’t register.

Vinnie slid into the seat beside Issac, bumping their shoulders lightly. “Sorry about the pub dog. He sheds and thinks he’s clever.”

“He said you saved his gran.”

Vinnie sighed. “Old story. Probably exaggerated. She got a splinter or something.”

“He also said you burn things down.”

Vinnie smiled without showing teeth. “Only when it’s too cold to stay still.”

Issac looked at him, really looked. At the perfectly tousled hair, the slight glow to his skin, the weird warmth in his chaotic eyes. He thought about the photos. The antiques. The nights that never turned into days.

“I don’t care if you’re weird,” Issac said finally. “Just don’t make me forget you.”

For a second, Vinnie went very still.

Then he reached over, plucked the cherry from Issac’s drink and popped it in his mouth. “I’ll do my best. But you’ll have to remember me extra hard, yeah?”

Issac gave a quiet laugh. “That sounded way less creepy in your head, didn’t it?”

“Not even slightly,” Vinnie said, grinning.

And for now, at least, the strange warmth between them held.

---

Issac tries to solve the puzzle that is Vincent.

It started with a stupid search.

Vinnie pub attic got him nowhere—just a TripAdvisor review about "the most flamboyant bartender in rural England" and a blurry photo of a man in silver eyeliner doing karaoke in a fur coat.

Issac chewed the inside of his cheek, typing in new terms. He didn’t even know Vinnie’s surname. Did he have one?

Strange local deaths, he typed.

It spiralled from there.

The pub’s village had a long history—most English villages did. But among the expected news of fêtes and livestock competitions, there were oddities that prickled beneath Issac’s skin. Newspaper scans with yellowed edges and absurd headlines:

1924: ANIMAL ATTACK OR SOMETHING WORSE? LOCAL FARMHAND FOUND DRAINED OF BLOOD.

1948: HANGED MAN SURVIVES EXECUTION. "HE JUST SMILED," SAYS SHOCKED PRISON GUARD.

1971: MORGUE MYSTERY—BODY GOES MISSING HOURS BEFORE AUTOPSY.

They weren’t all in this village. But the areas circled it like a bruise. One article, barely more than a column inch, had a photograph with a man at the edge of the frame. He looked... familiar. Just the shadow of a jawline, a smirk that might’ve belonged to Vinnie, or might’ve belonged to someone long dead. Issac didn’t know what he wanted to find. just that every answer turned into another question.

He closed his laptop as the front door slammed downstairs.

It was nearly seven.

Vinnie would be working the bar.

Issac made his way down the hill to The Hollow Oak, hoodie zipped to the chin. The lights of the pub were warm against the misting evening, the buzz of conversation spilling out like comfort. As always, Vinnie was behind the bar, shaking something violently in a cocktail tin like it owed him money.

Issac slid onto his stool.

“I looked up murders for you,” he said by way of hello.

“Oh, romantic,” Vinnie grinned. “Did you at least look up murders with nice cocktails?”

Issac glanced sideways, but before he could answer, the pub door opened.

It was like a pressure shift. Conversation dipped. The warmth stuttered.

His dad stood in the entrance like a misplaced chess piece. slick grey coat, black scarf, tailored to the point of arrogance. He surveyed the room like he was cataloguing bacteria, then moved towards the bar.

“Shit,” Issac muttered. “Why is he here?”

Vinnie leaned in. “Is that your dad?”

“Yeah. Just .. ignore him, please don’t let him be weird.”

“I mean, we’re all weird,” Vinnie winked. “Some of us just accessorise better.”

But Issac’s stomach was curling inward. His dad’s presence in the pub felt... off. Like mixing oil with water, or someone in a lab coat showing up to a birthday party.

Vinnie stepped out from behind the bar, heading toward Issac’s dad with an easy grin. “Evening, sir! Fancy a Vampire’s Nipple?”

Issac choked on his drink.

His dad ignored the offer. “I’d like a moment of your time, Mr…?”

“Just Vinnie,” he said, breezing past the formality. “And I’m working, unfortunately. Health and safety, you know. Can’t leave Issac unattended, he might alphabetise the coasters.”

He grabbed Issac by the wrist, not hard, just insistent and tugged him back behind the bar with a theatrical spin.

The move was ridiculous. Unnecessary. Utterly Vinnie.

But it worked.

His dad blinked at the gesture, lips tightening slightly, before turning toward the door. “Very well. I’ll see you at home, Issac.”

As the door clicked shut, Issac sagged against the back wall.

“Kill me,” he groaned. “He thinks I’m being babysat.”

Vinnie tossed him a packet of peanuts. “He’d be right. I’m charging hourly.”

“God. I’m sorry. He doesn’t belong here.”

“Everyone’s welcome in the pub,” Vinnie said lightly. “We’ve had actual ghosts before. One of them drinks gin.”

“But you ran off.”

“Correction: I swirled off with flair. Besides—your dad has the kind of face that probably reported jazz to the police in 1936.”

Issac snorted.

Then quieted.

“You know a lot about me,” he said softly. “My family. My socks. But I don’t know anything about you.”

Vinnie stopped drying the glass in his hands.

“Well, that’s just rude. You know my hobbies.”

“You told me you like makeup and art and music and booze. That’s not—”

He trailed off.

That wasn’t the same.

He didn’t know where Vinnie had come from. How old he was. If he had family. If he even had a bed or just a pile of scarves and empty bottles in that attic.

Vinnie smiled, but it was faint this time.

“I’m not that interesting,” he said.

“You’re a walking paradox in eyeliner,” Issac muttered.

They sat in silence for a while, the soft rumble of the pub carrying on around them. Vinnie eventually pulled out a small, battered cassette player from under the bar and pressed play. A tinny, warbled version of “Don’t You (Forget About Me)” filtered out, warm and nostalgic and almost painfully on the nose.

Issac didn’t say anything.

He just sat there, beside someone who was either hiding everything or had already given more than he could.

Somewhere in the distance, the wolves howled.

[whumpeesblog]

Beneath the Hollow Oak

Content Warnings: (for the full fic) Emotional trauma, captivity, medical experimentation, body horror (mild), violence, PTSD, chronic illness, anxiety, grief, supernatural themes (vampires, werewolves, ghosts), found family, recovery, and healing after trauma

Part 3

Vinnie’s room was warm with the scent of incense and leftover crisps, cluttered with the soft chaos of a life lived in loops. Fairy lights blinked lazily from the ceiling, casting shadows over stacks of records, stray poetry scrawled on torn paper, and half-finished sketches pinned to the walls.

Issac sat cross-legged on the floor, cautiously holding a bowl of mini cheddars like it might explode. Vinnie sprawled on the bed, eating directly from a packet of smoky bacon crisps and kicking his feet like a teenager.

“I swear these taste different from when I was a kid,” Issac said, examining the cheese-dusted surface of one crisp.

Vinnie smirked. “Everything does. That’s the trick, innit? Get older and the snacks betray you.”

Issac gave a quiet chuckle and placed a crisp on his tongue like it was medicine. “Not sure I count as old yet.”

“Older than last year. That’s enough.” Vinnie leaned back on his elbows, eyes flicking lazily toward Issac. “How’s the wheezy lungs, by the way? You still squeakin’ on your inhaler like a duck call?”

Issac rolled his eyes. “Due for an asthma review next week. Haven’t had one since I moved.”

“Oh, joy. Doctor Dad gonna poke and prod you?”

“Probably,” Issac muttered. “He’s... thorough. And a bit intense about health stuff. Think he likes things he can measure.”

Vinnie snorted. “Sounds like a party.”

“I guess,” Issac said. “He’s not really the bedside manner type. More the ‘scan your DNA while asking if you’ve coughed in the last five years’ type.”

There was a beat of companionable silence. The lights buzzed softly. From the floor, Issac glanced at the cluttered shelf in the corner. Half-covered by a draped scarf, he spotted an old photo frame.

He reached for it without thinking.

A black-and-white snapshot, grainy and curling at the edges. Four people outside what looked like the same pub. The Hollow Oak. but faded and old. One of them was unmistakably Vinnie, though his hair was slicked back and his clothes had the shine of a long-gone decade.

“Is this?” Issac frowned, holding it up.

Vinnie sat up slowly. “Oof. That one’s ancient.”

“It looks it.” Issac turned it over. 1977 was written on the back in blue ink. “Is this, like… your dad or something? Spitting image.”

“Or I’m just timelessly gorgeous,” Vinnie said with a wink.

Issac laughed, but it stuck in his throat. His fingers hovered over another item—a Zippo lighter engraved with a date from the ‘60s. A stack of theatre programmes with edges browned like autumn leaves. A vinyl with a signature that couldn’t possibly be real unless...

He looked up slowly. “You, uh... you ever go outside? During the day, I mean.”

Vinnie quirked a brow. “Trying to say I’m pale?”

“I mean, no, not just—” Issac scratched behind his ear. “Just that… you always meet at night. Pub, walks, even your room, which is like a den for owls. Makes you wonder.”

“Wonder what?” Vinnie asked, amused.

Issac hesitated. “If you’re… y’know. A vampire or something.”

A long pause.

Then Vinnie threw a crisp at him.

Issac ducked, startled, and Vinnie cackled. “You nerd. What kind of vampire eats Wotsits and lives in a pub?”

“Exactly,” Issac said quickly, trying to laugh with him. “It’s just a dumb thought. Vampires wouldn’t hang around in this shitty town and eat dodgy bar snacks.”

Vinnie comments that “They’d probably have cooler hobbies than reading code and organising Lego by shade.”

Issac snorted. “I don’t do that.”

“You do.”

“…Okay. I did it once.”

Their laughter settled like dust.

Issac looked down again at the photo. “It’s just weird. All this stuff..it should be in a museum.”

Vinnie leaned forward, gently took the photo back, and returned it to the shelf. “Some people collect coins. I collect… time.”

Issac nodded, letting the explanation rest, even if it didn’t make sense. Somehow, with Vinnie, it didn’t have to. He was warm, unpredictable, and kind in a way that snuck up on you.

And anyway, vampires weren’t real.

Vinnie laid back, one arm behind his head. “Don’t worry. I won’t let your dad kill you with a stethoscope.”

“Thanks,” Issac said. “That’s… weirdly reassuring.”

They sat like that a while longer, the world outside gone quiet. Just the flicker of fairy lights, the soft rustle of crisps, and the growing, unspoken sense that this was something more than just passing time.

This was the start of being remembered.

[whumpeesblog]

Beneath the Hollow Oak

Content Warnings: (for the full fic) Emotional trauma, captivity, medical experimentation, body horror (mild), violence, PTSD, chronic illness, anxiety, grief, supernatural themes (vampires, werewolves, ghosts), found family, recovery, and healing after trauma

Part 2

Vinnie didn’t ask questions when Issac showed up at the pub again the next evening.

He was already perched at his usual spot on the bar like a lazy cat, wearing eyeliner smudged just so, a leopard print jacket that may or may not have once belonged to a rock star, and an expression that said trouble, but the charming kind.

“You came back,” Vinnie said, sliding a Fanta across the counter without needing to be asked. “Was starting to think I dreamed you.”

Issac hesitated. Then: “You have dreams?”

Vinnie grinned. “Not often. Too much reality crowding the corners of my mind. you're the dreamiest chess-playing, code-wielding, social disaster I’ve ever met though.” Issac doesn't remember telling Vinnie about his hobbies.

“…I like puzzles,” Issac muttered.

“Yeah, and I like stimulants. We all need our coping mechanisms.”

They ended up upstairs again. Issac didn’t ask this time, just followed. Vinnie had pulled the mattress off the frame and thrown down a dozen cushions. A record played in the corner. Fleetwood Mac this time, dreamy and melodic.

Issac sat with his knees drawn up. Vinnie offered him space, sat a good few feet away, and didn’t comment on the way Issac kept scanning the room like it might rearrange itself if he didn’t watch.

After a while, Issac spoke.

“My mum used to play this. When she was cleaning.”

Vinnie turned his head slowly, something quieting in him. “Yeah?”

“I used to hate it. Thought it was old. Dull. Now I… I listen to it and I think about the way she hummed. She’d never sing the words, just the notes.”

“That’s heartbreakingly adorable.” Vinnie picked at a thread in his trousers. “Music does that. Hooks into the bits that matter.”

They talked more that night than Issac thought he had energy for.

About maths, which Vinnie loudly denied counted as a hobby. About chess, and how Issac found comfort in knowing that every piece had a defined role, a predictable set of rules. About coding—his own quiet form of control, where logic always held. They also spoke about Issac's life, how he had moved in with his dad after his mother had died. About how his father was clinical and unkind. The opposite of his mother who had left his father when Issac was a child.

Vinnie talked about art like it was a language he was trying to relearn. About old gigs he half-remembered and poems he only wrote drunk. About a pair of velvet trousers he stole from someone named Trevor in 1987. About how connection was a muscle you could work until it stopped hurting.

At some point, they ended up sitting side by side. Not touching. Just… close.

The silence between them was full, not empty.

---

The next day, Issac’s dad asked again.

“Did you see him?”

Issac didn’t look up from the crossword he was halfway through. “Who?”

“You know who. The boy. The one from the pub. The… bartender.”

Issac frowned. “Vinnie.”

“Yes.” His dad smiled, the sort of smile Issac hated, tight, like it had to be pressed into place. “I think you should spend more time with him. He seems… promising.”

“Promising for what?” Issac asked, wary.

“Just… socialising. You're too isolated. He's a… charming influence.”

That wasn’t a lie. Not exactly.

But it was the way he said it. Measured. Intentional. Like Vinnie was a controlled variable in a very important experiment.

Issac folded the newspaper in half. “You’ve never cared about my friends before.”

His father didn’t answer.

---

That night, back in the attic room that always smelled like candle wax and old paper, Issac told Vinnie about it. Not directly. Just… let it slip, like a test.

“He keeps asking about you. My dad.”

Vinnie was halfway through painting one fingernail silver. He looked up, brows raised.

“What can I say? I’m popular with the over-50s.”

“I think he’s interested in you. Not just… like that. Like, scientifically interested.”

Vinnie froze for a fraction of a second.

Then he laughed. A little too loud. “Well, I am a specimen, mate. Bit of a freak show. Maybe he just wants to run his fingers through my hair and whisper sweet research grants in my ear.”

Issac tried to laugh, but it stuck in his throat.

Issac didn’t know what scared him more. His dad’s attention… or the brief look on Vinnie’s face after he had joked. The rare flicker of fear in someone who never seemed afraid.

He nodded, once.

“Okay.”

Then they put on an old tape. New Order. and sat there as the music filled the attic like dust in sunlight. Neither of them said anything more, but the air between them stayed warm.

And for the first time in a long time, Issac didn’t want to leave.

---

---

The next night Vinnie visits the graveyard and meets a friend.

The church graveyard wasn’t much of a secret. Not really. But it was one of the few places in town that stayed quiet after midnight.

Vinnie sat on the crumbling edge of a headstone, legs crossed, a cigarette hanging loose between his fingers. The smoke curled toward the crooked moon like an afterthought.

“You’re getting sloppy.”

Tom’s voice drifted out from the dark, accompanied by the low crunch of boots on gravel. The werewolf always arrived the same way, quiet, unimpressed, vaguely smelling of pine and wet dog.

“I’m getting bored,” Vinnie said without looking up. “Different problem.”

Tom came to a stop a few feet away, arms crossed over his chest. Flannel shirt. Mud on his jeans. The look of someone who still chopped his own wood and meant it.

“I’m serious, Vinnie. That kid Issac? You didn’t glamor him.”

Vinnie blew out a lazy stream of smoke. “Nah. Didn’t feel like it.”

Tom narrowed his eyes. “You always glamor them. You feed, you fog, you forget. That’s the rule.”

“I make my own rules.”

“You break your own rules.”

Vinnie grinned. “Tommy, that sounds an awful lot like concern. Almost friendly.”

Tom sighed heavily. “We’re not friends, Vinnie. We just… coexist. Mutual survival. Silly favours, and a quiet eye out for each other. That’s the deal.”

“Well, I think we’re friends.” Vinnie flashed him a wink. “You bring the gruffness, I bring the charm.”

“Why haven’t you erased the kid?”

Vinnie hesitated. Not long. but enough.

“He’s different.”

“They’re all different before you drink them dry.”

“I didn’t drink him. Barely even touched him.” Vinnie leaned forward now, cigarette forgotten. “He’s not like the others. He’s. he’s skittish, yeah, but he’s not scared of me. Not really. He talks to me like I matter. Not like some mystery or monster. Like a person.”

Tom stared at him, long and hard.

“You’re projecting.”

“Maybe,” Vinnie said quietly. “But he gets it. That feeling. Of being left behind. Of being… forgotten.”

Silence passed between them. The graveyard creaked with wind and distant owl calls.

“You do know,” Tom said finally, “that if you glamor the boy but not his dad, you’re just asking for trouble.”

“Exactly. And his dad’s the opposite of fun. Cold eyes. Snake smile. Not the kind who forgets things easily according to issac.”

Tom rubbed the back of his neck, restless. “You’re walking into a mess.”

Vinnie shrugged. “When am I not?”

Tom hesitated, then said more gently, “You get too close, Vinnie, and this isn’t just about blood or memory. You keep him like this, and he remembers you. All of you. The real stuff. That never ends well.”

Vinnie’s voice was quiet now.

“Maybe I’m tired of being the thing everyone forgets.”

Tom looked at him differently, then. Just for a moment. Like maybe, despite all his scoffing, he understood.

Vinnie stared down at his hands, pale, elegant, unaging. He remembered nights and decades and lovers and drinks and bright lights that always burned out too fast.

And then he remembered Issac’s quiet laugh. The way he carefully adjusted every crooked coaster in the pub. The way he said I used to hate this music, and the way his voice caught on used to.

“You’ve got a choice,” Tom said. “Keep playing human. Or cut it off before it starts to hurt.”

Vinnie didn’t respond. Not right away.

Instead, he stood, brushed imaginary dust from his leopard print coat, and looked up at the sky.

“I think I’ll keep playing.”

“Playing what?”

Vinnie smiled, sharp and soft at the same time.

“Friend.”

---

[whumpeesblog]

Beneath the Hollow Oak

Content Warnings: (for the full fic) : Emotional trauma, captivity, medical experimentation, body horror (mild), violence, PTSD, chronic illness, anxiety, grief, supernatural themes (vampires, werewolves, ghosts), found family, recovery, and healing after trauma.

Themes:

Queer-coded intimacy, hurt/comfort, slow trust-building, reluctant vulnerability, horror-tinged tenderness.

My first whump fic that's been stashed in my notes all for literal years. Focused on a chaotic vampire, a lonely werewolf, and a vengeful ghost as they escape a lab and attempt to rebuild something like a life inside a ruined safehouse.

Part 1 ---

The old pub smelled like varnish and cider. It creaked even when no one moved, as if it were remembering a hundred years of footfalls and spilled drinks. Issac perched at the end of the bar, cradling a lemonade he didn’t ask for. His father had said something about getting to know the locals in the way one might suggest putting down a sick dog, reluctant but insistent.

He’d lasted twenty minutes before the headache started. The clink of glasses, laughter that didn’t include him, and the itch in the back of his throat that meant someone had a cat. Or maybe it was the cheap cologne of the man two stools down. He rubbed his thumb over the condensation on his glass and counted the droplets.

That’s when he heard the voice.

"You're new. You smell like anxiety and hand sanitizer."

Issac jumped, head whipping sideways. The man beside him, was he a man? had appeared without a sound. He was all angular mischief and wiry grace, leaning against the bar like it owed him rent. Dark eyes sparkled with something that wasn’t quite safe.

"Sorry," the stranger added, flashing a grin. "Bit forward. But you looked like you were thinking of chewing through your own arm to escape."

Issac opened his mouth. Closed it. Wiped his hands on his jeans.

“…I just moved here,” he said finally.

"No kidding." The man extended a hand, fingers ringed with gold. “Vinnie.”

"Issac." He didn’t shake it.

Vinnie didn’t seem to mind. He leaned in just a fraction. Close enough for Issac to smell… cloves? Wine? Something wrong-but-not-wrong. Like church incense mixed with cigarette smoke.

"You look like someone who’s used to being invisible," Vinnie said softly, voice warm as a blanket and just as heavy. "I see you, Issac."

It was stupid how that made something inside him flicker.

---

Later that night, after Vinnie somehow talked him into walking upstairs (“Just five minutes, I promise. No cult rituals unless you ask nicely”), Issac found himself standing in a room that made his lungs tighten. Not from asthma. From overwhelm. The room was so different to Issac's clean and organised life.

Paintings everywhere , some finished, some not. Scribbled poems on post-its and napkins. A neon green lava lamp bubbling in the corner like a potion. The room smelled like old books and something faintly sweet.

He clutched his sleeves. “It’s chaotic.”

“I prefer the term expressive.”

“It’s not… sanitary.”

“You want me to bleach the art off the walls?” Vinnie smirked. “That’d be a shame.”

Issac didn’t laugh, but he didn’t leave either. He stood frozen at the edge while Vinnie moved like a current, picking things up, offering them like gifts. A photo of a 90s drag queen. A letter from someone named Daz who might’ve been a ghost. A sketch of a fox with fangs.

“I don’t usually bring people up here,” Vinnie said, sitting cross-legged on the bed. “Don’t usually talk, actually. You’re cool tho.”

Issac’s stomach twisted, uncertain whether it was anxiety or something stranger.

"cool how?"

“You haven’t looked away once. Most people don’t like what they see, once the glamour thins.”

“Glamour?”

Vinnie just smiled, teeth a little too sharp.

---

[whumpeesblog]

Title: Something Isn’t Right part two

Characters: Bucky Barnes, Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers

CW: Chronic pain, medical trauma, PTSD, referenced torture (Hydra), panic, fear response

Bucky hadn’t slept again. The pain in his shoulder and neck was a constant dull ache, sometimes flaring into sharp, stabbing spikes that made him flinch under the covers. His prosthetic arm lay heavy and dead beside him, the familiar, awful numbness making it feel like it didn’t belong to him at all. He’d spent years with metal grafted to bone, but the new Wakandan design—sleek and smooth though it was—was still foreign to his body.

Some nights he’d wake in a cold sweat, convinced it was gone entirely, that it had been ripped from him again. The worst dreams were the ones where he was strapped down, surrounded by shadows barking in Russian, bright lights burning his eyes as they called him Soldier. Useful. Broken. Replaceable.

And sometimes, those shadows wore familiar faces—The avengers. Tony. Steve. Bruce. Natasha. All of them. None of them.

He rose before the sun, staggering to the bathroom, twisting the shower handle to scorching. The heat bit at his skin, and he stayed there longer than necessary, letting the steam loosen his muscles. Hot water had never been an option in Hydra’s cells. It was a comfort that still felt like a betrayal.

Peter, meanwhile, had noticed everything. He didn’t stay in the Tower full time—school, Aunt May, and neighborhood patrols kept him busy—but when he was there, he couldn’t ignore how Bucky winced when he thought no one was watching. Or how he rubbed at his temple during meetings, the tension spreading from shoulder to skull in migraines that never seemed to lift.

Tony spent time watching, calculating, and seeing Bucky in quiet agony unsure how to resolve the issue that was bucky. Helping bucky with his "recovery" had mainly been Steve's area of expertise. Sam had also jumped to help but bucky wasn't proving the easiest patient. Or person in general to help.

Tony had watched him spar with Sam and barely hold his own, one misstep away from tipping over. He’d noticed Bucky grimace when a shirt tugged on the seam between metal and scar. He’d watched him sleep—well, try to sleep—through the Tower’s monitoring, noting spikes in cortisol and heart rate like a rollercoaster. Not a single painkiller logged in the system. Not once.

Tony was used to people hiding from help. Hell, he did it himself. But this? This was decades of Hydra-programmed obedience and pain tolerance wrapped in a man trying to stay invisible.

He didn’t want to be afraid of Bucky, but he was. A little. The man had a kill record long enough to wallpaper the Tower in blood. The man had killed Tony's own parents. It's hard to not take that personally. But looking at him now, Bucky wasn’t a bomb. He was a survivor. A half-broken weapon someone had forgotten to unmake.

Still, Tony couldn’t help but itch to solve the problem. The arm was cutting-edge tech—a collaboration between genius minds and Vibranium artisans. If something wasn’t syncing, it could be fixed. The sensors could be tuned. The nerve relay softened. But it had to be approached gently.

Tony tried to. But even when his tone softened, even when he hovered at a respectful distance, Bucky still flinched. Still kept his eyes low, posture stiff.

So Tony started quieter.

He had FRIDAY log Bucky’s patterns—temperature fluctuations, pain indicators, how often his fingers trembled when he thought no one could see. He rewrote code to let FRIDAY speak to Bucky in a more neutral, less directive tone. Ordered a compression sleeve designed to feel like old leather—familiar and warm. He left it outside Bucky’s door.

He didn’t ask if it was used.

Steve tried harder too. He watched for the signs now—the way Bucky rubbed his shoulder after drills, or sat out longer between sessions. The way he sometimes chose the floor over the bed. Steve left him pillows. Quiet snacks. A bottle of water with the cap loosened.

Bucky never said thank you. But sometimes, Steve found the bottle refilled and returned outside his own door the next morning.

Peter offered what he could. He started small—coffee just the way Bucky liked it, left on the windowsill without fanfare. A shared patrol where Bucky didn’t have to speak. A heating pad passed over like it was nothing.

Bucky took it.

Some of the efforts worked. Some didn’t.

FRIDAY started playing soft jazz over the Tower’s intercom in the afternoons—music Bucky might remember. He froze the first time, hands clenched. The second time, he relaxed. A little.

But the weighted blanket left for him remained untouched. Later, they found it folded neatly in the laundry room, returned without a word.

That night, Bucky dreamed again.

The Tower twisted into Hydra’s sterile halls. Steve’s voice called him to the lab. Peter watched but said nothing. Tony reached for him, fingers curling into the socket of his arm.

“Malfunctioning,” the voice echoed.

He woke gasping, arm numb. For too long, he couldn’t tell if it was still there. His heartbeat thundered in his ears.

He showered in boiling water again. Just to feel something. Just to know he could.

The next day, Tony adjusted the heat settings in Bucky’s quarters, nudging them higher. Bucky didn’t comment, but he spent more time in his room.

They noticed the headaches too. Bucky rubbed at his temples more often, eyes dull. Tension coiled from his shoulder into his neck. Was it nerve compression? Residual trauma? Something more insidious?

He didn’t know. No one did.

Sometimes he blamed the pain. Sometimes the nightmares. Sometimes he wondered if his body was just failing him. Hydra had frozen and unfrozen him so many times—was this the price?

He still hid most of it. Still kept his head down.

But Peter could hear the strain. The breaths held too long. The heartbeat that spiked when someone touched his back. The way he didn’t react when his arm slammed into a wall during drills, like he couldn’t feel it. Or maybe it just hurt too much.

Peter sat with him one night and didn’t say anything.

After a while, Bucky muttered, “You’re not afraid of me?”

Peter shook his head. “Nah. I can hold my own”

Bucky looked away.

And somewhere in the Tower, FRIDAY switched tracks to something slower. A warm saxophone filled the space.

Tony paused in his workshop, watching the screen that monitored Bucky’s vitals ease just slightly. A blip. A start.

Maybe not fixed.

But maybe healing.

[whumpeesblog]

I've been inactive for so long, and I've never written fanfic before, so this has been in my notes app for a very long time... But I've got myself stuck on an idea and couldn't find the fic I wanted.

Title: Something Isn’t Right

CW: Chronic pain, PTSD, medical trauma, past torture (Hydra), panic response

Characters: Bucky Barnes, Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers

Word Count: ~4,800

Bucky didn’t talk about the pain.

The prosthetic was better than the old one—lighter, quieter, more advanced. But his body hadn’t forgotten the years of damage. The nerves around the joint flared like exposed wires. The arm was cold most days. On others, it burned with heat or buzzed with sensitivity, like the metal wanted to crawl off his skin. Clothes tugged at it in the wrong way and sent jolts of pain through his torso. Sometimes, the cold metal felt like it was turning his bones to ice; sometimes, it was so numb he thought it was gone entirely.

He wore long sleeves year-round—loose henleys or soft sweatshirts, usually dark, easily concealing. They muffled the pain just a little. Not enough. He slept in them too, when he could sleep.

Lately, that was rare. The pain threaded through his dreams, tying itself into old memories. Metal clamps. Syringes. Bright white lights. He'd wake gasping, clawing at the prosthetic to make sure it was still there—that it hadn’t been ripped away or turned on him.

He never said anything. Hydra had taught him what happened when you showed pain.

Peter noticed anyway.

He didn’t live full-time at the tower, but when he stayed over, he saw it. The little things. Bucky always sitting a little hunched, his shoulders turned slightly to the left. The way he hesitated to pick things up with his prosthetic hand, like he was afraid it might fail him in front of everyone. The odd twitch in his jaw that came when he thought no one was looking.

Then there were the nights Peter stayed up late. More than once, he heard Bucky pacing the hall outside his room. Not the calm, even walk of someone up for a midnight drink—but the slow, dragging movements of someone trying not to cry out.

And the muttering. Quiet, distressed noises from behind Bucky’s door.

Peter wanted to say something. But he was new. Still earning everyone’s trust. And Bucky—Bucky had been a Hydra assassin. The idea of confronting him, of making him feel cornered or watched, made Peter's chest tighten.

Still, the guilt grew. Every time he looked at Bucky and saw that flash of pain behind his eyes.

Eventually, he snapped.

He caught Tony in the lab one night, hunched over a glowing schematic.

“Mr. Stark?”

Tony didn’t look up. “You’re not dying, are you?”

Peter fidgeted. “No. It’s about Bucky.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “Barnes? Didn’t think he was your type.”

“I think he’s in pain. Real pain. All the time.”

Tony sighed and looked back at his schematic. “He’s got a top-of-the-line prosthetic made by Wakanda. If something’s wrong, it's user error or wear and tear. That’s Rogers' problem, not mine.”

Peter hesitated. “I know he’s not exactly your favorite, but I’m not imagining it. I have heightened senses, remember? His heart rate spikes when he moves a certain way. He flinches. He favors the arm. He barely sleeps.”

Tony gave a vague grunt.

“And…” Peter swallowed. “He acts like he’s afraid of the arm. Or afraid someone’s going to decide it’s not working and do something about it.”

That got Tony’s attention.

He glanced up, brows drawn together. “You think he thinks we’ll scrap him like damaged goods?”

Peter shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. But I think he’s suffering. And he’s hiding it.”

Tony didn’t say anything else. Just nodded once, quietly.

Over the next few days, Tony started watching.

The tremble in Bucky’s fingers. The short, controlled breaths when he had to lift something overhead. The way he stayed seated when he could stand, or stood when he should rest. And the way he never, ever asked for help.

Tony knew that look. He’d worn it himself more than once.

Eventually, he called Steve into the lab.

“Get Barnes down here,” he said. “Tell him it’s a diagnostic. Routine. Don’t make a big deal.”

Steve eyed him. “You sure about this?”

Tony crossed his arms. “Just want to check some systems. That arm shouldn’t be hurting him. If it is, I want to fix it.”

Steve nodded. But he looked uneasy.

He found Bucky in the gym, slowly stretching out his shoulder, his face a mask of concentration.

“Tony wants to run a scan,” Steve said gently. “Just routine. Make sure the arm’s doing what it’s supposed to.”

Bucky froze. His body stiffened. “Now?”

Steve nodded.

Bucky gave a small, barely perceptible nod and followed.

[Flashback – Hydra Facility, a long time ago]

“You’ve been flagged for diagnostics,” the handler said.

The asset's gut twisted. He stood straighter, hoping to look sharp. Presentable. Useful.

“I’ll improve,” he said quickly. “Whatever the mission data showed—I can fix it.”

The handler didn’t blink. “The lab will determine that.”

He was escorted down the cold corridor by two guards. The lab door hissed open and the antiseptic stench hit him like a punch. His feet dragged. Panic coiled low in his gut.

The white walls. The metal restraints. The chair. The light above it, humming. Too bright.

He tried to sit on his own. Tried to cooperate. That didn’t stop them from strapping him down.

Cold hands on his shoulder. “We’ve detected calibration irregularities.”

“It’s functional,” the asset said. “I can use it. I completed the mission.”

But they weren’t listening. Instruments whined. Screws were turned. The pain bit deep.

He gritted his teeth, swallowing the scream. He knew better than to make a sound.

“You don’t need that arm if it’s compromised,” someone murmured.

The asset's s breath hitched. His pulse skyrocketed. No no no no no.

“I can fix it,” he whispered. “I’ll make it work. Please.”

No one replied.

Then the saws came out.

He screamed. No one stopped.

[Starks Lab, Present Day]

The lab was too bright.

Bucky stepped inside like a man walking to his own execution.

He wore a loose navy henley and black sweats, the sleeve of his prosthetic already pushed up. His eyes scanned the room like it might hold chains.

Peter stood awkwardly in the corner, regretting everything. He wished he could disappear. His heart thudded as he watched Bucky sit down, spine rigid.

Tony tried to sound casual. “Just going to scan the upper plating. Nothing invasive.”

Bucky didn’t answer. Just nodded.

Tony moved in with the scanner. Bucky stared straight ahead, unmoving.

Steve hovered nearby, brows furrowed. He hadn’t seen Bucky this tense in months.

“Muscle tension’s bad,” Tony muttered. “Joint inflammation. Nerve feedback… looks like phantom pain responses, too. No wonder he’s stiff.”

Peter could hear Bucky’s heart rate climbing. He could practically feel the panic in the air.

Tony reached for a panel. “I’m going to lift the arm housing a bit—”

“Warn him,” Steve cut in, voice low but firm.

Tony froze. “Barnes? Okay if I take a closer look?”

Bucky nodded. No hesitation, but no feeling behind it either.

Tony hesitated. For the first time, he really saw it—the way Bucky stayed utterly still, almost like he wasn’t breathing. Not resisting. Not engaging. Just enduring.

He sighed. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

Still, Bucky nodded. He let the exam continue.

Later that night, Peter found Bucky on the roof, wrapped in a hoodie, the hood up against the wind.

He sat down beside him. “Hey.”

Bucky didn’t look at him.

“I’m sorry,” Peter said. “I didn’t mean for the lab to be like that.”

A long silence.

“You weren’t wrong,” Bucky said eventually. His voice was quiet. Rough.

Peter bit his lip. “You were so scared. I should’ve told Tony to back off. I didn’t think it would go like that.”

Bucky gave a soft snort. “It always goes like that.”

Peter looked over. “It doesn’t have to. We’re not them.”

Another pause. Then Bucky said, “I keep thinking if I complain, if I show weakness… they’ll take it away. Or decide I’m not safe. I was a weapon for so long, I don’t know how to be anything else.”

Peter didn’t know what to say. So he just stayed there.

Eventually, Bucky said, “Thanks. For noticing. For giving a damn.”

Peter blinked. “You don’t mind?”

“I do. But it helps anyway.”

Peter smiled a little. “Good. Because I’m not going to stop.”

Bucky looked at him, and for the first time in days, the tight lines of his face eased.

It wasn’t much. But it was something.

[whumpeesblog]

Wrong Wrong Wrong Wrong

I was born with the wrong sign In the wrong house With the wrong ascendancy I took the wrong road That led to the wrong tendencies I was in the wrong place at the wrong time For the wrong reason and the wrong rhyme On the wrong day of the wrong week I used the wrong method with the wrong technique

Wrong Wrong

There's something wrong with me chemically Something wrong with me inherently The wrong mix in the wrong genes I reached the wrong ends by the wrong means It was the wrong plan in the wrong hands With the wrong theory for the wrong man The wrong eyes on the wrong prize The wrong questions with the wrong replies

Wrong Wrong

I was marching to the wrong drum With the wrong scum Pissing out the wrong energy Using all the wrong lines and the wrong signs With the wrong intensity I was on the wrong page of the wrong book With the wrong rendition of the wrong look With the wrong moon every wrong night With the wrong tune played 'til it sounded right, yeah

Wrong Wrong (Too long) Wrong (Too long) Wrong (Too long) Wrong (Too long) Wrong (Too long)

I was born with the wrong sign (wrong) In the wrong house With the wrong ascendancy (too long) I took the wrong road (wrong) That led to the wrong tendencies (too long) I was in the wrong place at the wrong time (wrong) For the wrong reason and the wrong rhyme (too long) On the wrong day of the wrong week (wrong) I used the wrong method with the wrong technique

Wrong

[whumpeesblog]

Whumtober2022 | no.30 | NOTE TO SELF: DON'T GET KIDNAPPED

[whumpeesblog]

You can tell our whole empire I don’t have to see you right now

[whumpeesblog]

Reblog if you want one of these in your askbox:

A compliment or insult

A story

Why you follow me

If you met me what would you do

A cute message

One thing you want to tell me

One thing you want to know about me

[whumpeesblog]

I give you, the whump community.

[whumpeesblog]

superior archetype for male vampire characters 🙏🏼🔥

[whumpeesblog]

happy whumptober

I can't personally stomach the extreme ends of whump anymore, but I'm glad that they existed and continue to exist Examining why I became sad at certain fanfics helped me get around dissociating the second I tried to think of trauma thanks to all the fanfic writers out there

[whumpeesblog]

Help for when you’re having a rough time

In light of some deeply sad news in the whump community today, I’m thinking about how many of us here struggle with mental health, sometimes including physical or mental self-harm and suicidality. Since I know lots of folks might be having a hard time right now, I wanted to share some resources that have helped me in rough moments. Please feel free to add on to this post (or make your own, if you want!) with the resources that have worked for you. 

First, a note:

Trauma, shame, and suicidality all tend to isolate - they make us feel like we’re all alone in the world, like no one else would understand us, and like the only solutions we have available to us are ones we can think of all by ourselves. In my experience, the antidote to that is connection. If you’re feeling scared or alone, you can hop into my asks or DMs if you want. I’m sure there are other folks in this community who would offer that, too. Many of us have grappled with mental health struggles, including suicidal ideation, and sometimes we can offer each other the care that can be hard to offer ourselves. Don’t be afraid to reach out if you need support.

That said, here’s my absolute first recommendation if you’re feeling generally awful and don’t know what to do:

1. You Feel Like Shit (also available at its original site here)

If you’ve read a lot of ~self care tips~ in your life (and if you’re a bit of a salty bitch like me), you might be sick of being told to eat something and take a nap. (I don’t think we can hydrate our way out of long-term trauma and late-stage capitalistic hell, but thanks.) That said, I’ve found this site REALLY helpful. Personally, I have ADHD and CPTSD, a combination that makes it ROUGH for me to know how to take care of myself sometimes. This site speaks to you calmly, like a non-judgemental friend, and walks you through steps that you might struggle with if you have a hard time with executive function in general, or if you’re ill, grieving, overwhelmed, or otherwise just off your game. I pretty much always walk away feeling at least a little better, even if I don’t complete every step.

There are more suggestions and resources below the cut. Wishing everyone in this community love and care. <3

Keep reading