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baldval · 1 month

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Since you made one for Valentine’s Day, how bout celebrating Halloween with the main hazbin cast? Maybe Charlie is throwing a Halloween party or something!

HALLOWEEN W HAZBIN! ₊˚⊹♡

characters: vox, charlie, valentino, lucifer, alastor

warnings: nothing :)

a/n: idk if i like alastor's part, he's just so hard to write imo😭😭 pls tell me what you think guys🤞

VOX:

꩜ it’s obvious to anyone that vox looooves halloween.

꩜ he’s claimed to you on several occasions that it’s his favorite holiday.

꩜ and that getting the chance to spend it with you only makes it better.

꩜ and how does vox spend Halloween? two words.

꩜ haunted house.

꩜ you never really understood the concept of having those on hell.

꩜ hell is already scary as it is.

꩜ however, being an overlord, having the control that vox has, eliminates some of the fear most people normally feel.

꩜ so a haunted house is his favourite place to go when he wants to feel some of that adrenaline.

꩜ he picked you up that night and away you went, ready to get your scare-factor on.

꩜ darling, if you get scared, just let me know!” he pointed to himself with a grin "i'll stop the whole thing, i swear".

꩜ “afterall, I wouldn’t be much of a man if I can’t protect the person I care about most.” he smiles at you and you can't help blushing.

꩜ you stuck to him like glue, laughing and screaming through every house you went through.

꩜ it was well into the night before you both decided to call it.

꩜ your throats raw and blood pumping from the adrenaline.

꩜ but even in your stupor, vox still managed to take your breath away once he brought you back to your apartment.

꩜ his arms circled around you as he kisses your face.

꩜ you bury your face in his neck as you hug him goodbye.

CHARLIE:

꩜ as far as charlie is concerned, you can’t celebrate Halloween without a good time.

꩜ and to her, the best way to do that is with a party!

꩜ she throws one once every year at the hotel, because, how could she not?

꩜ “you’ll come right? you have to! pleeeease!”

꩜ she’s so adorably persistent, eyes all puppy dog wide and hands folded.

꩜ your answer is obvious.

꩜ and it had her jumping up and down throughout the whole lobby.

꩜ upon arriving at the hotel, you were completely in awe of the change of scenery.

꩜ what once had a reddish vintage look now practically screamed 'halloween'.

꩜ costumes, decorations, snacks, bowls filled with candy, games, music.

꩜ you knew your girlfriend sure took things to the extreme, but nonetheless, it was always fun.

VALENTINO:

꩜ valentino loves halloween.

꩜ you could say he likes it for the aesthetic and you would be right.

꩜ he'd invite you over that night to spend the evening with him.

꩜ you thought maybe you were gonna go to a halloween party, somewhere filled with decorations and people.

꩜ but when you get to his house you only see a mountain of scary and halloween themed movies piled high on the coffee table in his living room.

꩜ along with a bowl of popcorn, soda, and a selection of only your favourite candies of course.

꩜ “are we… gonna watch all of these?”

꩜ "well duh. why? you got something else to do?”

꩜ unexpected, indeed, but who would complain?

꩜ it was hard to pick which movie to watch first since he had such an extensive collection, but you both decided to kick things off with the classic 'the nightmare before christmas'.

꩜ after that, 'carrie', 'scream', 'anabelle', 'halloween' too of course.

꩜ name it, and valentino had it.

꩜ you sat on the sofa between his legs the entire time, bowl of popcorn in your lap, and you silently fed him pieces of the salty snack while he unwrapped and fed you bits of candy.

꩜ it was the perfect way to spend halloween and you wished you could have gone at it all night.

꩜ but after the 7th film, you had promptly knocked out against val’s chest, popcorn bowl empty.

꩜ but instead of waking you up, he merely shut off the tv and covered both your bodies with a blanket, kissing your forehead.

LUCIFER:

꩜ you're getting ready as you anxiously wait for the king of hell.

꩜ the hotel was organising a halloween party, and of course you couldn't miss it.

꩜ and of course you were going with lucifer.

꩜ you couldn't help but feel a flutter of excitement mingled with nerves.

꩜ just as you were beginning to think he might not show, you heard a knock at the door.

꩜ with a mischievous grin, he strutted over to you.

꩜ "sorry for the delay, darling," he said, offering you his hand. "hope you didn't wait too long."

꩜ you accepted his hand, feeling a thrill run down your spine as his fingers intertwined with yours.

꩜ "not at all," you replied, trying to sound nonchalant despite the butterflies in your stomach.

꩜ together, you walked in to the lobby, greeted by the lively sounds of the halloween party in full swing.

꩜ you were sitting at the bar, just chatting.

꩜ "i have to go to the bathroom, i'll be right back" he says with a wink as he leaves.

꩜ "hmm so he really is in love with you" you hear husk, the bartender, say.

꩜ "oh so you've doubted that?"

꩜ "not really, it's just that it's the first time i see it in live action".

꩜ "what do you mean?" you question him.

꩜ "i mean, do you see the way he stares at you as you talk." he fills up a glass. "pure adoration."

꩜ you feel heat creeping up your cheeks and turn around before husk realises how flushed you are.

꩜ lucifer gets back and it isn't long before you find yourselves in the ballroom.

꩜ with a twirl, he pulls you into his arms, and the two of you began to dance to the infectious beat of the music.

꩜ as you moved together, laughter bubbled up between you, your clothes swishing in tune with the music.

꩜ "you know," he says, his voice low as he spun you around, "there's nothing i would want more in the world that being with you."

꩜ you couldn't help but smile at his words, feeling a warmth spreading through you.

꩜ "well i can assure you it goes both ways." you replied, caught up in the moment as you gazed into his eyes.

ALASTOR:

꩜ it does surprise you that the radio demon has no idea what halloween is.

꩜ he comes up to you and asks you why the whole lobby is filled with pumpkins and little paper ghosts and black and orange streamers.

꩜ you simply smile and say, “it’s halloween!”

꩜ “oh…”

꩜ it’s not that he didn’t know what hallowen was, he explained to you.

꩜ he just wasn’t really aware of what occurred during the holiday itself.

꩜ so you decided it was time to change that.

꩜ you told him to meet you at your room, not giving him any more details than that.

꩜ when he arrived, you took him by the hand and led him towards one of the best places you could possibly think of to give him a proper introduction to the spookiest night of the year.

꩜ the pumpkin patch.

꩜ upon arriving, alastor seemed absolutely awestruck at all the different things there were to do.

꩜ the corn maze, hayride, petting zoo (to which you found out that alastor is a major softie for animals).

꩜ and of course, pumpkin carving.

꩜ it was so cute watching his expressions.

꩜ how his brow would furrow when he tried removing the guts and how his tongue would poke out when he began working on the face.

꩜ you almost forgot you had your own pumpkin to carve.

꩜ you both left in the later evening, hand in hand as the stars twinkled above you.

꩜ “so what did you think? did you have fun?”

꩜ you were expecting a nod, or a quick little hum.

꩜ but he straight whisked you off your feet and into his arms.

꩜ and you knew that right now, the smile on his face was truly genuine.

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bloodandthestars · 10 months

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𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄’𝐒 𝐀 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍 𝐌𝐘 𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐓, 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄.

— royal au, duke!diluc, fem!reader, smut drabble

wc: 661 I recommend classical music while reading.

The ball was exquisite. Each detail to the interior curated to perfection. The floors were polished to reflect the many dancing couples, the jewels of the chandeliers gave the room a golden glow.

But none of that, mattered.

Your brain felt like mush, you can’t remember what excuse he used to drag you into seclusion. What was it? Something about a stroll in the garden? Whatever it was, it worked. The duke gave your former dance partner a bow of gratitude, offering an arm to bind you to him. You gave him a smile, and only in the silent halls of the estate did he return it. A slow, elegant stride turned into quick steps the further you reached your destination. The two of you look over your shoulders, making sure privacy was bountiful in each other’s wake, before slipping inside the study you knew all too well.

The duke lit a flame to the fireplace, and if you weren’t mistaken, he did so with haste. He turned around, seeing the light highlight your beauty. You remember, in turn, catching his gaze, and finding red eyes bore into you. Your eyes go to his lips, you catch his glance at yours, and without a moment to lose— you both flew into a heated kiss. Full of the tight pressure of yearning and need. All of his stoic nature, his hesitance, devoured by being deprived of your touch.

You remember that much. But at this point, you can’t recall what color the drapes were back in the dancing hall. Your eyes were shut tightly as his tongue worked at your puffy cunt. He moved the many layers of your dress upward, holding you against the bookcase with a leg hooked over his shoulder. He pulls and kneads at the limb. It had felt like hours had gone by with the way he pulled orgasm after orgasm out of you. Each clench around his head earns a muffled moan from the duke. Neatly tucked crimson hair for the divine night was found in erratic tussles of your fists. You pull him in again with a twitch of your hips, and who was he to refuse the opportunity to taste the likes of heaven?

The quiet of the study filled with muffled gasps and short whispers of each other’s names. Titles be in the wind, long forgotten in the mesh of your bodies. Each praise was poetry on his tongue, recited to you again and again with each wave of pleasure. Stanzas of desperation for your ears alone. “No other woman could wear such a dress.” He speaks breathlessly into your ear. “But your bodice is incomparable to the pull your soul takes on mine.”

Your head lulls against his, unable to think about anything but him and the constant reminder to keep your voice down. A hand keeps you up right by holding your thigh, pressing firm fingers into its stocking. You hook it around his waist to remain steady in his rhythm. Each gasp that falls from your lips drives him further. Further he moves inside you, further he pushes his chest to yours with no space left. Around the back of his neck, your hands are tight into his hair and holding onto his formal jacket. Here, he could not hide from you, could not tear his eyes away in a moment of fear. He would look to where you both connect with blown pupils and eyes that poured affection into yours. Raw and bare in every moment and the next, he was not the Duke of Mondstat. He was yours.

And as you reach another taut pressure, you spill onto his lips in frantic mutterings that you’re his. He swallows them while in another kiss that leaves your head spinning. It’s there where your memory comes back in flurries of seeing stars. You remember his words exactly, how you both ended up here. He simply wished to taste the sun.

#writing #credit to cafekitsune for banners #diluc x you #diluc ragnivindr x reader #diluc x reader #diluc ragnvindr #diluc smut #diluc ragnivindr smut #genshin diluc #genshin impact #genshin smut #royal au #royalcore #can you tell someone watches a lot of period pieces. smiles.#smut #drabble #genshin royal au

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evenstar0600 · 1 year

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DECEPTION | t.riddle

IN WHICH: lucius malfoy never put tom riddle's diary in ginny weasley's cauldron. instead, history puts a twist on the events and the diary is put on a shelf in flourish and blott's, only to be picked up by an unsuspecting, muggleborn witch in hufflepuff; sixteen-year-old (Name) Tyler.

PAIRING: tom riddle x afab!hufflepuff reader

WARNINGS: dark/yandere(?), mind control, manipulation, animal death, murder, hypnotism, tom riddle is a warning on his own, mental breakdowns, insanity, lady macbeth arc(?), character death, etc

Your hands were shaking. They'd been doing that a lot lately. The skin around your fingernails was red raw and bleeding, due you picking them from stress. Your pupils were blown-wide yet had a distant look to them, as if you weren't in the moment itself at all.

Desparately, you tried to scrub the blood stains that wouldn't go away. They wouldn't wash off. You felt like you were going insane. Like you were losing your mind. How the fuck had it come to this? You knew exactly how it'd all come to this.

It was a dreary August day in the summer of 1992. And your parents decided to take you back-to-school shopping in Diagon Alley for your sixth year at Hogwarts. You recalled going into Flourish and Blott's, dodging through the ever-growing line to see the infamous Gilderoy Lockhart, whom you paid no mind.

You'd spied the even-more infamous Harry Potter in the line somewhere. You were more focused on obtaining your school books for this year when you'd caught sight of it in your peripheral vision. The diary. The vintage-looking, leather-bound diary with it's worn exterior and its off-white parchment pages. And the three-word name at the bottom in a gold-colour. Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Something scorched the back of your mind as helpless fingers plucked the diary off the shelf and into your cauldron with a clatter. To others, it was an unnoticed background noise but in your delirium, it sounded like the rolling East Winds of the storm last week. Crashing and forcing itself to be heard. You didn't want to take it but something beyond your control forced you to take it.

For the first couple of days back at Hogwarts, you'd neglected to write in it. Then you did. On the 9th of September, you finally wrote in it. The classic sentence starter of Dear Diary. Then came the reply. Hello (Name) Tyler. You adored Tom and wrote to him as often as you could.

Between classes. During lessons. During meals. After your dorm mates had gone to sleep. Then you began to experience the black-outs. One minute you were walking between classes; the next you found yourself near Hagrid's hut, robes drenched in a strange, crimson substance.

Your mind tried to deny it, the very fact, trying to convince you it was red ink or paint. But in your heart you knew the truth. You were covered in blood. The blood of the school roosters. And the guilt began to slowly eat you up. Consuming your heart. Clouding your mind. Until you began to soothe your madness by writing to your sweet Tom and picking the skin around your fingernails until it bled.

The same sinful red as the roosters' blood. Then the attacks followed swiftly. First, Filch's cat, Mrs Norris was petrified by the Basilik that you set loose on the school. You warned them. Writing the message in blood on the wall. The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the Heir beware.

The victims of the Basiliks' petrification began to pile up. Sir Nicholas. Colin Creevey. Justin Finch-Fletchley. Penelope Clearwater. Hermione Granger. And it was all your fault. You'd condemned them to their fates. And the more paranoid you got. You'd hallucinate the blood on your hands. Scrubbing your hands for hours on end until they were red raw, just to get the fucking stain out.

You had your Tom to comfort you all. To soothe your ever-growing madness and paranoia. He'd appear to you sometimes. The tall, dark and handsome boy with his dark brown locks and insatiable smile. Then you figured it out. It was him. It was all him.

You'd pointed an accusatory finger at him, shaking like a leaf. "You..." you'd muttered in horror before meeting his piercing gaze with blown-wide pupils, "It's you!".

In a fleeted attempt to save yourself and anyone else, you stormed to the Girls' Lavatory on the third floor and threw the diary into the toilet. Thinking yourself safe, you relaxed. But you shouldn't have let your guard down. Tom had basically imprinted himself on you.

You always recalled his beautiful brown eyes piercing your soul, the very image was burnt into your memory. And no matter how many times you tried to forget, he always. came. back. You'd broken into Gryffindor Tower and basically ransacked the one of the Boys' Dormitories until you retrieved it.

Your diary.

You weren't yourself anymore. People around you noticed too. What happened to (Name)? Was something that was whispered among peers. Your bestfriend, Lily Peterson, had noticed too. You brushed her off, pushing her away. Then, tired of waiting, Tom summoned you down to the Chamber of Secrets.

His initial plan was to drain your life force so he could live again. But things changed. As the product of a love potion, he couldn't properly feel true, honest love but rather a warped version of it. Dark love. Obsessive love. Unjust love. His love was cruel. His touch was cruel. And he was cruel.

And you were his. No matter how you tried to stop him, you were always going to be his. "Mine," he'd murmur, holding your weak form against his own, carressing your face, "All mine,".

You'd tried to fight him off. But to no avail. You'd lost. Now, the world was going to feel Voldemort's wrath. And he'd start with the figure of twelve-year-old Harry Potter marching into the Chamber of Secrets.

#harry potter #tom riddle #tom marvolo riddle #christian coulson #tom riddle x reader #yandere #angst #romance #fanfic #first fic #voldemort #lord voldemort #tom marvolo riddle x reader #voldemort x reader #lord voldemort x reader #manipulation #harry potter fanfic

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mosspapi · 8 months

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There's like a 90% chance this will not make sense to anyone else but let me indulge in a little autistic crackposting abt Fall Out Boy for a second

I genuinely love the use of violins/classical instruments in Folie and the way it contrasts with their use in SMFS. Like in Folie, their inclusion gives it a sense of discordance, almost desperation. "I am ripping everything apart and trying everything in my power to get through to you, to get my head above water, to scream for help. This is so far out of left field but I don't feel like I have any other options left." But in SMFS, they almost feel like they're doing the exact opposite. "I am staring down at the pieces of the mess I've made and gingerly sewing it back together. I'm trying to soothe the chaos and rawness and show you that even when things seem so far gone, they can always be reeled in and thrown a life raft." It's just. Idk. Something about the musical similarities being used to create polar opposite emotional states gets me. "I was not ok, and expressing that in the only way I knew how, but I can take that and put myself back together again in the same way I tore myself apart."

#thank you for indulging in my unhinged personal musical conspiracy theories #my playlist kept shuffling Folie/stardust/Folie/stardust back to back to back and it struck a chord in me (pun intended)#I don't think this is articulated well enough to fully get my point across. might come back and edit or add to it later lmao #but I'm just Feeling Things abt it rn. Ough.#armchair speaks #fob #fall out boy

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lulublack90 · 3 months

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Prompt 10 - Violin

@jegulus-microfic February 10 Word count 733

Previous part First part

It took Moody two days to return to the safe house. During that time, James and Sirius had bought a few things down to the cellar to make Regulus more comfortable. An actual bed, for one thing, and a way to wash himself. Remus sacrificed a small collection of his books, and Sirius went out and bought more cassette tapes for the Walkman.

He knew he shouldn’t get comfortable, but having James around made it difficult not to be. The feelings he had for James had never gone away, but he hadn’t realised how strong they still were.

With no one to tell him no, James had spent the entirety of the last two days down in the cellar with Regulus.

It was awkward, but they got on with it. Regulus spent most of the time trying to ignore him. He didn’t want to stoke the embers of his hopes. He listened to Sirius’s music instead. Enjoying the ethereal beauty of the violin that played on one of the classical music tapes that Sirius had mixed in amongst the multiple Bowie and T.Rex cassettes. Regulus played them all, making note of his favourites, but he definitely preferred the classical ones. So much emotion bled from each note. But they couldn’t stop his nightmares.

He’d had one the previous night and woken screaming. James, who’d been sleeping on one of the chairs, was startled awake at the noise. Then he came over to where Regulus was still panicking over the images dancing behind his eyes, scooped him up and sat with him cradled in his lap. Regulus snuggled into him, feeling the warm safety of James. His sniffles eventually subsided, but he still clung to James. It had been so long since someone had held him with kindness. It had probably been James himself at Hogwarts before he’d taken the mark.

James yawned an almighty yawn and shuffled uncomfortably on the edge of the bed.

“Sorry,” Regulus whispered.

“It’s okay. Ready to get back into bed?” Regulus nodded, and James gently transferred Regulus from his arms to the mattress. He straightened up to go back to his chair.

“James?”

“Yeah, Reg.”

“Could you lie next to me?” He felt so ridiculous asking. They’d spent countless nights in a bed together, but now. Now, it was different. James rubbed the back of his neck, and Regulus knew he was going to say no. “Please, James. Just—please.” He let whatever masks may have been protecting him slip away and let the raw sadness overwhelm his features. He saw the second James gave in. He must have looked truly pathetic.

“Budge up then.” James sighed. Regulus moved as far over as the small bed allowed, and James slotted himself between the sheets. Regulus kept his back to him, not wanting to push it. He was just glad that James was close. He heard James whisper to himself.

“Fuck it.” And then James had his arms wrapped around him and pulled him in close to spoon him. Regulus melted.

***

Far too soon, Mad-Eye Moody was barking at them to wake up.

“Potter, out!” James didn’t argue with him. He gave Regulus a quick squeeze and left. Regulus could hear every step he took and followed them with his eyes up the wall. He didn’t even try to hide it. What was the point?

“You’ve got a visitor,” Moody said almost pleasantly. That got Regulus’s attention. A smile was playing at the corner of Moody’s mouth. The door at the top of the stairs opened again. Regulus barely had time to sit up before Albus Dumbledore swept into the room. His plum-coloured robes billowing behind him.

“Mr Black,” He announced. His periwinkle eyes taking everything in, missing nothing. “Alastor has relayed to me your displeasure about your move to Azkaban.” His gentle voice made it sound as though Azkaban had been Regulus’s idea. “I believe Mr Potter and the other Mr Black share this displeasure.”

“And Lupin,” Mad-Eye grunted from the corner he’d gone to lean in. His magical eye spun to look through the top of his head and into the kitchen above.

“And Mr Lupin too. That is interesting.” Dumbledore said thoughtfully. He waited silently, his eyes never leaving Regulus’s face.

“Yes.” Regulus agreed when he realised that Dumbledore was waiting for a response.

“In that case, Mr Black. I have a proposition for you.”

Next part

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tryanmybest · 9 months

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whatever's supposed to happen in season 3 aside, i'm delusional

please enjoy silly ideas about what muriel, crowley, maggie, and nina get up to while aziraphale's gone :)

maggie and nina RUSH to crowley once they find out aziraphale left

both of them know the feeling of rejection and they support him as much as they can

they give him helpful breakup advice and check up on him periodically

over time, the three become good friends

maggie and nina are endlessly curious about the whole heaven/hell/angel/demon/universe thing and crowley answers what questions he can

since crowley's still not bound to hell, the three of them just vibe most of the time

muriel joins them on occasion, when they're not reading a new book

crowley, despite maggie and nina telling him it might be better to keep his distance from the shop for a bit, checks in on muriel and teaches them how to properly take care of the bookshop

as in, don't sell any of the books, don't rearrange any of the books, close and open whenever you want, etc.

occasionally, muriel, maggie, and nina will organize sort of "storytimes" where crowley shares some stories from his past

it starts with the ones without aziraphale. it's still a bit too raw to tell those.

but, eventually, he tells the story of elspeth in edinburgh. or the lost unicorn on noah's arc (which maggie swears she knew were real this whole time)

maggie and nina also teach muriel how to properly blend in with humans

they're not the BEST at it, but they're good enough that they can go get hot cocoa from nina's shop without people staring at them

crowley teaches muriel how to perform miracles. although, angelic miracles are just a bit different than demonic ones. so they both kind of figure it out together

muriel ends up miracling aziraphale's wardrobe to fit them. those are the human clothes they have access to, afterall.

and, besides, the style suits them.

crowley smiles at the look and doesn't comment on it. and nina gives him a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

muriel shares the stories they've read with maggie, who listens enthusiastically

nina suggests muriel write a story of their own

regular customers at give me coffee or give me death now recognize the bookshop owner often in the corner pondering a laptop

nina taught them how to use it. crowley whispers to them that if they tell the laptop what to do with a bit of miraculous energy, it's a lot easier

maggie shows muriel some music. it's so much better than the celestial harmonies that they've had to hear for all these years

they end up liking everything they're shown. from aziraphale's old classical records they found in the bookshop to the queen that plays from crowley's car

muriel adores the bentley. and the bentley eventually warms up to them.

crowley takes muriel to see more of earth, once

well, more of england anyway

there's one time during the drive that the queen melts into an unfamiliar song. something about angels and nightingales.

crowley puts a fist to the dash and it switches back to queen before muriel can grasp what it is

while they're far from the city, the stars are much brighter

muriel hasn't had the chance to see them until then

and crowley tells them another story. about nebulas and galaxies and how they're made. and how gorgeous they really are up close.

muriel doesn't understand why crowley gets so sad talking about something he loves

sometimes residents of the street ask where mr. fell went

maggie and nina will respond that maybe you should mind your own business and they're sure he has his reasons

muriel will smile and say that he's gone on to heaven. then get confused when people offer their condolences

crowley doesn't say anything.

ms sandwich can put together that aziraphale and crowley were an item, though.

and she can certainly see that they aren't anymore

eventually, after a few months, maggie and nina start officially dating

muriel happens to be reading some of aziraphale's romance novels, and they find nina and maggie's relationship utterly adorable

if they ever mention as much tho, nina will tell them to piss off while maggie gets flustered

once, muriel asks maggie and nina when they figured out that they had feelings for each other

crowley is around at that time

muriel, excited by maggie and nina's answers turns to crowley and starts to ask him when he realized he was in love with aziraphale. but they trail off

nina had told them that crowley's not great at talking about aziraphale all the time

they have to wait until he brings it up, okay?

muriel apologizes, but crowley waves a hand

he explains the experience of the first rain

and maggie GASPS

"the rain! back when you were trying to get me and nina together! that was YOU."

crowley just offers a half-smirk and a thumbs-up

that's all ive got for now.

#good omens #good omens 2 #good omens spoilers #ryans fic ideas #ryan wrytes!!#ineffable husbands #maggie and nina #do they have a ship name yet i haven't been paying attention #muriel #crowley #aziraphale #bullet fic

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allthingswhumpyandangsty · 8 months

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🩸BLOODY TROPES FOR YOUR (FAN)FICTION🩸

tw: blood drinking, blood, obviously, also mentions of violence, body horror.

🩸whumper licks the blood off of whumpee’s face

🩸whumpee ends up with a cut on their finger, whumper slowly puts whumpee’s finger in their mouth and, without breaking eye contact, sucks whumpee’s finger clean.

🩸vampire! or nonhuman! caretaker struggles to contain and control themself as they take care of whumpee’s cut when the sight / the smell of whumpee’s blood awakens that raw instinct within them (caretaker).

🩸human! caretaker and vampire! whumpee; whumpee needs blood, so caretaker offers whumpee their own, by pressing their inner wrist to whumpee’s lips. whumpee doesn’t want to drink from caretaker in fear of hurting them, but they don’t have a choice.

🩸whumpee tries to hide their injuries from caretaker. they were doing so well until the front of their white shirt begins to turn red right in front of everybody.

🩸whumper hunts whumpee down by using the scent of whumpee’s blood, visibly sniffing the air before they smile creepily once they smell the blood.

🩸gotta love me a good old classic blood seeping through the bandage trope!

🩸a stubborn whumpee insists they’re fine (they’re not); “you’re bleeding through your bandage,” says caretaker. “I am fine,” whumpee insists. “no, you’re not. I told you to let me do it, but you were too stubborn to accept my help. now stay still as I take care of the cut and the bandage for you. and no, I’m not taking no for an answer this time,” caretaker’s voice is stern and final.

🩸whumpee choking on their own blood is such a criminally underrated trope. caretaker has to turn whumpee on their side so they don’t choke on their own blood!!!!

🩸caretaker rushes to save whumpee from whumper, the second they kick the door open they find whumpee and whumper lying side by side on the floor, both covered in blood. caretaker quickly rushes to kneel next to whumpee, expecting the worst, before whumpee slowly opens their eyes and says (referring to the blood), “don’t worry, it’s not mine.”

🩸whumper, who is covered in the blood of whumpee’s friends, walks into whumpee’s cell, and they make whumpee guess whose blood these belong to.

🩸whumper tells whumpee how pretty they look “in red”

🩸vivisection? vivisection.

🩸caretaker cleans up whumpee’s blood off the floor / off the walls, after what happened (a murder? a success or failed surgery? the choice is yours).

🩸there’s also something very painfully angsty about caretaker having to eventually clean whumpee’s blood off of the wall or the floor where whumpee died, because it’s not the process of cleaning up that hurts but the realization / the acceptance (whether or not caretaker want to accept) that whumpee is gone, and by getting rid of these blood stains, caretaker is saying goodbye to whumpee for good.

🩸caretaker is visibly trembling as they look down at their shirt that’s still covered in whumpee’s blood after whumpee a.) died in their arms, b.) got taken into surgery where they’re trying to save their life (the choice is yours).

🩸that soft little “oh” whumpee lets out when they realize how severe they’re bleeding, when they start feeling dizzy, like they might faint.

🩸field amputation!!! field amputation!!! field amputation!!!!!!

🩸caretaker applies a tourniquet on whumpee to try to slow down the bleeding, though it is hard to ignore whumpee’s crying out in pain each time caretaker tightens the tourniquet around whumpee’s limb.

🩸or, whumpee is alone, so they have to apply the tourniquet on themself. they may find something to bite, maybe their own shirt, to stop themself from screaming in pain as they tighten the tourniquet.

🩸maybe it doesn’t have to be an act of slowing down / stopping the bleed at all, maybe whumpee is alone where they have to perhaps remove the bullet from their own shoulder / leg / arm by themself? or maybe they have to stitch up their own wounds because they’re on their own?

🩸it’s so sexy when a wounded, bleeding and whimpering whumpee has to be their own caretaker.

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escapingrealtiylovinginsanity · 1 month

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Antonio Dawson: Miraculously

“If my brother is being too pushy, I can tell him to back off.” Gabby offered as she watched her brother walk over to the bar to get another round of drinks. You looked over at Antonio. He fulfilled all your bad boy fantasies, tall, tatted olive skin, pierced, with an infinity for dark color and a leather jacket. He held a silent arrogance you had no doubt he could back up. He also had a charming devil-may-care way of talking and a panty-wetting smile. The attention and flirting was flattering. Normally you would jump with little thought but were still feeling the sting of your last bad relationship and had no want to repeat it, let alone with a friend's brother.

“It’s not that,” You assure as you take another drink, “Antonio is very...” You eye Antonio appreciatively as he leans on the bar talking to a few of the firefighters while waiting for your drinks. You laughed as you returned eye contact to Gabby, and she raised her eyebrow with a mischievous look.

“If you're interested, then what is the problem?” You sigh leaning back into the booth chair running your fingers through your hair to gather it up into a ponytail before realizing you don’t have a hair tie and dropping it back down. You bring your eyes back up to Gabby's analyzing gaze.

“I just got out of a relationship a few months back, it was a bad one. Messed with my head more than I would like to admit.” Her brown eyes softened as she nodded for you to continue. You looked back over at Antonio, and she assured you he would still be awhile. He was a gossiper. “Okay, well the cliff notes version is this.”

When Antonio gets back to the table, you have already headed to the bathroom. He sat down in front of his sister and raised his eyebrows, “So,” When Gabby wasn’t forthcoming with the information he pressed on, “I didn’t stand at the bar listening to Mouch’s conspiracy theories because I wanted to. I did it to give you time to find out if she was interested.” Gabby pressed her lips together in a thin line while looking at her brother, “I can’t get a good read on her and I know you found something out, so spill it.”

“Antonio,” Her tone said that he wasn’t going to like what she had to say. Antonio curses under his breath but settles back into the booth in reignition. “No, she is interested but...” Gabby’s eyes glanced up to see you heading out of the bathroom and back to the table. “You need to ease up. She had a bad breakup and the guy she was with was a level one asshat that did her dirty.” Antonio let that information settle. He sat up a straighter confidence coming back to his posture. He had a chance and that was all he really needed. The rest was just minor details. Gabby quieted as she saw you heading back to the table.

You sipped on the drink Antonio brought over and went along with his flirting. When your drink was gone, he offered to buy another round for you and Gabby. You declined saying you had to get home. “I can drive you.” You missed the exasperated look Gabby gave him as you shrugged on your jacket.

“I don’t want to impose. Isn’t it out of your way?” You fought between wanting to spend more time with Antonio and knowing that it was a mistake to be alone with him. He waved away your concern and you soon find yourself in the passenger seat of his car listening to classic rock at low volume. When he gets to your apartment building, he parks the car and walks you up to your apartment door. It’s late and it would make him feel better to see you get into your apartment safely. You give him a smile as you stop at your door. “This is me,” Your breath catches when you turn to look back at him. He is bracing himself against the door frame angling into your space. The heat of arousal flickers through you as your back hits the door.

It had been a long time since you had had any kind of sexual contact. Your body says that Antonio Dawson is the prime and only candidate to remedy that. The air sizzled and snapped with raw hot heat. He leaned in closer the smell of leather and musky cologne overwhelming your senses. He leaned in for a kiss, stopping just a few inches from your face. You shared his breath for a long moment fighting the urge to lean up. Warning bells sound loudly in your head, and you pull back. “I should go in.” Antonio for his part was graceful in the ordeal. He takes a step back giving you space. You unlock the door and turn back to give him a halfhearted smile, “Thanks again for the ride, Antonio.”

“Anytime,” The door had barely closed, and Antonio was pulling out his phone as he was backing up. “Hey Gabby, yeah, I know, I know.”

°。°。°。°。°。

“You are coming, Antonio?” Jay asked as he leaned back into the unmarked police car. Antonio was still behind the wheel.

“No, I have an... unsanctioned stop to make. I have to stop by a house and have a talk with someone.” Jay eyed Antonio perceptively before nodding.

“This has to do with the chick at the bar?” When Antonio doesn’t respond, Jay continues. “That hot one, that you been flirting with for the last few months? Yeah, she looks like trouble.” Jay climbs back into the passenger seat. “I’m not going to let you get in trouble by yourself.” He leaned back in the seat and gestured for Antonio to drive.

Antonio slammed on the wooden door with his fist. A loud echoing cop knock. When the door opened to reveal a less-than-outstanding white man in his late twenties Antonio couldn’t understand what you had ever possibly seen in him.

°。°。°。°。°。

You opened the door to see Antonio at your door. Your eyebrows furrow at him. He hadn’t given you a heads-up that he was coming. “I have something for you.”

You followed Antonio out of the building and towards his car. You were trying to guess what he could have possibly got you. Then your heart started pounding as you heard a loud echoing bark. A familiar bark. A bark you hadn’t heard in four months. Tears welled in your eyes as you run the last ten feet to the car. You hear the click of the car lock, and you throw the door open and are engulfed by a mass of fur. You cling to the dog tightly getting licked furiously and drooled on. “When- How-Why?” You were at a loss for words as you looked at the man before you. “Gabby,” you said with a roll of your eyes as you bared half your face into your dog's fur. “But how?”

“I had a little talk with your ex. He agreed that he reacted childishly in the aftermath of your breakup. He miraculously remembered where your dog had ‘run-off’ too. He also assured me that he is going to pay you back all the back rent he owes you from when he was living with you.”

“Miraculously huh?” You asked tears still in your eyes, “Was that before or after you showed him your badge?” Antonio didn’t look ashamed in the least as he gave you a wink and slid his hands into his pockets. “Thank you, Antonio. You have no idea how heartbroken I was when I thought he was gone forever.” You hug him tightly. His embrace is strong, warm, and comforting in a way you haven’t had in a long time. When you pulled back you still had happy tears in your eyes. He brushes them off your cheek with a calloused thumb. “I have some cold beer in my fridge that needs drinking. What do you say?”

My first Chicago PD story and it had to be Antonio. I hope you guys enjoy! <3

#chicago pd #antonio dawson #antonio dawson x reader #antonio dawson x you #antonio dawson imagine

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morethansalad · 6 months

Text

Raw Vegan Cauliflower Rice Sushi

"Traditional sushi isn’t the healthiest meal option. It generally contains raw fish which has hundreds of parasites and/or eggs waiting to hatch when they get inside you. You just can’t avoid this when eating raw fish...I blend raw cauliflower until it resembles a rice-like consistency. This replaces white or brown rice and increases the nutrients and enzyme content of the dish. It doesn’t have exactly the same texture as cooked rice, but it’s still delicious."

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sansxfuckyou · 4 months

Text

I've got the beats, I've got the bass (I've got the treats, for you to taste)

Summary: Floyd doubts there'll be a lot of him left to save when his brothers find him

Warnings: cannibalism, gore, amputation, Floyd is going through it, check Ao3 port for full tags

Authors Note: inspired by the Troll Twins AU by @ohposhers, im aware the cannibalism post was like, not official to the au, but the inner phan demanded i write this. title from DJ Whore by S3RL, hope ya'll enjoy and if you do consider dropping a reblog or checking out the ao3 port

edit 2023.12.28: WE GOT A SECOND CHAPTER OUT NOW!! it displays a small amount of comfort edit 2023.12.30: the third and final chapter has been posted, it's also been turned into a series because I have so many ideas about it

It's a little bit twisted, and a lot bit fucked up.

But they can't sing, they're Trolls and they can't sing, maybe if they were Classical it wouldn't be a problem. But they're born Pop and they can barely hold a note despite the fact they want to be famous so fucking badly. So they turn to the next best option, run away to Mount Rageous and make it big with a bunch of jello jointed freaks.

Of course, they still need an iota of talent to make it with even a bit of success.

Their method for getting that talent is beyond cruel, beyond human, beyond anything that could be conceived by a Pop Troll. But Velvet's everything but a Pop Troll these days, sadistic, uncaring, greedy- she'll get what she wants and she'll take her brother with her. She'll take her brother and the first unfortunate thing that has talent at that, figure out how to use that talent for herself and keep it.

Veneer always stared, unable to do anything as she worked, "Vel, this is-"

"Genius? I know," Velvet always answered with as she shucked slices of meat from the Troll under their ownership, paper thin and raw on a plate she'd hand to Veneer, "Eat up."

And he always did, he always fucking ate it. He always took his half and she always took her half, rejuvenating the talent they lacked with a small tray of raw meat from their own kin. She smiled this darling smile the entire time their captive watched them devour him, and Veneer tried to do the same.

"You two are fucked," Floyd argued as Velvet would bandage his arms and block off the bleeding because she had some civility despite everything. He'd clench and unclench his fist just to make sure he still could considering how spindly he was with how much they took away from him.

Velvet just giggles, "Maybe we'll take off your whole arm next, let you bleed out a bit," She traces a sharp nail across the joint of his shoulder. He shudders and tries to jerk away, the cuffs on his wrists make it shockingly hard to do so.

They get famous while he wastes away, chunk by chunk. They're erring closer to having a fame that reaches outside of Mount Rageous and he's erring closer to them having to nibble on his bones for his talent. The idea almost makes him laugh, but then he remembers that laughing hurts with how frail he is.

It's when Velvet enters the room with a hacksaw and a breaking knife that he cries for the first time. Tears welling up in his eyes and he can't bring himself to stifle them or wipe them away even though the cuffs are gone. He just sobs, aware of the fact that this is it, they're finally going to lop off his head.

"Oh don't be a baby," Velvet chided as she grabbed her marker, bright red, paint instead of ink, and dragged it along Floyd's thigh, just above his knee. She left a dotted line around his leg and he tries to stop crying.

"Do you have any anesthetic?" Floyd asked, trying to be smug.

Velvet gives this falsely contemplative hum, "Maybe," She lays down the jagged end of the hacksaw at the line, "But probably not."

Then she starts to cut, back and forth across the flesh with enough pressure to snap a rib. Teeth tear him open and he yowls, nerve endings fraying as his blood pools around him. It's shiny, not glittery per se, but definitely holding an almost opalescent sheen due to his Pop origins. It makes Velvet's mouth water, the fresh scent hitting her nose and she could tear into him with her own teeth right then and there but she doesn't.

No, she just forces further down through tendon and fat alike. His meat is both lean and marbled quite nicely with the diet they've been feeding him. Just enough to keep him alive, but fatty and carbohydrate heavy to make his flesh taste better and less tough. She presses the breaking knife beside the hacksaw when she hits the knob of the femur and presses hard until she hears something splinter. The scream accompanying it confirms her suspicions that she broke it as she cuts through marrow without any remorse.

He just whimpers and bites his tongue, hot tears still roll down his face as he watches her try and tear it the rest of the way. Twisting and yanking and it hurts so fucking bad but he can't do much to stop her. It comes off with this terrible sound and he wails as Velvet just lops off the skin with the breaking knife, aware she'll have to go at it more finely later.

"Shut up," Velvet demanded, tossing aside the leg and grabbing the bandage, "I'm not gonna let you die, or sleep through it."

He just nods as she bandages up his jagged stump, not even bothering to slice it smooth with her knife so the nerve endings aren't everywhere and torn every way possible. She bandages him with some semblance of care, he is their talent, he is their guinea pig, she can't just let him die. That'd be too nice of her considering how much talent is left on his bones, how much skill they can pilfer from his flesh.

"Hey Vel! We're running out of seasoning!" It's Veneer whose shouting down the hallways and Floyd hears.

"So I'm not good enough raw?" Floyd questioned, trying so very, very hard to be smug despite the pain coursing through every inch of his body.

Velvet scoffed, taking the leg and standing up, "Don't flatter yourself."

There's this stench of decay in Floyd's holding room by the time the twins are actually taken down. Even at that they aren't really taken down, just put in the slammer by their ever present assistant Crimp who would occasionally sneak some iron supplements into his food. She was nice, she was trampled on but she was nice, learned how to play ukulele to Floyd's singing and the such.

But she couldn't put back the flesh they stripped him of, tearing him down to his bones and even at that lopping limbs off. He's missing a leg below the knee and his entire right arm, shoulder down, and the rest of him is worryingly thin. Not because he was starved, far from him being starved, by the time he started running out of meat on his bones they upped his diet to try and make him last. It was futile really, they still tore off his skin and the flesh underneath it till all he had was bones with a paper thin layer of nerves and red wrapped in bandages.

The floor and walls are thoroughly saturated in the scent of his blood, his tears, and the medications they used to keep him from dying prematurely. Tranexamic acid to thicken his blood so he wouldn't bleed out. Midazolam to help him keep breathing even with the frailty in his everything. Benzodiazepines to stop his anxiety and force his muscles to ease up so his flesh wouldn't be so tense. Morphine, acetaminophen, risperidone, the list went on and on, he's pretty sure the nights he spent vomiting them up only hastened his wasting.

Dying would've been better than this though. Being torn apart, picked apart, used for his talent, having the life ripped out of him. At least none of his brothers had to see him like this, at least Branch didn't have to see him so ruined. He'd be the worst brother ever if Branch had to see him like this, if any of them did. Traumatized for life, he doubts he could live with himself if any of them got nightmares from seeing him in such a zombified state.

He winces when the door opens and light filters in, the rush of uncontaminated air doesn't reach him through the overpowering scent of decay. He can barely make out the silhouettes as Trolls, and instead of being defiant like he usually is, he crumbles. He can't fight it anymore, he's on his last leg to a literal degree and he knows he'll die if they take anymore.

"I'm out of talent," He begged, tears welling up once again, "I'm dead, just look at me," His voice catches on a sob.

They take one step further in, "Floyd?"

Floyd barely recognizes the voice, but he still sobs, even harder knowing it's one of his brothers, "I told you it was a trap, John," He's laughing now, it hurts so much but he's laughing regardless. He tries to shove himself up but everything hurts too much to do so, "Why did you bring our brothers?"

"Cause last time you were in a diamond holding cell! Now you're in a fucking closet that smells like shit," John snapped before stepping even further in, one step at a time. He was still getting used to the low light, his three younger brothers followed in suite.

"Don't! Just, leave!" It's a plea, it's the closest Floyd can get to a demand. He desperately thrusts out a paw like it'll stop them even though he knows it won't, and the action rubs the bandages against his raw nerves the wrong way. There's a hiss of agony, "Please, don't."

"We came here to save you," Bruce butted in with.

"I left my tribe to find you, Floyd," Clay said, stepping more gingerly than the others, "We're taking you home."

"Do you want to stay here?" Branch questioned.

And Floyd just sobbed, raising his paw to his face to try and hide himself away from them, hitching his good leg to his chest to hide the bandages. He whimpered and cried as they finally stepped close enough to see him in all of his ruination. The footsteps stop and he knows they're all riddled with disgust, riddled with fear, with regret, with shame. Their brother who looks like he was sent through the wood chipper, their brother who promised he'd come back, their brother, destroyed.

"I told you to leave," He whispers the word, eyes shut and body limp because he can't bear to see their disgust, "I fucking told you."

Paws gently lift him up, cradling him in a set of arms and he keeps sobbing, curling into whoever held him. He doesn't know which one it is because they all wear vests and open front shirts, in the past at least. He just knows he's holding on tight and apologizing for all the blood he's getting on their fur despite the repetition of 'its okay' being spoken back softly.

-/-/-/-

Floyd is out cold in the back of John Dory's van, strapped down with strips of the emergency roll of scrap booking felt that Poppy always brings with her. Branch has never been more pleased in his entire life that his girlfriend is a weirdo who always needs to scrap book because it's keeping his brother secured. He still feels absolutely sick to the stomach and he's not sure if it's the vile smell of rotting blood or the disgust with what Velvet and Veneer had done. All of them feel nauseated.

"Is he gonna make it?" Clay is the one who breaks the silence.

"Of course he will, we have the best doctors across any genre," Branch snapped back with, the sharpness of his voice unintentional.

Clay shrinks back just a bit, but shoots something back just as sharply, "Sorry to hit a nerve."

"Can we not argue right now?" Poppy asked, leaning between the two with this nervous look on her face, "Please?"

Branch crosses his arms and slumps against the wall of the van, Clay mirrors the motions.

Bruce clears his throat, "Poppy's right, we should just get Floyd under medical care as soon as possible."

"Is he even awake?!" John shouted from the front, eyes still firmly fixed on the road but body riddled with concern and fear and so many other things.

"He passed out!" Bruce shouted back.

Branch leans up against Poppy, "I'm scared," It's a whisper, it barely comes out at all. He never thought he'd admit an emotion as vulnerable as fear to a Troll as loud as Poppy.

Poppy just wraps an arm around his shoulders before whispering back, "It'll be okay," even though she doesn't know if it will.

"What if it isn't?" Branch asked just as quietly.

Poppy doesn't have an answer.

There's this low groan from the back of the van, no one up front dares to move because Bruce is already back there. They don't want to send Floyd ricocheting into another freak out, "Where am I?"

"In John's van," Bruce answered with.

Floyd tried to move but he couldn't, panic shot through him. His breathing hastened just a bit, "Why am I tied down?" He tries to quell the fear resting so heavily on his voice, weighing down on his calm and cool exterior.

"Because you're not doing so hot, it's for safety," Bruce said, trying to keep his voice soft, slipping into dad mode without even realizing it, "We'll take them off as soon as we get home, okay?"

Floyd gave this weak semblance of a nod, "Okay, is Branch here?"

The aforementioned brother scrambles to get to the back of the van, "Of course I am."

"Sorry you had to see me so messed up," Floyd apologized and Branch feels like crying at the comment because it's so fucked up that Floyd is saying sorry for being destroyed when he could do nothing.

"Floyd, it's fine, you couldn't," Branch tries to speak, he really does, but a whole lot of nothing comes up. He just holds onto Floyd's paw desperately tight, "We should've been there sooner."

"You had your own lives," Floyd countered with, "Thanks for saving me anyways."

"We'll always be there to save you, Floyd," Bruce supplied in place of Branch who was just rendered nonverbal.

"Is he gonna walk again?" Branch asked.

The doctor shook her head, "Even with prosthetics using Funk technology and Rock materials, he still doesn't have enough meat on his bones to properly move them to their full extent."

"Can't you give him a graft?" Clay asked, "I read about it, skin grafts, muscle grafts, take some flesh and use it somewhere else."

"I absolutely would but the thing is," She gives this sigh before gesturing to Floyd's body.

He's near skeletal, not enough of the right bio chemicals in him to scab up everywhere, he's torn up and raw. With the bandages removed he looks even more zombie, even if he is asleep over a hospital cocktail with light analgesia. It wasn't supposed to knock him out, just ease the pain, but apparently he was destroyed enough that the small amount of alcohol did knock him down. His arm is as thin as Clay's, in some places stripped to the bone. His good leg and his other thigh have chunks ripped out of them, whole sections of muscle and tendon alike removed but not quite to the bone there. His ribs are pronounced, so are his collar bones, and the crests of his pelvis, not enough flesh to keep the sharpness hidden.

"There isn't anything to take and use elsewhere. He's a shell of his former self, if we're lucky we can stabilize him and keep him on light foods until he fills out a bit. Then he'll be stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of his life, if we're lucky he'd be able to use a prosthetic with crutches on a good day," The doctor explained. A deep sense of horror knotted itself onto the brothers stomachs. Not enough flesh to do a graft, of course there isn't enough leftover, he's a skeleton for fucks sake! They're glad Floyd isn't awake to hear about his brand new future (they don't know he'll take anything so long as he isn't in the hands of Velvet and Veneer).

John Dory won't stand for it, "Hey doc, if you have a donor with the same blood type or whatever, it could work, theoretically speaking," He's grasping at straws really, but he doesn't want his baby brother to live a life without dancing, or going on walks, or any other thing that he can think of. He'd sooner die than use a wheel chair, his life was the mountains, his life was rough terrain. And even though he doesn't know if Floyd feels the same, he doesn't want his brother robbed.

"Are you insane?" Was what Bruce said before the doctor could answer.

"I was in the woods living off of swamp scum and bird carcass for twenty years, I absolutely am," He presses a digit to Bruce's chest as he speaks and shoves him back, "I want my brother to walk with us, to dance with us."

"He can do it in a wheel chair," Bruce countered with, "Medical advances have been made, we've come really far in twenty years."

"Guys," Clay butted in with, they both snapped to glare at him, "Let the doctor speak before you tear your heads off."

"It could work, hypothetically, but if his body rejects the graft for some inane reason he might not make it through the night. Although he might not make it either way given his current condition," The doctor said, "It's up to you four to call the shots because he's out cold."

They all share a tense glance.

"We all have the same blood type," Branch got out quietly.

"Blood type O, universal donor, can only take other O's," Clay tacked on.

"And our fur would match his, he wouldn't look totally frankensteined," John said.

Bruce stayed quiet.

"It's up to you, Bruce, this could work," Branch pressed.

"Fine, just don't take too much off of me," Bruce said, "I have a wife who would not appreciate me coming home butchered."

"Bruce, this is about Floyd," Clay said rather sternly, "We all know your wife will love you no matter how bloody you are."

"Guess some things never change, like your whole 'gotta look good' thing," John teased.

The doctor cleared her throat and all eyes were on her, "If we want to have enough time we'll need to put you under for surgery in the next hour or so, the clock is ticking."

"I'm doing it,"

"Count me in,"

"Me too,"

"So am I,"

-/-/-/-

All of them are unconscious when they're stolen from, strips of flesh taken from their serratus anterior and latissimus dorsi so no one has to see the scars when it's over. They're carefully cut open and extracted, a little bit of skin came with it because Floyd didn't have enough skin himself these days. At least when he still had the bandages on they could lie and say he had scabs and skin, lie and say the stench was because he hasn't had a shower in months, not because his blood refused to dry properly and rot and infect instead.

Mismatched muscles are stitched into the gaping lacerations across his body, surgical glue used around the edges just to make sure. Patches of his brothers skin from where their flesh was taken are stitched atop to try and hide the raw flesh, bright red and shimmery, it might help stimulate his body into trying to regrow his own skin. Otherwise he'll always have scars a deeper hue than his blood beside skin held on with stitches like he's one of Frankenstein's monsters, unfinished and abandoned.

Except his brothers are risking their own hide to try and bring him back from his virtually undead state, so close to death he might as well bury himself. He has four brothers letting themselves be butchered so he'll be able to move his remaining limbs, so he'll be able to live without the risk of developing a medication tolerance too strong. He has four brothers that are giving a doctor permission to take a piece out of them to sew into him instead, maybe if he were awake he'd say something about how poetic that is, how they'll never be apart again.

But he isn't awake, instead he's blissfully asleep on a small shot that was supposed to make him more sociable and numb the pain. He passed out rather fast after taking it, and then his brothers could begin discussing the truth of the matter without Floyd. If he was awake when they brought up the graft they know he would defy it, they know he would say it isn't right for them to make that sacrifice. They also know their brother would waste away without their help, waste away without any extra meat, exposed bone doesn't scream 'healthy' in Pop Village.

There's an extraction from Bruce first, tactfully cut from his lower back and laid atop Floyd's rib cage. Slid over top the painfully thin muscles in thin slices, some if it was placed along his hips to add padding to his painfully prominent bones. To make him less skeletal, it was mostly cosmetic on that front, but if he tripped and fell he could shatter like glass with how exposed they were. He'd shatter and there'd be so much blood it would leave someone scarred for life, so much whimpering because punctured lungs leaves no room for screaming.

The doctor takes from John Dory next because of how insistent he was on the procedure, how insistent he was to make sure Floyd could have flesh again. It's taken from one thigh, a solid chunk taken out and replaced with an almost jelly substance. He'd collapse when he walked without a substitute of some sort, he'll be reduced to crutches until he gets used to it. A consequence perhaps, or just cruel fate that he has the perfect cut of meat to fill one of the larger gaps in Floyd's good leg. He's restitched with most of his skin, but again, a good chunk of it goes to his little brother, to keep him from drying in the sun.

"What's happening?" It's Floyd, waking up strapped down and held open with someone holding a piece of meat. He instantly goes to thrash, scared, afraid, oh god he thought he escaped. What a cruel dream, imagining his brothers would actually pull through, he's still stuck.

"Calm down, Floyd," The doctor said, "We're in a hospital, giving you a surgery, your safe, your brothers are safe."

Floyd tries to nod, "Why am I awake?"

"Analgesia knocked you out, it just wore off," She said, grabbing a needle, "So please, hold still."

He does as told, needle sliding through his skin with ease. It only stings a little bit as he anesthetic pushes through his veins rather sluggishly. The doctor falters on using another needle to actually knock him out and only chooses against it when he drifts back to sleep. There's a long pause of no motion, no advances, just in case he wakes back up again, but when he doesn't she continues.

Placing John's flesh into the cavity of Floyd's leg and stitching it closed, surgical glue to keep it in place after he's been closed up. The stitches almost match his fur, thread off by a single shade, just a bit darker than he is. And it keeps staining on the blood inside of him when the needle goes through, keeps picking up that red pigment that shines like liquid gold. She'll rinse it clean after the surgery is done, after he's patched up using chunks of his brothers who love him so much they'd tear themselves apart for him.

She hesitates to take anything off of Clay because he's already spindly. But he wants to give as well, he's the one who remembered their blood types were all O despite the odds. He gets the exterior layer of skin from his lower back shucked off unforgivingly, he's too thin to take his muscle, that'd put him in danger. The flesh is stitched onto the nub just above Floyd's knee, where he was amputated without any reason. The jagged gore won't connect to a prosthetic very well, it's smoothed with a scalpel before the skin is put into place. Definitely not the average surgical move, but whatever it takes to keep a patient alive, including slicing off bits of meat in need of replacement. It's rotten flesh anyways, always exposed to air and never allowed to properly heal, it reeks of death like the rest of his body.

Branch is the final one taken from, strips out of his thighs spliced into Floyd's arms length wise. They fill out nicely, rest atop the bone in such a fashion they look like they belonged in his arm instead of Branch's leg. The hue of the flesh and the hue of the skin didn't match, the gray that Branch experienced still held strong even upon being cut up and stitched to a new body. It really makes Floyd look chimeric, like a rotten, decaying, beast of mythology that shouldn't be able to exist. And if he makes it out alive he'll fit the description perfectly because his heart rate should've dropped off the face of the planet by now, but it hasn't, he's still alive somehow.

He's still alive and so far his body isn't rejecting the sacrifices his brothers are making for him. It's a miracle really, them getting him to the hospital on time to get him stabilized for a surgery is also miracle. And maybe the defiance John Dory held over letting Floyd be forced into a wheel chair will bring advances to the medical field, probably not. But this in itself is amazing, the fact he's getting pulled together by thread and woke up not coughing blood is absurd.

Maybe when he wakes up at the designated time he still won't cough up blood.

-/-/-/-

John Dory wakes up last, "What happened?" He swings his leg over the edge of his bed and hisses because it hurts real bad.

Bruce is face down on his bed, "We gave Floyd a muscle graft, remember?"

"Right," John answered with before going to stand, he instantly collapsed, heavily leaning on the small table. Crutches, he grabs them instantly to prop himself up, knees shaking, "Where's Floyd?"

"I'm over here," Came Floyd's voice from the other side of the room, he was hobbling over with his new leg. It looked sleek, a lovely metallic sheen to it due to the materials and the Funk craftsmanship ties it together, the shape similar enough to an organic leg. He's using a crutch to walk over, fresh flesh in his thigh sore, but working with a bit of weight alleviation.

"You look great man!" Elation is heavy on John's voice as he tries to take a step over with the crutches. He nearly falls, "Whose are these?"

"Yours, the substitute for the chunk they took out of you is still fresh. It's gonna take time to walk 'normally' with it, but crutches are easy after a bit," Floyd explained, "Thanks."

John sits back down on his bed, "Well jeez, your welcome bro, but I may have to take that flesh back if I can't walk."

"You're lucky you aren't in a wheel chair," Bruce stated boldly, rolling onto his side just a bit, "The doc said that it was almost so bad you'd need one, you're lucky."

"Say, where's Branch? And Clay?" John asked, changing the subject with ease.

Floyd shrugged with one shoulder, the prosthetic not responding as much as desired, "I'm pretty sure they're in the room next too us, still asleep. When I asked the doctor she said they were still alive."

"They fucking better be, I'll crush her skull with these stupid crutches if they aren't," John snarled out.

"See, you're already in love with them," Floyd teased, "I'm sure Branch will outfit them to your style once he's done with his recovery."

Bruce gives a laugh, "Karma."

"Shut up," He pointed the end of his crutch at Bruce threateningly.

Bruce just batted it away with his paw, "How dangerous."

"Guys, neither of you are in condition to get in fight,"

"Beg to differ,"

"I could kick his ass no matter what,"

Floyd sighed, taking a couple disjointed steps closer to take a seat at the foot of Bruce's bed. He leans his crutch on the edge, "You could not, you're a dad."

"Makes me even better at tossing little shits around," Bruce countered with.

John is quick to try and breach the small gap, he ends up face first in Bruce's bed. It garners a loud laugh, "Shut up," it's a muffled plea, "How long are we gonna be in this place for?"

"A considerable while," Floyd offered nervously, "It varies between us. Me, you, and Branch are gonna be here the longest because we need some physical rehab, might be permanent for you and Branch, it will for me."

Bruce hoists up John fully onto the mattress, "I'm regretting saving your life," Bruce clips the back of his head for that comment.

Floyd just laughs, "Gee, I love you too."

#troll twins au #trolls world tour #trolls fanfic #trolls floyd #velvet and veneer #trolls #writing #fanfic #fanfiction #tw gore #tw body horror #tw cannibalism

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ziorite · 2 months

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buckle up lads— i’ve played cello since before kindergarten and even if i’m no virtuoso, i’m about to unleash my thoughts on the scheherazade job upon the world anyways.

look, if hardison was good enough to play the scheherzade solo at fourteen there’s just no way he sounds that shit even if he hasn’t touched the instrument for ten years. he’s supposed to have been the most promising violinist in the city which has to be stiff competition because most classically trained string players start playing young. like three to five years old young. and we know hardison was a foster kid so he almost certainly started later than most. obviously he was talented, but now he can’t even play a scale? it just doesn’t make sense to me from what i know. i’ve gone a month without touching my cello and pretty much hopped straight back into the stuff i was practicing before after fifteen minutes of warm up. the knowledge of how to hold a bow and pull it across the string and make quality sound is the kind that doesn’t leave you— for anyone of teenage hardison’s supposed skill, that instinct is part of you for LIFE. so no, the persistent portrayal of present day hardison as completely incompetent just doesn’t sit right with me.

but that doesn’t mean i think he could pull off scheherazade’s solo without nate’s rather convenient hypnosis. so i googled around and here’s the sheet music:

to be honest i thought it would be absolute batshit crazy the way they treated it in the show. the shifts are kind of crazy but i can see a very dedicated fourteen year old who practiced the shit out of this solo being able to play it. not to say it’s not still hard! there are some SERIOUS high notes that you’d be hard pressed to hit perfectly every time even with weeks of practice under your belt. shit makes me sweat and i don’t even play that instrument.

it’s a damn impressive solo for a teenager to be playing and an absolutely deranged one to try and perform on such little notice. that’s why i need someone to rewrite the scheherazade job with more focus on hardison and his violin dammit! i feel like hardison would be able to bluff his way through the other parts of the piece with enough practice in the time he has before the job, but there’s just no way he’d be able to play that solo on his own after ten years of not touching the violin. he might not even be able to practice during all the time he has— his calluses would be gone!! that’s a whole other story!!

string instruments strings are vicious y’all. and a VAST majority of the scheherazade solo is on the teeny tiny e string that basically slices through raw fingertips. i can barely make it through five minutes of dedicated practice shifting around on my thinnest string and i’ve had my calluses built up for years; i can file these babies with a nail file and poke a hot pan with them— they get pretty damn thick, and hardison’s working with nuthin y’all. you can only go so far before you give yourself an actual blister you physically cannot play on.

as a result, i feel like hardison would’ve let nate hypnotize him if ONLY the oily little slime ball (with hate and love) had told him. i really don’t understand why nate didn’t say anything until the first place. aren’t they supposed to have learned that you’re not supposed to con your own crew already?? (not that i think nate would ever really take that to heart.)

anyways, that’s my hardison-should-be-better-at-violin propaganda as well as my why-the-scheherazade-job-needs-to-be-rewritten manifesto. maybe i’ll write it myself one of these days— leverage brainrot is real and it is a sickness. hope this 2 am rant didn’t disrupt anyone’s dashes too much!

#leverage #the scheherazade job #alec hardison #hardison #aldis hodge #leverage meta #nathan ford #nate ford

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eleanor-bradstreet · 6 months

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Chiaroscuro - Part 3 (Benedict Bridgerton x Reader)

Benedict Bridgerton x fem!Reader Vampire AU Rated/warnings: G - none Word count: 2.6k Art by @bridgertontess

Part 2 Part 4 Masterpost

Fortunately, your job didn’t currently require much interaction with people. Since organizing the museum’s latest nighttime exhibition, you had fallen into a lull of cataloging works in the basement storage rooms and catching up on paperwork. It was a mercy, because if you had been forced to make smalltalk with coworkers you would have inevitably snapped and blubbered out all of the fear and anxiety and rage that was held just at bay behind your fake smile. But there was no one to prod you for your life updates today. Just you and the artworks in the softly lit facilities under the exhibition halls. Ballerinas and olive trees and moon-faced youths, going on about their antiquated business as you carefully inspected and sorted them with gloved hands. They invited your company without requiring any interaction, which made them the best companions of all.

You knew your shift was over when the music began to waft down from above, classical string covers of modern pop songs. This had been your idea. It seemed to match the goal of the events you had planned for the museum, drawing the cool young crowds of the city into proximity with the old works of the greats. Everything, even boring old Neoclassicism, became sexier at night especially when coupled with cocktails and a decent playlist. By charging the yuppies an inflated ticket price in exchange for a tipple and Van Gogh projections dancing across the walls, your events had been a boon to the museum and became a point of pride for yourself.

You could have gone home but decided that sitting alone with your thoughts wouldn’t lead to anything productive. Not when you were still so raw. You were already out, you might as well make the most of it and survey how your event was being received. If nothing else it was time you could spend with the paintings, all of those works that you loved and had memorized over your years of curation. You didn’t have much time left to enjoy them, a knowledge that filled you with equal parts panic and despair. You needed to start absorbing them as best you could, creating a new gallery in your mind that you hoped you would be able to navigate as deftly as the physical one where you had built your career.

Swiping a cocktail from a tray you moved through the exhibition halls, normally so brightly lit but now starkly shadowed, with the grandeur of the gilded frames leering out against fuchsia, purple and blue uplighting. The same colors as your hyacinths, you reminded yourself. Attendance was high with clusters of visitors to be found in every corner and hallway, balancing wine glasses and meandering in chic office wear. You felt a weight dragging in your core as you started to mourn the experiences you already knew you would lose. Then you recognized a silhouette, someone standing alone by a large landscape. It was Ben.

This wasn’t entirely a shock. In fact, you had seen him at several of your nighttime exhibitions before. Everything you knew about him was starting to piece together. A man of fine tastes, wealthy and invested in poetry, wine and art. You had never approached him when you saw him at your previous events and weren’t even sure if he knew you worked at the museum. Each time he was present he was surrounded by people. He seemed to exude a kind of magnetism, with visitors gravitating to hear his insights and banter. You never got close enough to hear the full conversation but could tell he was both captivating and witty given how keenly everyone listened to him and how often they laughed. How a man walked around with such qualities and looked the way he did without someone (or several people) on his arm, was a mystery to you. But tonight for the first time, you saw him by himself.

It was almost as if fate had put him directly in your path, granting you an easy opportunity to thank him for his act of kindness earlier that day. Circumstances had been cruel to you lately so you wouldn’t question this happy turn. You walked over, noting how perfectly the shadows cut against his jaw and brow. He was dangerously handsome and you chastised yourself again for not trying to get to know him sooner.

“Ben!” Your faux smile came a little easier as you greeted him.

He turned, blue-grey eyes lighting with recognition. “Hello!” His crooked grin made something inside you ache.

“It’s good to see you here.”

“Well, I’m grateful the museum has these events so the rest of us can get a little culture when we can’t fit it into daylight hours.”

You felt yourself blushing, pleased that he appreciated something you had designed though he couldn’t have known it was you. You hoped the lighting would hide your reaction. “Thank you for the wine,” you blurted out. “That really was too generous of you.”

“It seemed you could have used it more than me.” His shoulders angled toward you as he honed in, focused on you alone. You felt the whole room quiet as you became the object of his attention. Now you understood how he seemed to carry his own gravity. Just meeting his gaze made it hard to breathe. Something witty might help you from drowning.

“It appears we have similar taste in both wine and art.” You raised your brows and gestured to the large Turner canvas that you stood beside.

He followed your eyes, admired the landscape once again, then smirked at you. “Please, I cannot compete with your sense of taste. Not when you work here.”

So he did know. Your look of surprise spurred him on.

“Word gets around the building,” he shrugged. “And I’ve seen you here.”

You couldn’t fathom that he had always been within such close reach, seeing you across rooms the same way you had seen him, and it had taken you this damn long to say something. Now, when you had less than nothing to offer and no time to enjoy it, of course this was when you started speaking to the most beautiful man you had ever met. “I’ve seen you too,” you gave him a small smile. “You like the night exhibits.”

He continued looking at the landscape, shrugging again. “It’s when I have free time.” Before you could ask him what he did for a living and finally solve the enduring mystery, he continued. “So, are you the curator for the whole museum, or…”

“Nineteenth century Anglo-European art. Still a broad swath.” You nodded around at the wing you stood in, the showcase of your years of meticulous planning, negotiating and staging. An expression of yourself. A small legacy that you hoped others would enjoy even when you were no longer able to.

“Any favorites?” His eyes glinted as he crossed his arms, eager to test you. You knew he understood art, a rare skill among the public. You could already sense what a lovely companion he would make, someone engaging to debate and analyze pieces with.

You were compelled to state the obvious, flicking your eyes back to the painting beside you. “Well, Turner.”

He nodded in agreement. “Of course.”

You began to lead him through the hall, weaving around guests, steering him toward your favorite sections of the wing. You stopped in a corner and nodded at the spread of frames before you. “Leighton.”

Ben’s brow turned up in consternation and he stuck out his bottom lip in an adorable little frown. “I heard he was a bit of a prick.”

You had never read that in all your years of study but he said it with so much conviction, it made you chuckle. He smiled wryly at your reaction. Oh, he was cheeky.

Continuing your tour you brought him to your most beloved section, a quiet, off-set room that had grown to feel like your second home. You had lost countless hours sitting on its lone bench planning the arrangement and lighting of the pieces within, trying to ensure that visitors felt as transported by the array of rich landscapes and still lifes as you did.

“And Bridgerton,” you said with reverence, spreading your arms to showcase the dedicated space. “Did you know, we have his entire collection here?”

Something in Ben’s eyes grew incredibly soft, everything about his demeanor warmed. He must have been a fan too, though he wasn’t looking at any of the paintings. He was looking directly at you. “I did know that.”

You smiled, sensing a connection forming, something that may give you a reason to keep speaking to this man who was so clearly out of your league. “He fascinates me the most, I think.”

Ben cocked his head. “Why is that?”

“Because so little is known about him,” you sighed. “It’s rather tragic. He had this beautiful body of work and then when he was still young, he just sort of disappeared. No one knows what happened to him. His family said he went abroad. They published the diary he left behind but it just ends abruptly one day.”

You slowly walked the perimeter of the room as you narrated, taking in the pieces. They had always felt like a puzzle to you, like the clues to Bridgerton’s disappearance could be found in their layers and hues if you simply looked hard enough, or arranged them in a particular pattern. Of course you hadn’t discovered anything, but the preservation of the work felt vital. Perhaps you had always felt so protective of this collection above all others because it showcased the vibrance of a life that was so suddenly and unceremoniously flung into darkness. You were the custodian of all that was left of the man whose talent you so admired.

Ben moved with you, one step behind. “You’ve read his diary?”

You nodded. “He seems to have been a very insightful man. Something of a poet too. Very talented. But better at landscapes than self portraits. All we have is a messy little sketch from his diary.”

Ben’s face twisted adorably in befuddlement. If he was allowed to call Leighton a prick, you certainly were going to be honest with your opinions too. Smiling, you guided him over to a piece you had hung in a place of prominence.

“This is my favorite landscape of his, Dreams in Kent. Look at the use of color.” You floated a finger over the lines of the hilly horizon, dotted with points of blues, purples and whites, sprays of wildflowers in the rich, windswept grass.

Ben folded his arms and furrowed his brow, clearly unswayed by your enthusiasm. “Looks like he had a hard time getting the lines right. The perspective is a bit off.”

“I think the skew is intentional. It lends dreaminess.”

He shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe the poor bastard just didn’t measure well.”

“You have an eye for details.” Your voice probably came out too breathy but you couldn’t help it. You were marveling at him. He turned and flashed his devastating smirk again. He seemed like the embodiment of everything that was lacking in your life: warmth and good humor, honesty and playfulness. Just looking at him had always made your throat tighten but being this close, getting to know his kind nature and how much you had in common just when it was too late to enjoy, it made you want to scream. Tears began to roll down your cheeks and you turned away, moving to sit on the bench.

“Are you alright?” His voice was full of concern as he sat down beside you. You were grateful there were no other visitors in the room. You hardly felt embarrassed in front of him anymore, not since he saw you blubbering in the lift just the day before. You knew you were safe to confess your problems to him.

“Sorry, it’s…” You fought your shuddering breaths. “This is why I needed the wine.” You laughed weakly, staving off the full hysterics threatening beneath the surface. “I got bad news yesterday. My vision. Exceptional as you can already see.” You gestured to the thick lenses you wore. “I’m losing it.” With a deep inhale, you looked up and scanned the art around you. “I won’t be able to see any of this anymore. I’ll have to leave this job. My life will just…” A solitary sob cut you off. Your face was hot, both with tears and your failing attempts to clamp down your sorrow. “I’m going to fade away. Just like Bridgerton, I suppose. Though I don’t know, we can at least hope he got a happy ending.”

Ben settled a hand on your shoulder. “I’m so sorry. Life can be incredibly cruel.” Coming from anyone else’s lips this would have sounded like an empty platitude, but he left you with no doubt of his sincerity.

“And ironic,” you scoffed, indulging in your anger. “Of all the things to take from someone in the visual arts.”

After a beat, he spoke again. “Do you have any interest in pottery? Something tactile?” You turned and saw his sarcastic grin, which he dropped immediately. “I’m sorry, that was rude of me, I shouldn’t be making fun…”

The laughter rose out of you like a wave of relief. Finding yourself in such a terrible position, it felt impossible not to acknowledge the absurdity of it all. “No,” you shook your head, “thank you, I needed that.” The smile returned and your burden felt a little lighter. You were grateful for the levity. You began wiping the tears from your cheeks. “Look at me, sitting here crying like a fool.”

“You would only be a fool if you didn’t let me have my Patrick Swayze moment and help you with your pottery.” Squeezing your shoulder, he playfully bumped against your side.

“If I recall, he destroyed what she was working on.” You quipped back.

“Oh, you know I have more respect for artwork than that. You could trust me.”

You met his eyes, impossibly earnest and mischievous simultaneously. His hand was heavy on your shoulder, his body nearly pressed against yours. You didn’t know if he was just pitying his poor, strange neighbor or legitimately flirting with you but you embraced it either way. At the very least, perhaps you had found a friend.

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping low. “If I know anything, it’s that things are almost always a matter of perspective. At a certain point, life can start to seem like a series of losses and nothing more. But those losses thrust us into circumstances where we are forced to discover new things to take their place. There is always something left to hold onto, usually something unexpected.”

You let his words sink in, understanding the magic he seemed to cast upon the museum crowds. If this was how he consoled a neighbor, you couldn’t imagine how insightful he would be when seriously discussing art. You wanted to kiss him, feeling a nearly irresistible pull toward his lips, but held back. Not only was that entirely inappropriate in your workplace but you didn’t want to misinterpret what he was offering you. You didn’t want to ruin the chance for a friendship that might endure through everything that laid ahead. So you smirked, making a joke as a friend would.

“Perspective, hmm? Maybe you could have taught Bridgerton a thing or two.”

His eyes lit up and he turned back to the landscape with a broad smile. “Perhaps I could have.”

Tagging: @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @secretagentbucky @colettebronte @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @mysticwitchcraftco @suspendingtime @faye-tale

#bridgerton #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x y/n #bridgerton x you #bridgerton imagine #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x y/n #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton imagine #female reader #vampire au #romance #angst #happy halloween

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merrivia · 1 year

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Thinking today about Damen, trauma and the symbolic use of water in Captive Prince...

I was talking to @zumurruds about this, and she mentioned that we understand Laurent’s trauma as readers, but that Damen’s trauma can seem elusive to us. Which is very true, and got me to thinking about how these things might work in terms of Damen’s psyche as constructed by Pacat, especially taking into consideration Akielos is a version of Ancient Greece (with some Roman influences).

Edward Tick is a fairly influential psychotherapist in the field of trauma, especially post-traumatic stress and how it affects soldiers, and he has particularly looked at Ancient Greek rituals (and other classical and indigenous practices!) for answers as to how to heal the psychic wounds of conflict.

Firstly, this is a nice overview of some of Tick’s ideas:

“[Tick’s] argument is that in classical and native American tradition, serving as a warrior was an archetypal experience characterized by initiation of young men and, then, later, rituals of purification and cleansing that help them to undergo a sort of psycho-spiritual re-birthing process and return to civilian life, not just as civilians, but as individuals who’ve gone through a profound transformation. And that transformation was acknowledged by the wider society.”

Some (not all) of these “rituals of purification and cleansing” are literally ones that use water. And I think this can maybe helps us to understand more deeply the use of water in the novels and how it connects to trauma (Damen’s in particular).

More after the jump:

Before going into more depth I will say one thing. I think the reason Damen has coped well with being a soldier, has a lot to do with his initiation into warriorhood in Akielos.

When it comes to war, specific rites and training would transform you psychologically. As Tick says:

“The study of worldwide mythology and the work of historians, anthropologists, and archaeologists show us that cultures in almost all times and places have deemed it necessary to have a warrior class of citizens. The formula is simple: the preparation is specialized training; the proving ground is battle. Risking death for the protection of one’s people transforms a boy into a warrior. Successful completion of the transformation makes him a man.”

What this does to you then is accelerate growing up. Interesting inversion there, as the Regent tries to keep the adult Laurent a child, and child Damen would have been thrust into adulthood early. Did that damage Damen? Depends on your perspective (I think yes and no), but it certainly gave him strength and resilience.

There is an interesting, revealing moment of Damen’s, when he has been flogged and still finds the wherewithal to speak back to Laurent:

“He felt raw, as though a protective outer layer had been stripped away; the problem was that what had been exposed was not weakness but core metal.”

“Core metal”. That’s what lies at the heart of Damen, even with the warmth of his heart.

Tick then quotes the philosopher William James:

“War and adventure assuredly keep all who engage in them from treating themselves too tenderly. They require such incredible effort, depth beyond depth of exertion . . . that the whole scale of motivation alters. Discomfort and annoyance, hunger and wet, pain and cold, squalor and filth cease to have any deterrent operation whatever. Death turns into a commonplace matter. . .”

Damen has gone through all this; this is what forged that “core metal” in him. He is a warrior, in a militaristic society. He understands well what it is like to have courage against death and to physically endure discomfort and physical pain. I think this is why he is able to take his circumstances as a slave in Vere, and survive. Every time Damen is hurt, he compares it to his training or to his past experiences, and simply withstands it, as he knows he got through it before. He endures and endures. Even the flogging. That is what warriors do; it was what he was trained to do.

This is one of the reasons his trauma is hidden away from us; at first, Damen seems to just cope with it.

The idea of warriors, too, is so different to modern soldiers, where I think a lot of our contemporary ideas around trauma come from.

Damen has killed on the “sawdust”, suggesting he has accidentally killed when training, and he has killed in battle. He also killed Auguste. The weight of those deaths were expiated somewhat by his role- he was not shamed but made elevated by them; when he returned from Marlas, he was honoured and given a hero’s welcome. Some of the trauma Tick describes modern soldiers go through, comes from them being shoved to one side and forgotten about.

Interestingly, another aspect of the trauma around modern soldiers, is the impersonal nature of killing. As Tick says:

In its ancient and ritual forms, warfare was often personal. Enemy combatants often knew each other by name, and the victor’s status was partly based upon the status of the enemy he had defeated. Homer’s Iliad records numerous tales of individual combat between contending champions whose families, histories, and reputations were well known to each other. But modern war is impersonal. Whom you fight, what their battle experience and status in their culture is, and how they are armed are all matters of chance.

Though we may think knowing who Auguste was makes it worse, from Tick’s perspective it is better. It becomes a matter of personal combat, a duel of honour- it is essentially meaningful. Damen fought Auguste to help end the battle, and symbolically, it was two princes fighting for victory. There is no disgrace or evil in that.

The problem comes with Laurent and with spending time in Vere, where Damen is no longer seen as a hero-warrior but a villain- someone immoral and shameful. One of the first things Laurent does to Damen in the baths is (very unfairly) make him feel ashamed for killing, and Damen has to protest and say it was “battle” and that “there were deaths on both sides” (which is true- Laurent conveniently forgets all the people Auguste would have killed on the Akielon side). That is a lot of what Damen has to battle through psychologically during the novel. He has no words to describe what he’s going through, was not trained for this, and again, this is why his trauma remains hidden to us.

In normal circumstances also, after he had been freed, Damen would have returned home, and would go through a process of restoration there that would help him process the trauma he went through in Vere. But by falling in love with Laurent and tying himself to him, Damen is forever in a liminal state- he cannot return home, as the two countries are one which the two kings will rule together, and he is always going to be both lover and brother-killer (he now carries the guilt of killing his brother-in-law, not an enemy prince). This contradiction needs to be resolved.

Additionally, what happened to him in Vere did not carry the honour of battle. Damen could not fight back. It was pure victimisation. That is also where the trauma lies, as well having to process how Laurent is both lover and torturer (Laurent also, needs to confront this, and what he did to Damen).

So let’s talk about water.

There is a symbolic weight that water always carries in texts- life and rebirth, purification and cleansing, rejuvenation and destruction, amongst many other things. But when considering water’s cleansing and restorative processes in conjunction with classical ideas of healing and surviving trauma, I think it becomes even more interesting.

The books abound with water. The trilogy starts with Damen in baths at Akielos, and ends the same way, a deliberately cyclical structure. A rebirth. Damen and Laurent bathe frequently; sometimes this leads to violence, such as the flogging, and sometimes it is cleansing.

However, it is The Summer Palace where the richest, most definitive moment of water is symbolically used.

In the short story, Pacat shows this complex interplay between past and present; of all of what lies between Laurent and Damen. There is no forgetting of the killing of Auguste or of Kastor, or of the flogging. The two move between deep romantic desire and discussions of their painful past, fluidly.

Another quotation from Tick feels resonant here:

Ironically, doing violence to another can be a profoundly intimate act. Larry, a captain in Viet Nam, said his life’s most intimate encounter had been when staring into the eyes of a North Vietnamese officer as they grappled, their hands locked around each other’s throats. Many veterans who have survived hand-to-hand combat talk about the erotic nature of the death struggle. The violence of battle can thus constitute a kind of reverse intimacy.

There is that strange irony at work with what happens between Damen and Laurent. Laurent, so damaged and isolated and cut off from others, first becomes close to Damen through the intimate act of violence- that’s why it’s important that he sits in front of Damen, close to him, and watches him as he is flogged in CP. It’s why Laurent deliberately baits Damen into hitting him in PG, by telling Damen Kastor killed Theomedes- afterwards his eyes are described as “glittering with triumph” as “his lips are smeared with blood” (a highly disturbing kiss with a fist, which he engineered). It’s why when they fight one another in the training room in KR, it is an important part of the carthasis they must go through in order to truly become lovers. Through violence is physical contact and those moments cut down the walls Laurent has built around himself.

But there are of course, huge consequences for that.

Damen admits he has not allowed himself to acknowledge much of what happened to him, particularly at the hands of Laurent. A lot remains behind a “closed door”. Yet what has been locked away must start to be acknowledged, for healing to take place. And this is done through water.

The idea that soldiers be purified when returning from war exists in many different cultures and has been practiced for centuries, including in Rome where “vestal virgins would bathe returning soldiers to purge them of the corruption of war”. For the Greeks, water in general was healing. What I think is interesting is how Pacat has (intentionally?) rewoven these strands of healing that comes from Ancient Greek culture and incorporated it into the texts. Water rituals restore and spiritually cleanse those who suffer harm- hydrotherapy of sorts. A lot of this, appears to be through gods and through dreams, water that is blessed that then touches the psyche.

This is how Tick describes such processes:

The mysterious process behind the whole tradition was called "temple sleep" or "incubation." Those in need of healing, from the highest to the humblest levels of society, cast off the garments of their roles in the outer world, bathed ceremonially and donned white robes, and presented themselves to the therapeutes, the first "therapists," the healing priests of the temple of Asklepios..... The god was believed to visit the supplicant through a dream, or in his theriomorphic (animal-shaped) form, as a snake or a dog. Through the theophany itself (the apparition of the god) or through one of the first "prescriptions"—for instance, "after fasting for three days, the supplicant should immerse himself in the pool of Parthenius, though it be winter, and pray to Artemis"—the healing would come.

So with no temples, gods or priests, Pacat finds an alternative.

Laurent bathing Damen, in the baths of Lentos.

It is a restoration for them both. By doing so, Laurent is putting himself into the position of a slave (giving himself the role enforced onto Damen, an eye for an eye), putting his pride to one side (kneeling, an act he also finds difficult due to trauma) and, most importantly, confronting the consequences of his actions in having Damen flogged nearly to death.

When Laurent washes the scars on Damen’s back, it is a transformative moment:

Nothing could wash away the past, but this took them both there, touching a painful truth, acknowledging it.

It was gentler between his shoulders than it had been against his chest. Flesh and self were linked. The cleansing was slow, attentive, drizzling water, then soaping his skin. It was healing something he hadn’t known needed to be healed. Like breathing, it was necessary, even as the tenderness of it was too much, gentleness where he had never expected Laurent to be gentle.

He had been braced against the lash for so long. Where he had been flayed, he was now open.

I would argue, with the absence of gods, there is only Damen and Laurent’s love, which exists as something higher, sacred, perhaps even numinous. It is a stand in for divine power, which is perhaps even more meaningful. Their love allows them that healing and rebirth, and allows them access to something higher than can move them forward. Perhaps that will keep being a journey that they do together, but it starts with this, with symbolic purification through water, and with the healing not just Laurent, but Damen, desperately needed.

Bibilography:

War and the Soul: Healing Our Nation's Veterans from Post-tramatic Stress Disorder, Edward Tick

Warrior's Return: Restoring the Soul After War, Edward Tick

The Practice of Dream Healing: Bringng Ancient Greek Mysteries into Modern Medicine, Edward Tick

#Captive Prince #damen of akielos #Laurent of Vere #damen x laurent #meta #damianos of akielos

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