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cracked-porcelain-princess · 2 years

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So, so many excerpts have been on Talvos saving Iesin from humans. Could we have a Iesin saving a captured Talvos from fae??????

I wanna see Talvos get sung into captivity please WingMom.

not a woman! but here's a lil imagining that started as a scene and became a full piece, whoops haha

The woods are wilder near the mountains. They're testing a summer in the foothills, seeing if they can safely shelter here between human and fae territories. Out here, humans are few and far between, and after a particularly difficult winter both Iesin and Talvos need the rest from being constantly on guard. The burn on Talvos' knee is not fully healed, and Iesin has only just gotten over a wracking chest cold in the aftermath of a dousing in the sewers of the town they were wintering in.

But they are alive, and they have each other, and spring is warming the earth, and as ever it is enough. Talvos takes his time in the mornings, stretching out his knee and making sparing use of the last of their healing salves, while watching the herbs he'll need to make more sprout fresh growth day by day. Iesin hunts, and cooks down fat to render and keep, and trims fresh saplings into frames for drying rabbit hides. Later, when the birthing season is over, he'll move on to hunting deer or goats or sheep. For now, they take things one day at a time, and with each that comes free of pursuit or attack they relax a little more.

One morning, before the dawn mists have fully retreated, Talvos is alone. He's begun to tend a small patch of herbs near the stream they're camped beside, sowing precious seeds gathered over the past year in a gesture of hope that they'll stay here long enough to harvest. He's clearing away a creeping, abundant vine from the ground around his planting, finding it workable to sit with his bad leg stretched out straight and the other folded in front of him, when a familiar rustle catches his attention, and he looks up, expecting to catch a glimpse of blue-grey feathers dropping from the trees.

"Did you find-"

The fae who regards him, staring down her nose to where he's seated, is not Iesin. Dark skin outshines the light dappling across grey-brown wings still half-spread, mimicking the crested feathers rising in stiff wariness along her hairline and the backs of her forearms.

For a long moment Talvos only stares. Silence stretches between them.

"Riol," he greets eventually, keeping still. "Outhr ych fithe." No hurt here. He's sure his word choice is clumsy, but he hopes the intention carries through.

If possible, she stiffens further at his words. Her toe talons knead the dirt, fretfully alarmed.

"Ych oroilirne," she commands.

Talvos feels his teeth click shut and his tongue press to the roof of his mouth. Alarm presses dully against the certainty that he must not speak. The fae's lips quirk. She steps closer, extending a taloned hand.

"Saerne."

His hand lifts to meet hers. Somewhere, danger rouses instincts far too dull to prick the gloss of sound in his ears.

"Saer abae ciriggne. Saer, anaecin."

He's walking, hand imprisoned in talons which do not take care not to pierce his skin the way-- others do. Somewhere, his knee sends signals his body ignores.

"Saer, cathyrcin, saerne."

Something... he twists, looking back over his shoulder, but the grip on his hand tightens, and a low, doubled croon twines through his ears and into his chest, and Talvos forgets what he was thinking. Somewhere, something isn't right, but following is right, true and correct and good.

The sound of the stream fades behind them. There was something that he needed.... but the fae croons, and Talvos loses the thought to the shimmer of sound he thinks he can almost see.

Something crashes into the fae from above. Her hand tears away from his, ripping across his skin. A screech breaks the suspended notes filling the air around Talvos, and he stumbles, catching onto a tree trunk as his knee folds under him. A flurry of grey and brown and blue separates into Iesin and the other fae as they disentangle themselves and separate with hissing trills. Fae spits between them, too fast for Talvos to follow. He can barely see the other fae over Iesin's wings, spread protectively and bristling to twice their usual thickness.

Disdain coats the other fae's voice. Iesin growls in return, clipping syllables out with anger clear in his tone. The feathers on his spine stand straight up, marching like the quills of a porcupine. Pearled blood drips from the talons of one hand, but Talvos can't tell if it's his or the other fae's.

"Iesin-" he starts.

One wing pushes him back against the tree. Iesin looses another flurry of words. The other fae returns her own, shorter and harsh. Talvos feels Iesin's tension through the wing still pressed to his chest. The other fae's wings beat, stirring up a shower of leaves from the forest floor, and then she's gone.

Iesin's head tilts, listening to her departure, but he doesn't move otherwise for a long moment. At last Talvos feels him sag a little, and then his wings fold and he turns, face crumpling with worry.

"Talvos-" his hands and gaze flutter over Talvos, unsure where to land. "Are hurt? Hurt you, her?"

"I'm not-" Talvos realizes only belatedly that it's not quite true. "Just my hand," he amends, offering it for Iesin's inspection. "It's not bad."

"And leg, yours," Iesin accuses, squinting at him. Apparently not satisfied with Talvos' ability to tell when he is hurt, he inspects Talvos thoroughly, gentle hands passing across his body until he huffs out an airy chirp and nods to himself.

"Hold, you," he instructs, passing a wing across Talvos' back and tucking himself up against Talvos' bad side for him to lean on. "To camp, us, and then sit."

Talvos allows himself to be directed. His thoughts feel a little distant still, wrapped in the afterglow of colors he has no name for. It makes the twinge and burn of his knee a little more bearable, at least, but when they get back to their camp and Iesin lowers him to a careful seat, he squints at Talvos, sensing something is still amiss.

"Were thralled, you," he says quietly. He stirs up their fire and drops herbs from Talvos' satchel into the pot hanging over it. The earthy smell of them helps clear Talvos' head a little.

"...I think I was," he admits. Guilt spikes in his chest. "I couldn't think through it." He couldn't remember his own mate.

"Is the way of thralling," Iesin soothes, taking his gashed hand gently. "Have no defense against starsong, humans."

Talvos watches his mate's hands as they carefully clean and bandage his own. "What did she want?" he asks, when he can find the words. "What did she say to you?"

Iesin starts rolling up his pant leg to get at his knee. "Wanted what fae want from humans," he says, keeping his eyes on his task. "Saw human alone. Saw prey."

"She was going to eat me?" Talvos keeps his tone carefully calm, but under it fear roils, usually blunted and set aside for the far more permanent reality of Iesin's love.

Iesin's wings shrug slightly. "Eat, or keep thralled. Some like humans. See as toys, you."

"Oh."

The fire crackles softly. Talvos hisses softly as Iesin dabs the stinging, astringent salve over his burn that will form a temporary seal over the skin and aid in healing. Iesin focuses on his task, finishing with wrapping the knee and then rolling Talvos' pant leg down, then moves across the fire to crouch with his chin on his knees and poke at it studiously.

"Iesin," Talvos tries softly. His beloved flicks a glance at him, then away. "Thank you. For saving me."

The feathers along Iesin's wings puff out slightly, then settle. "Are mate, mine," he mutters. "And yours," he adds after a moment. "Am yours, me. Not thralling you."

"I know," Talvos says quickly. "I know you wouldn't." He shifts, leaning back against the fallen log behind him. "Will you come sit with me?"

Iesin pokes at the fire again. "Want that? Want fae near?"

"I want my mate near," Talvos counters.

Finally Iesin looks up at him, considering his tone. He gets up slowly and circles the fire, then settles stiffly next to Talvos. Talvos smiles when he glances over, offering his hand open on the ground between them. Iesin chirps softly and takes it in both of his, relaxing to lean on Talvos' chest.

"Should go, in morning," he murmurs, playing with Talvos' fingers between his own. "Might come, more fae."

"Did she say she'd be back?"

Iesin shrugs. "Asked name of court, mine," he says. "Asked where are, them. Is different court's territory, here."

"We're trespassing," Talvos guesses.

"Did not give name of old court, mine." Tension is creeping up Iesin's arms, shifting his shoulders towards his ears. "Will not have disputes for travels, ours."

"That's noble of you," Talvos offers. "You're protecting your court."

"Not mine," Iesin says, quick and vicious. "Not now. Am not member of court, me."

Stillness settles into the base of Talvos' lungs. "Because of me," he guesses softly. "Because your mate is human."

"Because am caill cin," Iesin spits the words. Talvos can't quite place them.

"Caill... one," he attempts. "Caill... I don't know that word, I'm sorry."

Iesin stirs slightly. "Is... cut." he moves his fingers to mine scissors. "Snapped thread. Do not hear mysteries, me. Am not connected to stars."

"That's not your fault, though," Talvos protests. It's his.

Iesin trills bitterly in the back of his throat. "Fault? What matters fault against what is? Does not fix to give fault to one or other."

"I'm sorry," Talvos whispers.

"No sorry." Iesin's head shifts against Talvos, turning to look up at him. "Talvos, beloved. Not angry at you. Not blaming you."

"But you don't have a court because-" because he broke Iesin open for iron's destructive touch, again and again.

"Because of hurt done to us," Iesin emphasizes. "And because of choice, mine. Chose mate, not court."

"If- if you wanted to go back, Iesin, we're close, aren't we? You could fly, go home-"

"Am home," Iesin settles against him, as if rooting himself fast to Talvos. "Keep saying this, me. Open little ears, you. And close mouth. Too many words."

Talvos closes his mouth.

"Sorry," Iesin mutters after a long moment. "Was rude, me."

"That's alright."

"Was scared. Thought would lose you, me. To other fae, or to... to knowing what fae do to humans."

Talvos huffs lightly. "Iesin, if all that humans do to fae wasn't enough to drive you from me, how could I ever leave you for what some other fae did?"

He feels Iesin's narrow shoulders lift against his chest. "Am still sorry, me. And glad are still here, you."

"Me too." To both, Talvos supposes. He tips his cheek against the top of Iesin's head and watches the stream burble past.

He'll have to leave some of the herbs he planted. Maybe he can still dig up some of the seeds and save them for the next safe place they find, though.

#*burning elmo gif*#god yes this is so good

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cracked-porcelain-princess · 2 years

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Pinning Stories to the Stars

Sometimes, in the dead of night when they’re both awake and neither of them can take the feeling of the roof overhead and the walls on every side, Iesin and Talvos go outside. They don’t go far, just into the garden or maybe as far as the stream that wanders nearby. And there, in the hush of the sleeping dark, they sit and feel the grass between their fingers, or walk under stars and over earth, and fall into the in-between void of quiet breaths and silent, endless air.

It’s on one of those nights, when they’re laying halfway between the garden and the stream, and the summer grass is tall and soft around them, that Talvos learns that fae do not assign shapes and stories to the stars, and it happens like this.

Keep reading

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cracked-porcelain-princess · 2 years

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since talvos was very focused and efficient as an assistant, since he kept quiet and on task even through pain and didn't falter or show doubt when essylt questioned his devotion, i imagine that he's quiet and deathly still when he has nightmares, maybe twitching a finger or making a sound somewhere in his throat - iesin maybe notices, and soothes him, wakes him up, but talvos' eyes are a little lost, sort of empty. iesin has to steadily pull him out of a sort of conditioned stone-still apathy

Stop coming for my heart with such good analysis like this Scott, these are my own damn characters and I should be more immune but I’m NOT

Talvos dreams - not often, but never well. He doesn’t scream. He doesn’t flail about, or even move much; it’s in stillness and silence that night’s dangers lie, not in sleepy settling around each other or comfortable shifting under the covers.

It’s stillness and silence that wakes Iesin, one night, from where he tucks his ear against Talvos’ chest because sometimes Talvos stops breathing, when he dreams.

Iesin lifts his head, blinking sleep-dry eyes to focus through the dimness of their night-dark bedroom on the line between Talvos’ brows and the tightness around his mouth.

“Talvos,” he whispers - it’s easier to chip at stillness and silence with careful taps of sound rather than shatter it with a hammered shout or shake. “Talvos, mo rognaithe, wake up.”

He props himself up on one elbow, pressing the heel of his other hand against Talvos’ chest and rubbing up and down slowly. Talvos frowns, twitches his mouth, but doesn’t breathe in, doesn’t breathe out. He’s still dreaming. Iesin sits up, changing his rubbing to knuckles dragging up and down Talvos’ sternum.

“Talvos,” he repeats, a little louder. “Talvos, wake up.”

His beloved surfaces with a sharp, broken inhale, one that catches in his chest and takes a moment to find its way back out again. Iesin sighs, relaxing back down onto his front and tangling one hand in Talvos’ shirt. He rests his forehead against Talvos’ shoulder, letting Talvos place himself without the need to put on a front for any watching eyes - he doesn’t need to be anything other than himself, not for Iesin, but the blurred edges between nightmare and nighttime often obscure what is true, and Iesin knows this as well as he knows his own wings. So he closes his eyes until he feels his beloved take another careful breath, and then, when the trembles start, minute and silent, Iesin opens his eyes and winds his arm across Talvos’ waist.

“You’re here,” he whispers. “We’re safe.”

Talvos inhales, careful and measured, and exhales after a moment. Iesin counts heartbeats, listening to the pattern. He’s not back, not fully, not yet.

“It’s just us,” Iesin says softly. “Just you, just me.”

Another breath, and another. Talvos hasn’t moved yet, lying still and silent under the covers. In the dim and the dark, he’s little more than a silhouette, limned faintly by strands of starsong at the edges of Iesin’s vision, statue-still and stone-silent. But he’s breathing, and awake, and each is a step in the right direction.

“Mo rognaithe.” It’s not a plea for conversation, just a reminder of his presence. Iesin doesn’t want to move him while he’s like this. He knows it would be easy; the slightest guiding pressure, the first word of command, and Talvos would obey. But he’s been moved, before, when grey takes over, he’s been moved and used and hurt. So Iesin is careful, and keeps his touch light and his words lighter, just a feather’s brush against the quiet dark between them.

“We’re safe, it’s just us here. It’s safe.”

The careful, conditioned pattern of Talvos’ breathing hitches, freezing for a moment before resuming in a more natural rhythm, and the line of his torso relaxes back into the mattress.

Iesin presses a kiss against his beloved’s shoulder. “There you are,” he whispers. “Found you.”

Talvos takes a deep, shaking breath, dragging a hand up to cover his eyes while his other hand goes to his throat and his shaking intensifies. Iesin tugs him closer and unfurls one wing to tent over the both of them.

“It’s just us here,” he whispers again. “Just you and me.”

Talvos nods, sharp and jerky.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He shakes his head.

“Alright. I’ve got you. Mo rognaithe.”

Talvos turns, shifting under Iesin’s wing to tuck his head under Iesin’s chin. Iesin holds his beloved close, and breathes with him until grey gives way to dawn.

#🥺🥺🥺🥺

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cracked-porcelain-princess · 2 years

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Ahhhh, the dream

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cracked-porcelain-princess · 2 years

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Unintentional 16

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As always, beta-read by @alittlewhump <3

CW: BBU, institutionalized slavery, dehumanization, surgical/medical whump implied and subsequent “side effects” and trauma. Explicit language. Blood, burn scar, cuts mentioned. Post-suicide attempt, first aid, CPR, ambiguous ending.

“Jesus Christ, Leo,” Delia said from the top of the stairs. “Is this why you’ve been MIA?”

He blinked up at his sister, standing there in her scrubs. He hadn’t heard her let herself in, he barely remembered calling. He tightened his grip around Aiden’s forearms, worried he’d been letting go while replaying the last few weeks in his mind, trying to search for some sign he’d missed. “I—Help—” His voice came out as a whisper so he cleared his throat. “—Please. Delia, you have to help him.”

She was already kneeling beside them, two fingers pressed to the side of Aiden’s neck while she opened one of his eyes with the other thumb. “Leo, this is not good.”

“I know. I—” His voice broke and he looked down at Aiden in his arms. He couldn’t bear to ask her the question that he’d never stopped asking himself from the very beginning but that now held a much deeper urgency.

Delia had progressed to gingerly checking under the towels he held over Aiden’s injuries. She looked over her shoulder at the bathtub, which he'd drained but that still had a ring of pinkish-red, and the smeared, pooled blood on either side, not to mention the puddle on the floor. “Leo, he’s going to need a transfusion. Soon.”

He’d been hoping to avoid that. He couldn’t bear to look at Aiden while he broke yet another promise he’d made to him. “Okay, let’s go to the hospital.”

Delia hesitated. “Leo, he has to go to a Companion Care Center.”

“A what?”

“Pets can’t come to the hospital,” she said softly. “They aren’t treated there, it’s only for—”

“Wait, what?” Leo started shaking his head. “No, no. He’s not—”

“You’re kidding, right?”

He’d never known anyone who had a Companion, had never met one in person. Aiden looked nothing like the ones he’d seen in the commercials but he’d heard the stories, seen the protests. “…Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. The scars, at least the ones that aren’t surgical. That’s…different,” she paused to grimace. “But look, if I’m right—” Delia gingerly pulled back the corner of one of the towels and held up Aiden’s wrist.

There was a block of scar tissue there, in an almost-perfect rectangle. The edges were messy, probably from swelling and scabbing, but there was no mistaking how intentional the burn was. Aiden had sliced straight through it, not quite center. Leo didn’t think he’d gone down as far on the other arm.

Delia was still looking at the burn. “Wait, but if you bought him—”

“No, no. I didn’t buy him. I just found him. I didn’t—I just wanted to—” He swallowed and looked down. ‘Help’ was about the opposite of what he’d managed.

“Leo, if he’s a runaway Companion, they’re going to turn him back over to WRU.”

That snapped him out of his ridiculous self-pity. He wanted to pull Aiden closer but he couldn’t keep pressure on the bleeding and manage it. “No, he will not go back there. You have no idea what he’s been through. I have no idea what he’s been through.”

“Leo—”

“Please, there has to be a way. He’s just a kid, he didn’t choose—It’s not his fault I fucked up and didn’t realize—” He swallowed a sob, tears crawling down his cheeks because he didn’t have a free hand to wipe them away.

“Okay, okay.” Delia reached out and put her hand on his shoulder.

He nodded, trying to get a hold of himself.

“Don’t get mad but this won’t be the first time I’ve done something like this—”

He couldn’t tell if she was actively avoiding looking him in the face while she deftly rewrapped Aiden’s injuries. Replacing the sodden hand towels with the gauze and ace bandages Leo had pulled out but hadn’t been able to use when the bleeding was less controlled. His fingers tingled when they were relieved of their task, again making him wonder how much time had passed. He was glad he hadn’t called an ambulance but couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d wasted too much time. Minutes, hours, days, weeks. All down the drain.

Everything was just too little, too late for this kid.

“—I didn’t mention it before because I knew you’d give me shit for breaking the law. But it means I can help you but you have to trust me.” Delia straightened and met his eyes again. “You have to promise to listen to everything I say. No questions.”

“I promise,” he swallowed and cleared his throat, trying to demonstrate his sincerity. “Delia, I’ll do anything. I need—” He didn’t know exactly why he felt like he was in a position to ‘need’ anything. But every thought that flew through his head felt stronger than a want, more important more vital. He needed to apologize. He needed an opportunity to make things right, whatever the fuck that meant. He needed to make sure that Aiden knew without a hint of a doubt that Leo had never once seen him as less than a person. They needed a second chance, both of them.

Delia was wrapping Aiden in a fresh towel. At least by now his clothes had been dried by how high Leo had cranked the subfloor heating. “Hey, It’s not your fault you didn’t know, it’s complicated. There’s so much we don’t understand but the conditioning means they can’t advocate for themselves and—” She stopped tucking Aiden’s arms into the towel and leaned close to his face, turning her head to the side so her ear was beside his nose. “Oh, shit. Leo, move. Lie him on the ground.” Her fingers probed all over each side of his neck, up and down where his pulse should be.

“No! Oh, no, no.” It felt like it was Leo’s own heart that had stopped. He shifted Aiden off his lap and onto the floor like he’d been told and Delia started CPR.

For some reason, Leo thought back to one of the few nights that hadn’t ended in tears. Aiden had made it past dinner in timid but good spirits, so they’d watched some TV together. He’d carefully chosen something mild and it seemed to work. Two episodes in, Aiden had leaned back into the couch cushions instead of sitting ramrod straight. He’d even snorted at one of Leo’s bad jokes about the couple on the show. Leo had been hopeful. He thought maybe he’d found something that could ease the tension and help him settle in. Aiden had finally nodded off, head almost resting on Leo’s shoulder, so he’d carried him upstairs and tucked him into bed.

Aiden’s face looked almost as peaceful now. Leo gently put his hand on Aiden’s head and willed himself to be steadier so he could stroke Aiden’s temple with his thumb. He took a deep breath and opened his mouth to—

Delia looked up and gave him a small shake of her head.

No. This couldn’t be it.

“Please,” he tried to say, but the word was silent. He didn’t even know who he was speaking to. Delia wasn’t looking at him as she tried to breathe life back into Aiden’s lungs. Aiden wasn’t here to listen to Leo begging him to stay. It didn’t feel like something he had the right to ask anyway. Not when he had failed Aiden so thoroughly.

But if he wasn’t asking Aiden to stay, did that mean that he was just letting him go?

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@octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @nicolepascaline @mazeish @whumpy-writings @in-patient-princess @meetmeinhellcroutons @briars7 @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @jo-doe-seeking-inspo @neuro-whump @painsandconfusion @wolfeyedwitch @skyhawkwolf @haro-whumps @onlybadendings @peachy-panic @fillthedarkvoid @rabass @crystalquartzwhump @dont-touch-my-soup @jadeocean46910 @mylifeisonthebookshelf @hold-him-down @guachipongo @local-cawcaw @leyswhumpdump

#NOOOO NOT MY SWEET BABY BOYYYYYY

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cracked-porcelain-princess · 2 years

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For a moment too long, the girl was still. Unresponsive.

She began to feel the sudden, rhythmic pressure on her chest. Like being punched. Over, and over, and over, until her eyelids begun to flicker open to a squint. Her chest rose, carrying the burden of another breath. They stopped, and she took another. Another. Her own. It stung, but it was welcome. She didn’t have the energy to complain about the water, the cold tormenting her body even as life returned to it. Her body. Her. For a moment, it felt like the two were separate altogether. For a moment, her mind felt estranged from where it had been residing all this time. It felt wrong. But she wasn’t- Wasn’t dead, right? … Right?

It came back to her. She felt her back resting against the cold ground. It felt as if she’d been punched, beaten. It felt like she was suffocating even now. It felt like she’d be sick. Her body shook as she sputtered and coughed. She couldn’t be dead. Couldn’t be. Right?

Somewhere in her foggy mind, she *wanted* to be sure. She *wanted* to know. She wanted to know if this was some dream she’d wake up from, or if this cold was about to drag her down.

“I’m here, I’ve got you! I won’t let you go, I won’t let you go…” The words had hardly made into her head the first time. She’d believed them wholeheartedly, like she believed that float would save her. A promise and a guarantee are different things. For a minute, she couldn’t be sure. Then-

All at once. All at once, she realized it. She was alive, on her back. The sun was in her eyes. She squeezed them shut, ignoring the warmth pouring down, and the chill on her skin. It felt like she’d lost 3, 4 fights all at once and so happened to wake up there on the ground. Fourteen fights and a caffeine crash.

“A-? Hah. Haaah.” The quiet sound could have been a laugh, a sob, some other sound. Hell, it could be left over from that scream she’d let loose minutes ago. She was hardly aware of it. Her breath. Her pulse. Her life. She was alive. Somehow.

Can’t lie here. Too easy to-

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cracked-porcelain-princess · 2 years

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For the bloodbag au I’d love to see Carlo starting to carve feeding time and wrestling with that bc it didn’t use to be a good/enjoyable thing. (Also would love love any tie in to the Valium playing a part in his cravings ;))

Neck Bite

CW: bloodbag whumpee, vampire caretaker, dubious caretaking, pet whump, drug use, dubcon blood drinking

Maxim rose at a later hour now, when the evening finally took the last of the tender spring light.

Carlo always waited until a half hour after full dark to go to the Vampire’s study. The study was his work space— where he usually could be found the first few hours of the night.

And where he fed from his human pet.

By eight thirty Carlo was nearly itching with restlessness, waiting at the top of the stairs with his head resting on the dark bannister, looking down the long hallway at the door his Master was behind.

A grandfather clock down in the foyer struck eight with a muffled, hollow chime. Carlo made a face down the stairs at it. Soon after, the sound of a record came on behind the study door, the breathy first notes of Bartok’s folk dances.

Carlo climbed to his feet, tracing his fingers along the hallway wall at hip height. He stopped at the study door and lay his forehead on the molding before tapping his knuckles on the wood.

Thirty minutes later he was sitting on the Vampire’s desk— a heavy, ornate thing he imagined had been sitting in front of the same bay window for a century.

“Do you feel good?”

He smiled dopily. It wasn’t so strong anymore, but it still felt good. His face was hot, like it got sometimes, but the first layer of the world felt gauzy and numb. He wasn’t afraid of being bitten anymore. Maxim did it with such care and skill it was like being pricked with a very small needle. But he didn’t want to say that, and risk not being fed the pills he liked.

“Is your wrist sore?”

He nodded. It wasn’t terribly, but he wanted Maxim to take from his neck. It felt all wrong, like being terrified of heights his whole life and suddenly wanting to climb a sheer cliff. Yet the idea of giving over something as vulnerable as his neck to this Vampire, as powerful and as old as Erik at least, excited him in a way he couldn’t name.

The Vampire stood in front of him, nudging Carlo’s knees apart gently to get closer. He cupped his head gently with one hand, guiding it to the side to better expose his neck.

He leaned into the Vampire’s hand, leaving his throat entirely open.

“Don’t jump,” the Vampire reminded him, its eyes bright with a controlled sort of hunger. “Don’t try to pull away from me suddenly. If you need me to stop, press right here.” He took Carlo’s hand and guided his forefinger to the center of his palm. “So I can stop without hurting you.”

Carlo pressed his nail into the Vampire’s palm. It felt like pressing into hardened clay. “I thought you couldn’t,” he said softly. “Once you started.”

“Whoever told you that was lying. Stay still for me.”

Carlo closed his eyes, taking slow measured breaths even as his heartbeat quickened. The numb feeling in his mind and body turned thick as honey as ironlike arms closed around him, holding him firmly in place. He wrapped his arms around the Vampire’s neck and laced his fingers together tightly, gasping softly at the pinprick feeling of scalpel-sharp fangs on his throat.

His neck was far more sensitive than his wrists. Goosebumps raced down his side, and he had to fight to keep his neck bared— not from pain but from a sudden overflow of sensation, lights dancing behind his eyelids.

Maxim pulled one of Carlo’s hands down from around his neck and held it. Carlo realized a moment later it was case he wanted to give him the signal. He felt a twinge of pain in his arm, a slight pull and the incision site. He whimpered, and it eased up again.

It had scared him not at all.

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cracked-porcelain-princess · 2 years

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“I was not made aware of this,” the villain remarks lightly, taking a few steps to stand at the hero’s side. To their mild surprise, the hero isn’t wearing their costume. Their enemy has their arms crossed over the balcony railing and is wearing casual clothes that threaten to throw off the villain’s perception of them. For a moment, it appears as if the hero is too zoned out to notice them. Just as the villain is about to say something, they respond.

“Well, what was I supposed to say?” the hero asks, evidently irritated. The villain chances a sidelong glance at them, committing their facial features to memory. Deep down, they’re afraid that this may be their last encounter. It’s this fear that pushes the villain to paint a picture of their nemesis in their head. Freckles, brown eyes glimmering with warmth, an easy smile. “Hey, mortal enemy of mine, I’m retiring?”

“Something like that, yes,” the villain sighs, pinching at the bridge of their nose. They feel as if they’re at the mercy of the conversation- like they’re drowning in a sea of social rules and expectations. “This is an inconvenience. I don’t want to deal with some newbie.” I don't want to deal with someone that’s not you lies on the tip of their tongue. The villain manages to remain silent, against all odds. “Oh, would you like me to put in a good word for you?” the hero asks, puppy-dog eyes burning holes into the villain’s skin. The villain blinks and the innocent joy on their enemy’s face is entirely dissipated. They’re not exactly surprised. “Listen to yourself. You’re making this sound like a business arrangement.”

The villain simply raises an eyebrow at the hero, waiting for them to find the flaw in their own argument. For a few moments, there’s nothing but a light breeze and the occasional beep of a car filling the air. Eventually, the hero’s smile turns to a scowl.

“I suppose it is sort of a business arrangement,” the hero acquiesces, scrunching their nose in displeasure as they cross their arms over their chest. Their eyebrows furrow and they turn to look at them. “Wait, can we backpedal for a moment? You said this was an inconvenience. I’m sorry, am I inconveniencing you?” Sarcasm drips from their voice and the villain resists the urge to laugh. They have to let out an awkward cough in place of a chuckle.

“Only as much as you normally do,” the villain says instead, rolling their eyes and hoping their fondness isn’t seeping into their voice. It doesn’t appear to do so, because the hero doesn’t react to the statement aside from a reciprocal eye roll.

“As if you don’t inconvenience me right back,” the hero snaps lightheartedly. The smile on their face leaves no room for the villain to misconstrue the remark as an insult. The villains hands fidget at their sides, their fingers twitching to hold and never let go.

“I’m a villain- that’s sort of my job,” the villain manages to say with a grin, taking the opportunity for what it’s worth. The hero clearly expected a response of the like, because they put their head in their hands dramatically and mutter something too quietly for the villain to hear. When they remove their hands, the villain is equally surprised and pleased to find their cheeks are flushed pink. They’re not sure what to do with that, though. Times like these make them wish they were a bit more assertive, a bit more confident. It’s too late for confidence to do them any good, however. Their nemesis is retiring. Nothing the villain can do will change that.

“I’m going to miss this,” the hero whispers, breaking them out of their thoughts. The remark is quiet enough that the villain thinks, for a moment, that they imagine it. The hero clasps their arm and stares off into the horizon, an unreadable expression on their face. The villain bites their lip, knowing exactly what this is referring to: the witty banter, the messy punches, the stolen glances, all of it. They turn back to the hero and try to speak on what they’re feeling but their thoughts are a jumbled mess. The villain finds themselves blurting out the only words they can ascertain from the chaotic tangle of feelings and emotions coursing through them.

“Me too.”

endnotes after the cut :0

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cracked-porcelain-princess · 2 years

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Could we pleaaaaase see a parallel fic bit of Maxim finding out that bloodbag Carlo hasn’t been using the hot water/generally utilizing resources to take care of himself?

-❤️🎂

CW: misunderstandings, bathing in cold water, vampire whumper/caretaker, bloodbag whumpee, drug use mention, pet whump

This feels to me like a parallel to the original, though I did not go back and look at the old one because I didn’t want it to influence me.

Carlo slipped into Maxim’s study shortly after midnight. Maxim was on the phone with a prospective client, a Manhattan based art dealer that had finally gotten the memo to stop trying to reach him on the phone before sundown.

Maxim touched the back of his pet’s neck, welcoming his presence as he always did. He was surprised at just how cold his wet hair was, the chill on his skin.

“Why are you cold?” he asked, covering the reviewer.

Carlo looked at him for a moment as if he’d been caught stealing. If Maxim didn’t know better, he would think Carlo had not heard or understood the question. But it was usually a case of indecision, where each answer he might give seemed the wrong one. The poor thing always suspected a trick from him.

“Sir?” he breathed, growing paler in the face.

This felt more pressing to him than yet another conversation with Boris in Manhattan. He interrupted him, said he would call back, and hung up.

“Am I wrong?” he asked his pet. “You’re always so warm. Like a heater and not a boy.”

Carlo didn’t flinch when Maxim reached out a hand. Not like before, when they were brand new to each other. He was tense though, and Maxim could feel his unease with the line of questioning.

Are you sick?” he asked, feeling the boy's forehead. “You should feel hotter when you’re sick, not cooler.”

“I had a bath.” Carlo said. “With the… the things you bought. The things that were delivered. I just thought… it was with the food and I know you don’t eat food, so I thought it was all for me.”

“It was. But why would a bath make you cold?”

Carlo gave him that searching look that was trying so hard for the right answer, looking for a clue from him. He opened his mouth and closed it again, unsure.

“I’m being genuine, sweetheart,” Maxim said. “I’m not asking you things to trick you. Are these clothes not warm enough?”

“The water,” Carlo said carefully, like it was so obvious he wasn’t sure if he should even say it. “The water was cold.”

Maxim frowned. “Again? I had them out here last week and they said it was fixed. That water heater I’ve got’s not even five years old…”

“I didn’t— I didn’t try it,” Carlo stammered, as if to deflect blame from the man who had fixed the water heater.

“…What?”

“I didn’t— you said something after I first got here about a water heater, I was listening. But I didn’t… you didn’t say I should use the hot water.”

“Why else would I have it fixed? Hot or cold running water makes no difference to me.”

Carlo crossed his arms over his stomach protectively. The sweater he wore was well made— heather gray and soft. Maxim was slowly discovering the things he wanted in a mortal bloodbag. He wanted him well dressed, with bright eyes and color in his face and no trace of fear of him. Part of him knew it was to spite his maker, the one who had made sure this beautiful mortal was so terrified of them in the first place.

“You didn’t say anything more about it so I didnt touch it,” Carlo said quietly. “I follow instructions. I don’t touch what isn’t mine.”

Oh, Maxim thought with a small, familiar twinge of disgust. Those words were Erik’s, alright. Spoken from this boy’s mouth after no doubt being drilled into him with causal beatings and worse.

He took the boy’s face in his hands—feeling that skittish human heartbeat under his thumbs on either side, the chilled dampness on the ends of his dark hair. “As long as you are mine and I keep you here, anything in this house is yours. I owe you that, at the very least.”

Carlo warmed to his touch, as he always seemed to so long as it was non threatening, affectionate and gentle. He leaned the weight of his head down through his chin into Maxim’s hands.

“You want me to use it,” he said, somewhere between question and statement.

Maxim couldn’t help but pet him while he had him like this, running his thumbs over the mortal's cheeks in a soothing up and down. “Yes. I’m going to draw you another bath right now to make sure it’s hot. And I want you to warm yourself up in it before you come back out here. How long have you been bathing in freezing cold water? It’s the middle of winter. Do you think I’d want that, for my only pet?”

“I…”

“Rhetorical. I don’t. I want you comfortable here. Do you understand that?”

Carlo didn’t answer. “Are you going to drink from me?” he asked instead.

He was pleased with such a direct question. It was charming, on this one. Yes, little mortal mine.

“I’d like to.”

“May I….” the boy trailed off coyly, looking at Maxim with a nervous, hopeful sort of hunger.

Maxim laughed under his breath. It was Valium he wanted, the same as it was blood Maxim wanted. “You may. Go run your new bath. I’ll bring you one.”

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cracked-porcelain-princess · 2 years

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@whumpsday:

me for the next hour:

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cracked-porcelain-princess · 2 years

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more.

trigger warnings: blood, consensual kinky stuff that is suggestive i guess, bitten by a vampire, traumatised baby working through their issues

"Are you sure about this?"

El nodded, a determined look on their face. "Yeah. I'm gonna be fine."

"It's going to hurt," Am said, and El nodded again.

"I know how it feels, Am."

"Will you be able to say no if it's too much?"

They wanted to nod again, but they stopped themself. Would they be able to? They knew they needed to be completely honest. That was one of the only things Am asked of them all the damn time. "I… I don't know. But it won't be too much!" Am shot them a look, and they looked away. "I can't know that for sure, and I can only fully consent if I know I'll be able to stop it," they recited, and they heard Ambrose sigh. He gently tilted their head up, looking at them with the softest, most gentle expression El had ever seen on anyone's face.

"You know I gave my word to several people about taking care of you, right? And not even that, I really do care about you. I'm not trying to be mean. Not right now."

Oh, those eyes. Those eyes were going to be the death of them. "I know. I'm s- um…" An apology wasn't what he wanted to hear, this wasn't about that. This was about their safety. They needed to let him know that it was okay. "I… we could… d-do a test? You could- you could bite me and I could… stop you… I think, I think if I did it once and, and it d-didn't have any consequences… I think… it'd be less scary…"

Am grinned, utterly pleased and so proud, and El felt their heart swell. It wasn't their own concept - Ambrose made them stop him a lot of times, just so they could get a feel for saying no, and so they could see that as soon as they said it, everything would stop immediately. But this was the first time they had brought it up on their own.

"That's perfect." Am gave them a small kiss on the nose, their voice nothing but pure warmth and delight. "As soon as you say the word, I'll stop. Alright?"

"Y-Yeah." El tilted their head to the side, their breathing quickening as they exposed their most vulnerable part in front of a vampire. "D-Don't… don't be gentle, though, p-please? I- I want to- get a realistic idea…"

Am shook his head a little in disbelief, still smiling. "Of course you do. I promise it'll be realistic."

The comment made El chuckle, and they braced themself for the bite. Am ran his fingers through their hair, steadying them as gently as possible, while his other hand rested on their shoulder. El gasped as sharp fangs sank into their skin, gripping the edge of the bed as Am started drinking.

It hurt. It was the most amazing kind of pain they'd ever felt. They could hear Am gulp down their blood, and it was all agreed upon, they had decided on giving him their blood, they wanted him to have it, they wanted him to keep drinking and drinking and-

"Stop," they choked out, and Ambrose immediately pulled away.

They were both panting, El felt like they'd just run a whole marathon with how much willpower it took to say the word. And Am? Am looked taken aback. Eyes wide, mouth agape, fangs still covered in blood.

"Fuck," he breathed quietly. "That… holy shit. That… doesn't taste like pre-packaged, that's for sure."

El furrowed their brows in confusion. "Is it… better or worse?"

"It's the best thing I've ever had, El."

@whumpsday @localvoidwhumper

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cracked-porcelain-princess · 2 years

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Good morning this is just a wildcard from my brain today, with Charlotte-pet (ahem) and truck driver Max. Charlotte has opportunistically broken away from Keith in a busy parking lot and stowed away in a random truck that was unlocked for a moment while the driver was around back. (max)

Cw: pet whump, girl whumpee, implied slavery/human trafficking, threat of noncon, tracking chips, blood, menstruation, hurt/comfort, muzzles, death/ghost escapist fantasy(?)

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cracked-porcelain-princess · 2 years

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Takes place post-Speak Out. Past child abuse is part of this, and religion. Check the tags.

It's been so long since the cops came to Nat's house in the middle of the night, but Jake still tenses when he hears an unexpected knock at the door.

Still, this is his house, and so he pushes himself to his feet - his arm is out of the sling, now, but he still keeps it close and slightly bent. His fingertips still tingle, sometimes, and his grip isn't what it used to be.

He gets to the door just as the person on the other side must realize there was a doorbell, because it chimes through the house, some ridiculous 1940s song Jake hasn't ever reprogrammed from the last owner of the house. "Yeah hold on, I got you-"

He swings open the door.

He stares at the man standing there and tries to close the door again.

"Jakob!" A palm smacks into the wood, a thump that Jake nearly flinches at. He stares into the eyes of a man who is as tall and broad as he is, if not so muscular. A man whose face is hardened with time and the rage that never stops simmering inside him. They look so much alike, though, everyone always said it.

You're his spitting image, aren't you? Your Mama's eyes but you got your Daddy's everything else! Oh, bless your heart, you've gotten so big, just like your dad at your age...

"Jakob," His father says, voice rough. His nose is a spiderweb of burst capillaries from the alcohol he's had in his system nonstop for as long as Jake ever knew him, except at work. "It's Dad."

Jake hasn't seen his father since he was fourteen years old, with a black eye and a bus ticket and a backpack all he had to get home with. Hasn't heard his voice since the same night. But it's never mattered.

Some part of him is still five years old, lying to the doctor that he fell down the stairs. Eight years old, lying to the teacher that he broke his leg jumping off a trampoline.

Lying to the social worker who came to the house, lying to the pediatrician that the scratches weren't from fingernails, lying to the pastor that fell off a bunk bed, lying lying lying in the place they told him was the house of God.

It's not a sin to protect your family, Jakob. His dad's hand rough on his shoulder. It's not a sin to keep them in line, neither. Honor your mother and father, Jakob.

Jake swallows. "I know who you are. Fuck off." He tries to close the door again, but his father doesn't move.

"No." His dad pulls the ball cap off his head. They have the same hair color, too, always did.

He hates staring into the face of a man he hates, who hurt him and his mother, every time he looks in the mirror.

"I don't want to talk to you."

"Jakob Stanton. I have spent years trying to hunt you down-"

"Really?" He can't help the half-hysterical laughter that bubbles up from within. "Since fucking when? You never paid a dime, you never wrote me a damn letter, you never even asked to speak to me when you called Mom! When exactly did you try to find me?"

From behind him, there's a scrape of footfalls, and he glances back to see Chris, hovering in the kitchen doorway with a sandwich in one hand. His lavender hair falls over his forehead scar. "Jake? Who, who-... Who is it-"

Chris gets a good look at the man in the doorway, and his own voice falters, too. His grip on the sandwich goes suddenly white.

"Go back in the kitchen, Chris." Jake keeps his voice calm and even through sheer willpower. "Please."

"That's that kid from the Olympics," Jake's dad says, exhaling, leaning around Jake to look. "That's him all right. So it is true."

Chris swallows, hard. His green eyes are so, so wide. "J, Jake, Jake, do do do, do you n-need-"

"What's true?" He has to keep his eyes on his father. "Chris, I said go back in the kitchen. What's true, Dad? What?"

"You really did give my last name to one of those WRU prostitutes-"

"Shut up." Jake shoves, his father stumbling backwards onto the porch. Jake follows him and slams the door shut behind him without another word to Chris or anyone else. "He's my little brother now. I don't want to hear your shit. How did you find out where I live?"

"Jeremy's your little brother," His dad says, craning to try and see through the glass cutouts in the door. "Not some... messed up pet."

"Dad. How did you find out?"

"Oh, I got an email at work."

His heart drops somewhere near his knees. "From who?"

"Can't say."

"Dad, this could put all these people in danger, who told you I live here?!"

"I didn't believe it until he sent a photo, whoever it is. You and some man on a date." His dad's nose wrinkles. "Jakob, what has California done to you?"

"Nothing!" His blood is roaring in his ears. His heart beats too hard, and he feels faint. His shoulder starts to ache, pulsing and throbbing where Jameson had jammed the knife in to the hilt. "They have gay people in the South, too, Dad!"

"Well, those Yankees keep moving down-"

"No. No, I'm not doing this. When I was a kid you said you never wanted to see me again. Dad, why the everliving goddamn bullshit fuck are you here?"

"That's not very Christian language, Jakob."

"Well, I'm not very Christian, so that fits!" He's shouting, voice rising, and he shudders as he feels a slap in the face of how much he sounds, shouting, just like his father used to. "Get off my fucking property! You can't-... You can't put all these people at risk, Dad. You can't."

"Does that other one live here?" His father steps back, now, looking at the dirty windows, the siding that needs a good power washing. "From the TV? The one that looks like Vincent Shield? Is that true? Are you living in sin with him? My own son?"

Jake feels intuition prickle like the breath of a wolf on the back of his neck. Dread rushes alongside adrenaline through his veins. "... Who sent the email, Dad? That told you where I live?"

His dad shrugs, hands in his jeans pockets. "Some guy. I didn't know his name at first. Your mom know about all this, Jakob?"

Jake swallows. "She signed the adoption papers for Chris. She has lunch every month with my-" He can't make himself say partners, suddenly. Anger and shame - anger at his father and shame at himself for not screaming I love them both and you can't take that from me to the high fucking heavens, to God Himself. You can't have love like this in the world and call it wicked. Kauri and I in bed is holier than the bullshit you let happen to me and my mother. Anger and shame twine and burn so hot he worries his skin will blister and crack. "Dad. The email... Who sent the email?"

"I won't lie to you, son. I was offered some money to come out here. Paid for my plane tickets, actually. Nice guy."

Jake's vision has narrowed to a pinprick with his hateful father's face in the center. "By who? Who's a nice guy?"

He knows before the words leave his father's mouth.

Jake's dad shrugs. "Owen Grant."

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