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mostlydeadallday · 2 months

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Lost Kin | Chapter XXXVIII | A Forbidden Warmth

Fandom: Hollow Knight Rating: Mature Characters: Hornet, Pure Vessel | Hollow Knight, Quirrel Category: Gen Content Warnings: intrusive thoughts, flashbacks, panic attacks AO3: Lost Kin | Chapter XXXVIII | A Forbidden Warmth First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Chronological Notes: Hornet and Quirrel prepare Hollow for surgery.

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Its sister was missing.

It knew this as soon as it became aware enough to feel the chill beside it. Her warmth was what it clung to as it drifted into slumber, her presence by its side an anchor against the turbulence of its own mind—

And now she was gone.

Gone from its side, where she had been when it fell asleep. And, it found when it opened its eyes, from the room entirely.

But it was not alone.

The scholar sat near the fireplace, bent over something in his own lap, in a way that looked distinctly uncomfortable. How long he had been here, seemingly waiting for it to wake, it did not know.

Had he been watching it? Gathering information? Unease swept over it like a chill wave. What could he possibly learn from it as it slept?

At the moment, however, he was occupied. He held something small and bright in one hand, applying careful strokes of a whetstone to it with the other, while occasionally turning it to meet the light of the window with a pale spark in the dimness.

For an instant, it saw another blade, in another hand. Double-edged. Glowing.

No, that was not right. That was another piece of the memory it had uncovered, another thing that had no place here and now. It blinked, and the glow cleared, and it saw what Quirrel held.

A scalpel.

It knew such tools, knew their names and uses, from long hours on the worktable, when its father had been too tired to work alone and had brought assistants with him. From the scholars who had hovered nearby in twos and threes during its molts, who had chatted to one another as they cut and pried the sloughing shell from its body. Scalpels, shears, forceps, lancets—it remembered them all. Foggy as its early experiences could be, these shone clear and vivid in its memory.

Perhaps they should not. Perhaps they should be as blurred and unimportant as its many hours on duty, as the unceasing repetitions of its training. But its mind did not obey it, and the memories stayed sharp.

Its sister had promised that she would resume her work today. Purging the infection from it, by whatever means she must.

It could not help the way its breath hitched at that, its chest already tightening. Not in fear of the pain that would come, but for what it might do in response. For the danger that it posed, the lashing claws and snapping teeth that it knew it was capable of. For who it might hurt, when it lost control.

The cricket noticed.

He looked up, seeming startled, and lowered the implement out of its sight. “Ah. Um.” He craned his head around, a useless motion, looking around for someone who was not present—its sister, perhaps. After hesitating, he placed the scalpel into a small, dark case and tipped the lid shut. “Pardon me. Good morning.”

It could not respond. Did he expect a response? He certainly spoke to it as if he did.

“I believe your sister is asleep in the kitchen.” He rose, bowing slightly, another action that seemed useless to it. But then, it was not meant to judge. “Allow me to fetch her.”

He disappeared into the next room, leaving it truly alone—as it had been outside the temple, as it had been the day the fever crept up and smothered it. Its heart beat faster.

It was in those moments of solitude that its failure weighed on it the heaviest. It was in being alone that its impurity shone most clearly. The vessel could no longer deceive itself into thinking it had been worthy of containing the goddess, but that was what it had attempted to do regardless, ignoring the pain, ignoring the growing dread that she would one day break out and be free of it. It had held, as long as it could, and then it had broken, as it always feared. But the thought of being alone—

Alone meant that she had won. That she had been right. That it was abandoned, cast aside, its body too broken to serve any longer, its mind split open and emptied of all except the fear and shame and agony it should never have felt.

Alone meant that—

That there was another suffering in its place.

It felt more memories lapping slowly at it. More images of the temple, bright and warped and glistening, distorted by the light that had inhabited it. By the infection, like a flow of molten stone, melting and obliterating everything it touched.

No.

No, it would not break again, not now. The vessel was not truly alone, not as it had been then. It would not succumb, would not weaken and fail its wielder once again. It—it was stronger than that, still, it—

Quiet words, from within the kitchen. Then louder ones: its sister’s name, repeated.

Then there was a small series of noises it did not know how to interpret. A scrape and a grunt, the rasp of claws on stone or shell. Silence. Or near-silence—someone was breathing hard, winded.

Its heartbeat pulsed harder, pushing spikes of pain through its mask. A different sort of fear rose up to take hold of it.

Quirrel had said her name, but it had not heard her reply.

Was she injured? Was she sick, or unconscious? No one had entered the house, there was no enemy to guard against, and it did not know what it should do if something had happened—

What could have happened—

It lifted its head from the pillows, craning round just as the scholar had done, staring fixedly at the darkened doorway through the dizziness that assaulted it. It had not been asked to move, to attempt to help, but—perhaps it could—

Hornet appeared in the doorway, with Quirrel just behind her.

It laid its head down, quickly, as if its actions might escape notice. That was too much to hope, of course, but she didn’t attempt to punish it, did not even speak a word of reprimand.

Instead, she trudged across the room and sank down in front of it, reaching to take its face in her hands and resting her forehead against one of its horns.

It was still. Despite the shock that trembled through it, despite the tender pressure in its throat as she knelt there and rested her head against its own, supporting her weight against it.

Gradually, it realized that the trembling was Hornet. Shaking, almost too subtly to notice beneath the heavy drape of her cloak, except that her horn knocked faintly against its mask, and her hands were unsteady on its cheeks.

It braced itself, providing as stable a surface as it could for her to lean against. She was so light, so gentle, and it would remain here forever if she asked, bear her up as long as she wished, as long as she had need of it. Bewildering, that she would want this, that she would ever desire the assistance of something so broken. But this, faulty as it had proven to be, was something it could do.

Too soon, she sat back, running her hands down toward its muzzle, but not removing them entirely. She was not shaking nearly so much, now, and it swayed beneath a weight of crooked pride at the thought that it had helped her, in some way that it did not understand.

Hornet swallowed. “I’m sorry, I—” A crack in her throat. She swallowed and began again. “It was just a-another nightmare.”

It had never had a nightmare. Or a dream, in the usual sense. True, a dream had been imposed upon it, trapping it within a realm it had no place in, but it had no frame of reference for the sleep-phantoms that a truly living being might experience.

But if they were enough to unnerve its sister, courageous as she was, they must be terrible indeed.

Nightmares were the realm of a separate god, it knew. A god its father had been aware of, a god that the Radiance had known, once. It knew nothing about him, but if he was tormenting its sister—

What could it do? Nothing, and yet an unfamiliar heat welled up within it, a reckless fervor that made it act without thinking, without suppressing its own instincts, lifting its head again to push more firmly against her.

She sat, silent and still, long enough for shame to take hold, for the vessel to be sure it had done something wrong. It drew back, only for her hands to tighten, pulling it more closely to her chest. She tapped her mask against its own again, and the heat and shame both dissolved into fragile, aching wonder, a wonder that disbelief and doubt did nothing to diminish.

Whatever else she wanted, whatever fate awaited it, it had this. This was more, more, more than enough—this impossible chance to offer solace in return for the undeserved kindness she had given it.

It was a long time before she calmed completely, before the shivering stopped, and she began to relax. Its neck was aching by then, a fact that it deliberately ignored. But she must have guessed, for she took care to release it gently, lowering its head back to rest on the pillows it had partly risen from.

Only then did it remember the scholar, hovering at the edge of the room as if unwilling to intrude, rubbing his wrist like it pained him.

Its sister looked over her shoulder, head lowered in that way she had when she was tired. It seemed she was never not tired, now. Were these nightmares the cause of that?

If it could, it would free her from them. The touch of a dream-god was, in the vessel’s experience, an excruciating thing to endure. It was no longer strong enough to pose a challenge, but oh, if it could have been—

“I’m… sorry,” Hornet mumbled. “About your arm.”

“Oh?” Quirrel started, looked down at his wrist, and dropped his hand from it. “Oh. It’s nothing. My own fault. I-I should have guessed I would need to be more careful.”

“In the future, perhaps a stick would be advisable,” she replied, without a hint of irony.

Quirrel choked on something that sounded very much like a laugh. “Noted.”

It did not have enough context to infer the meaning of that. Since the conversation did not seem relevant to it, it refocused on its sister, as she sat back and rubbed her hands over her knees, claws turned under to avoid catching at her cloak.

She returned her own attention to the vessel a moment later, considering it, tracing its form with her gaze.

Quietly, almost tentatively, she said, “I’d like to try again with what we attempted yesterday.”

It tensed.

Was she speaking to it? What exactly was she referring to?

The only thing its suddenly frantic mind could settle on was the moment she had tried to take its pulse and it had rebelled against her, pulling free from her grasp. While it would willingly suffer that much and more before it did so again, it could not be sure that its instincts would agree.

Before its thoughts could follow those lines much farther, she held one hand out to it. “Taking your pulse will mean I need to touch your throat—gently. You may still pull away if it causes you pain, or if you begin to panic. Quirrel will stay over there,” with a nod at where he stood at the window, nearly out of its line of sight, “and he will only be counting the time.”

Oh. Oh, that was kind of her, so kind, but it should not need to be protected in this way. A knot woven of both pride and shame twisted tight under its shell. She was gracious, far more so than it deserved. To see what it needed, to feel out the things it could not do and the dangers it could not warn her of, and instead of taking advantage, to accommodate it—

It would be sucked beneath the weight of its fear if it lingered here much longer, and she would have to pull it out again.

The notion of its faults being seen, measured, recorded, still caused a swell of fear within it, but it lifted its head before she could withdraw her offer, placing its chin in her hand.

It seemed that she was trembling again, until the vessel realized that was it, causing her arm to shake with the force of its fear. It tried to tense, to lock down the impulses that were betraying it. This only caused a larger shudder, making its impurity even more visible, until Hornet brought her other hand to its neck and stroked her thumb along its shell.

“Relax, please,” she pleaded. “I wish—I wish we did not need to do this, if it scares you so. But it will not hurt, I promise.”

It was not afraid of pain. It had no way to explain this to her. It was afraid—

It was afraid of the watching eyes, the scratch of pens, the brush of fingers on its throat—

It was afraid of the memories.

They would take hold of it as soon as it dropped its guard. As soon as it turned its gaze elsewhere. It had no way to stop them, and its vigilance could not be maintained forever.

And it had no way to warn its sister of this. No way to tell her what was coming. No way to know if she—or her ally—would be in danger.

It must endure. That was all that was left to it—it must hold out as long as it was able, beat the insanity back as far as it could. It would obey. It had sworn to itself that it would conquer its fear, that it would master this fault, somehow, to keep its sister safe.

That oath did not help much against the way its guts seemed to turn soft and wobbly, like one of the bizarre quivering jellies it had seen served at Palace banquets.

Long ago. Very long ago, now. The past could not reach it, and the present was not so terrible. It would lie here, lie still, waiting, until its shivering died down into nothing.

Long minutes passed, with its neck gone limp and its mask’s weight resting on Hornet’s palm, with the soft pad of her thumb brushing its throat. Until she exhaled, whispered, “There, that’s it,” and moved her hand upward.

Pressure on its jaw, above the edge where its shell ended. The callused texture of Hornet’s fingers caught on the softness of its skin while she felt beneath its mask. It did not move, did not so much as twitch, when her questing touch brought her to the pulse point there.

She settled with a sigh—of relief, it thought—and pressed more firmly, though still gentle, until it could feel its heartbeat jumping out to meet her.

The drum of void beneath its shell was everywhere, suddenly, palpable in every joint and fingertip, all the way out to the edges of it. Knowing that she could feel it too, that every skip and falter would make its way to her, brought the limits of the vessel’s body into sharp focus. It swam blindly in that new awareness, feeling exposed, transparent, as though every plate of its armor had suddenly turned into glass.

It did not know how long it lay there, trying not to tremble, sensing every beat of its heart like a hammer-blow, before Quirrel’s voice broke the stillness. “Time.”

Hornet withdrew her right hand from its throat, tucking its head back down and resting it against the pillow before she removed the other. “Seventy-four.”

“Hm.”

She looked at him. When that alone did not provoke an answer, she repeated the sound he’d made. “Hm?”

The scratch of a pencil finished before he spoke up. “Granted, we have no reference for their normal heart rate. But that seems accelerated, for someone their size.”

“I could not tell you,” she said flatly. “I’ve never been any bigger than I am.”

“That’s certainly a relief.” This comment was made with a wry sort of amusement. “I’m not sure the world could handle much more of you.”

Its sister hissed at that, but she did not seem entirely serious, and Quirrel only grinned faintly back at her. “Regardless, recording your resting pulse rate—and my own—might help somewhat. And taking your sibling’s again later. Learning of any variation there will be useful.”

“We will do that, then.” Hornet leaned forward, placing her fingers on its face, speaking only to it, low, where the cricket could not hear. “Well done. Thank you.”

It breathed out, grazing her wrist with the chilly air in its throat. How could it have done well? It had only done what it was told—what it should have done the day before, when it had clearly disobeyed. She’d given it another chance, without condemnation, and what she had learned was unfavorable: its heart was not functioning properly. Beating too quickly, either as a result of its fear, or the thinning of the void in its veins, or the ravages of infection in places it could not feel or see.

She had no reason to thank it.

But had it not sworn not to judge her? Had it not concluded that it had no place to question what she did with it? If she saw fit to thank it—no matter what forbidden warmth surfaced in response to the praise—it must let her.

There seemed to be something else she wished to say; she held its stare, tilting her head and clicking her fangs haltingly, but in the end, she remained quiet. Hunched her shoulders, and swallowed, hard, and looked away.

“Quirrel,” she said instead, “have you finished with the tools?”

“Not quite yet. Give me half an hour, perhaps.”

Its sister nodded. She stood and left it there, moving a little unsteadily, as if her legs had gone weak. Almost as its father used to do, when standing from his desk after too long sunk in his work, though his legs had been much shorter than hers.

It would not do to think of him now. To remember how carefully he’d monitored its health, through all its growth and training, the meticulous records he’d kept, the ways he’d found to keep it sound, to make it stronger. He would know how to fix it—or how to dispose of it, so that it would not hurt anyone else. Its sister must not have access to that knowledge now, as timid and incomplete as her efforts were.

She would do nothing but her best, it knew. She would give nothing but her all, though that was far more than a disgraced vessel merited.

It had not been given any further orders, so it watched the preparations made. Shellwood stacked and lit beneath a kettle filled with water. Knives and shears honed keenly, held inside the sputtering flame until they glowed. Towels laid out near where the vessel lay, and tattered rags stacked alongside, and one basin, then two, filled and placed at the ready.

Hornet was quiet, ignoring its regard as she went about her tasks, responding in single syllables to Quirrel’s intermittent questions. When she had run out of things to carry, she paced, fists clenched in the sides of her cloak, as she waited for the scholar to be ready.

The vessel’s heart was doubtless beating faster now. If she were to take its pulse again, she might find cause for worry. It did not stir, holding its breathing to its regular rhythm, though the world began to gray again at the edges.

Finally, she turned, holding herself rigid, her voice as brittle as glass. “Quirrel, would you leave us for a moment?”

Quirrel looked up and set down the implement he’d been heating. “Of course. I should fetch something from upstairs, in any case.”

As soon as he was gone, Hornet hastened toward it, crouching at its side and staring into its eyes. “Listen to me,” she said, hushed but urgent. “I know—I know that you have told me you’re unsure if you can do it. But—”

She choked, turning her head aside, not looking at it as she continued on. “I must have your agreement in this. I must know that you will tell me if I need to stop.”

That was enough to break its control immediately, its heartbeat spiking higher, driving its vision toward darkness. It was breathing fast, and it sounded horrible, torn and strained and fraying, and the only thing that could begin to bring it back was the weight in its hand, as she clasped both of hers over it, curling its fingers under her own.

“I know. I know,” she whispered. “I am sorry, Hollow—I am.”

It could not answer while she held it, and yet it would be lost if she let go. It shuddered, sending a twitch through its fingers that she felt and returned, squeezing tighter, as if in answer.

“I would not ask, except”—she sighed, her throat trembling nearly as much as the vessel’s did—“except that I must protect myself, and Quirrel. I cannot be so careless now. It is not—it was not your fault, what you did. It was mine, and I never should have pushed you so, but I have no choice except to do it again.”

The last words shuddered, her voice trembling and bowing in her throat like a bent branch, and it nearly keened in response, aching with the knowledge that she blamed herself for its weakness. This was not her mistake to take responsibility for, not her burden to bear, but she had shouldered it anyway, and now she suffered for it.

Its father had often done the same.

“I swear, I… I will make it as easy as I can. I will use my silk to bind you, and I will not do more to you than you can bear if I can help it. But I need to know. I need you to tell me. Will you?”

Her plea spilled out in a tumble of words, almost more than it could follow, scattered as it was. The thought that she should need to beg it so, for anything, woke a flutter of unease in its breast.

She was its monarch now. She was its liege, its wielder, and she should never have to plead with it. It must obey.

And if she asked something that it could not do—

It would have to find a way.

The vessel’s fingers stirred in the cage of her hands. She let go, all at once, and it felt the lack of her as the cold rushed back to replace all of her warmth.

It gasped and quaked, struggling to stay afloat, to keep its head above the water, to—gods curse it, to think.

What she asked it to do was a horror to it. A violation of its purpose, of the reason it existed.

And yet it had fallen far, and would fall farther still, to please her.

Yes, it said, its hand shaking, shaking, with the pulse of fear deep in its veins, and there was so much more within that word, things it could not say, if I can and if I must and for you, I will try.

She made a sound, half a sob, half a laugh, and it could not begin to guess what that meant, what it said that she could not, what hid within her relief and her remorse.

Reluctant, almost timid, she reached out to it, as if it would ever not want what she offered, as if it would ever not feel that hunger stirring, that strange warmth in its core that melted its resolve away. When it did not pull back, when it let itself slip and pushed against her hand, wanting, needing, she yielded. She eased down next to it, pulling its head to lie against her leg, looping an arm around its neck to keep it steady as it shuddered and heaved and weathered the storm its own mind had created.

It seemed a long time before the haze cleared, before it could feel more than the pounding of the pulse in its head and the crawling of claws over its shell. Hornet kept it steady once again. She brushed her thumb over its throat every so often, reminding it to breathe—and though shame overtook it, shame that it must be assisted with something so simple, gratitude soon followed, that she should understand that it needed this at all.

When it was calm again at last, and only the aftershocks of its panic still quaked through it, she straightened a bit and called out quietly. “You can come down now.”

Halting footsteps descended the stairs, and Quirrel came into view. “I was not intending to intrude.”

“You did not,” Hornet said, sighing. Her hands went still, curling into fists against its throat and mask, then relaxing. “Is everything ready?”

“Nearly.” He crossed the room, opening a small cloth pouch and proffering it. “This is for you; I believe it might help.”

Its sister leaned forward to look in but did not reach out. “Help with what?” she said, a trifle sharply.

“Well. I get headaches on occasion. Less often, now that—well. In any case, in the last kingdom I visited, I discovered that chewing this herb relieved some of the associated symptoms.” Quirrel hesitated. “Mainly nausea.”

Nausea?

Was its sister ill? It breathed in, slowly, attempting to observe her scent, though the information gathered told it nothing new, nothing it had not already known. It had heard that some creatures could smell sickness, but evidently that was not an ability afforded to vessels. Not one it ever should have needed, most likely.

Hornet neither confirmed nor denied Quirrel’s assumption, though she did take the bag and stow it somewhere in her cloak. “Stand aside, if you please. I need to move them.”

He did so, and as its sister untangled herself and stood up, the vessel realized it had already tensed, anticipating the pain that was sure to come when it stirred. This would not do, when she had just spent so much effort calming it. An attempt at relaxing was only partially successful; its shoulders were still twisted tight and aching when Hornet bent back down to speak to it.

“I’d like you to lie on these blankets.” She gestured to the ones she had laid out on the scrubbed floor next to the bed, along with a stack of pillows that were positioned to prop up its horns. “Move as slowly as you need to and stop to rest if you must. I will be beside you so you do not fall.”

This was an attempt to keep the bed clean, it guessed. It had seen how she struggled to remove the void-stains from the sheets after her last attempt, the frayed fabric still cloudy in places despite her best efforts.

The vessel eyed the blankets she had indicated. Undoubtedly, it would muss her neat handiwork by trying to lie on top of it, but it saw no alternative. It regarded the distance from the mattress to the floor, weighing the methods it might use to traverse the space without falling or damaging itself.

In the end, it ought not to have bothered. As soon as it rolled forward and pushed up on its remaining arm, the pain and dizziness roared back with a vengeance, and it was left fumbling to prop its legs beneath it, one knee slipping off the mattress and cracking against the floor, causing a bright spark of pain that instantly vanished in the blaze.

It must have listed to the left, unaware of it in the swirling turmoil of the room. Its bad side fetched up against an obstacle, something warm and clinging, something that wobbled dangerously, and then its sister shouted, “Quirrel? Quirrel!”

“I’m here,” his voice said, and the weight against it doubled, a second pair of hands joining Hornet’s frantic, sliding grip. “I’m here. We have you.”

After a hurried, whispered dispute, both pairs of hands shifted, guiding it down, turning it carefully before lowering it onto the floor. The flagstones were cool and hard, solid, something it could cling to while the room was spinning.

Panting, only half-aware of anything beyond the pain and the frenzied motion, it closed its eyes and latched its silk-lined claws into the first thing it felt, tearing threads in the blanket beneath it. Its back was pulled taut, shoulders pressing into the floor, horns scraping the stone until warm hands moved it once more, tilting its head to the side and slipping a cushion under its neck.

Another touch, across its legs, as its sister began to weave silk lines to bind it; suddenly it heard that the voice murmuring encouragement was not Hornet’s, and the hands adjusting the pillows had no claws.

It... did not quite feel anything about that now. Not when Quirrel tucked another cushion under its shoulder, relieving the pressure of its spine against the floor, and whispered that he was sorry, that it should breathe deeply and relax, that the pain would ease sooner if it did. It tried to follow his advice, tried to clutch the reassurance tight, tried to let the calm in his voice relieve the pressure in its chest.

He continued speaking as it lay there, his voice coming from just to its left and above, where his hand rested on one horn. Something about dizziness, and how unpleasant it could be, and the headaches he had mentioned, although he was sure what he himself had gone through was no comparison. As he was not a void creature who had been infected by dreams, it could not help but agree.

No more than a weak sense of disquiet arose at the touch, with every other sensation demanding so much of its attention. The contact on two points of its body tethered it to earth, as much as the slowly growing web of silk did, though the bands of silk were infinitely more forgiving than the bonds it had known before, just as smooth and soft as the last time she had bound it.

The pressure was… comforting, almost, though shame writhed to the surface again at the thought that comfort might be something that it needed.

Its sister worked her way up its body, stringing wide, soft skeins of silk that lay cool across its shell, pulling them snug and anchoring them to the floor on either side. She broke the silence to tell it that, although it should stop if the bindings grew tight enough to damage it, she wanted it to try to move its legs.

It could not. Not much more than a few inches.

She did not say whether that was good, or what she had expected, merely continued weaving while it slowly found the ability to relax into its new position.

If this meant that it would not have the ability to hurt her, it would be glad. If it was too weak to break her silk, if the slow failure of its body would protect her from harm, it would be nothing but grateful.

She was thorough, placing anchors every few feet, stretching silk across its hips, its waist, avoiding the large stretch of its chest where she would need space clear to work, but circling its good shoulder with a thick loop and tying it down. Two more pulled its arm to the floor and fastened it, but when she reached its hand, she stopped.

It felt the silk around its claw slip off. Just the one—its first finger.

Strange.

She spun a pad into its palm, taking precaution against its own talons stabbing in. On all its other claws, she renewed the wrappings, but she did not bind its fingers shut, leaving them open and spread upon the stone, before she laced a last band around its wrist and secured it to the floor.

“Hollow?”

Her voice was warbling. It inched its head to the side to look at her, fearful to start the room whirling again, and locked her mask into its vision.

She laid one hand over its bound one, touching its loose claw with one of her own. “This is how you will signal to me if you have need. Tap three times to attract my attention.” She demonstrated, a light pattern on the flagstones. “Two times for yes, once for no. Three taps, then two, for something else.” After each signal, she showed it what she wanted, then asked it to repeat. Still winded from the pain, it could almost do so without fear, concentrating solely on the motion and overlooking the meaning, the gravity, of what she asked.

Finished, she sat back, those ivory fangs working, twitching, in search of what to say.

“I-I will not be angry, if you ask to stop.” Her inhale broke in two, a hiccup, nearly, but when she breathed out, it was steady. “I wish for you to—to tell the truth, about how much you can bear. Do you hear me?”

The vessel trembled, the motion caught within the silk, muffling it. It did hear her. She knew that. And what was more, when the silence stretched, it became clear that she wanted the vessel to answer.

It would do as she asked, it must, but—perhaps this would not be needed. Perhaps it could be strong enough to fight off the panic, the memories of pain that stirred and snarled and seized it tightly, sinking claws into its mind. That was a desperate hope, but the vessel knew no other kind—all its hopes had always been desperate, grasping, the perversity of the action ensuring that every one it dared to cling to was all but strangled by the force of its grip.

It was plain, now, that any fleeting impression it had ever had of its own purity was false. What folly, to hide behind that shattered veneer, when every being present knew of its weakness, knew the pitiful frailty of the resolve it had once thought unbreakable. It would break, again and again. It would shudder and flinch and cry out in pain, though none would ever hear or answer.

If it really was to tell the truth, it could bear very little. Especially in comparison to how strong it once was. It had taken years for the Radiance to break it, but once it finally cracked, the illusion was undone. Now a mere mortal’s touch could ruin it, reduce it to shaking and sobbing like something beaten, abandoned, left to wither and die where no one would see or take pity on it.

Any time spent observing it would put the lie to the notion of its purity. No one could look at it now and not know that it was a pitiable thing, lingering on past any semblance of usefulness, left in the world to suffer for its mistakes in a penance it would never pay.

To admit that it was failing—to expose its falsehoods for all to see—that was the least of what it deserved.

It was trembling in earnest now, breath shuddering, shell gone nearly numb as terror took hold and swept it away. But it must answer.

Two taps. Shaky, halting. Yes.

It could barely feel Hornet’s hand close over its own, barely hear Quirrel’s soft words resume as they both attempted to quiet it. If it had a way to tell them to let it be, let it suffer—it should not accept comfort, when this pain was something it had more than earned—

It could not quite make itself say no.

The faint, fragile warmth seeping through it was so, so hard to ignore.

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sunshinesmebdy · 3 months

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Moon in Scorpio: Dive Deep, Conquer Challenges, and Transform Your Business Finances

Forget sunshine and rainbows, astrologers! Buckle up, business owners, for the Moon in Scorpio plunges us into the murky depths of ambition, transformation, and hidden truths. It's not for the faint of heart, but for those willing to dive deep, this lunar phase holds the potential to uncover buried treasures and emerge with financially resilient businesses forged in the fires of passion and strategy.

Business Benefits:

Ruthless Transformation: Embrace the power of metamorphosis! Use this lunar phase to identify weaknesses in your business, shed outdated practices, and rebuild with laser focus. This isn't a time for half-measures; go full Scorpio and dissect, revamp, and redefine for true success.

Don your business scalpel, entrepreneurs, for under Scorpio's Moon, your metamorphosis begins! Ruthlessly dissect inefficiencies, expose hidden flaws, and shed outdated practices like a serpent molts its skin. This isn't a time for wishy-washy tweaks; channel your inner Phoenix and rise from the ashes of mediocrity. Reforge your business with laser focus, wielding your strategic scalpel like a sculptor of success. Remember, Scorpio craves depth, not half-measures; go all in, redefine your boundaries, and emerge from the lunar firestorm an empowered powerhouse, ready to claim your financial Everest.

Unwavering Determination: Channel your inner warrior! Scorpio's Moon fuels your tenacity. Tackle even the most daunting challenges with unwavering resolve. Obstacles? Mere stepping stones for your relentless drive. Remember, success often lies just beyond the perceived impossible.

Under Scorpio's Moon, your inner warrior ignites with undying flames. Fear not the looming mountains of challenges; see them as mere stepping stones on your ascent to success. Obstacles crumble before your relentless drive, fueled by a tenacious spirit that refuses to yield. Channel your inner Spartan, forge your resolve in the fires of hardship, and remember, the greatest treasures often lie just beyond the perceived impossible. So, raise your entrepreneurial banner, charge towards your goals with unwavering determination, and claim your victory under Scorpio's moonlit sky.

Intuitive Insights: Trust your gut like never before! Scorpio's Moon grants access to your hidden depths of wisdom. Pay attention to subconscious whispers, hunches, and dreams. These seemingly cryptic messages could hold the key to solving long-standing problems or unearthing lucrative opportunities.

Forget logic's lamp, entrepreneurs – under Scorpio's Moon, your gut reigns supreme! Dive into the murky depths of your intuition, where whispers of wisdom surface like buried treasure. Heed those seemingly cryptic hunches, listen to the echoes of premonitions in your dreams, and pay close attention to the gnawing whispers of your subconscious. These aren't random anxieties; they're cosmic breadcrumbs leading to solutions for long-standing problems or doors to unexpected opportunities. Trust your gut like never before, for under Scorpio's moonlit sway, it could become your most valuable financial compass.

Powerhouse Negotiations: Forget compromise; unleash your inner power negotiator! Scorpio's Moon equips you with an ironclad will and razor-sharp intellect. Go for the win-win, but don't be afraid to walk away from deals that don't serve your ultimate vision.

Forget velvet gloves, entrepreneurs – under Scorpio's moon, unleash your inner iron fist! Negotiations become chess matches, your will forged in molten magma. Don't settle for crumbs; wield your razor-sharp intellect like a double-edged sword, carving win-win deals that fuel your ultimate vision. Remember, compromise isn't a dirty word, but walking away from misaligned partnerships is a power play. Stand firm, negotiate like a titan, and leave the table only with agreements that ignite your success, proving that under Scorpio's moon, power negotiations dance to your tune.

Financial Fortunes:

Debt Demolition: Face your financial demons head-on! Use this lunar phase to tackle debt with Scorpio's relentless intensity. Create aggressive, personalized repayment plans fueled by unwavering determination. Watch those balances shrink faster than a vampire in sunlight.

Ditch the financial Band-Aids and grab your cosmic sledgehammer, entrepreneurs! Under Scorpio's moon, face your debt demons head-on. Unveil hidden spending, dissect unnecessary expenses like a financial pathologist, and craft aggressive, personalized repayment plans forged in the fires of your relentless determination. Forget slow and steady; this is a sprint under the lunar spotlight. Channel your inner debt demolition crew, fueled by unwavering focus, and watch those balances crumble faster than a vampire exposed to sunlight. Remember, Scorpio craves transformation, and this time, your financial phoenix rises from the ashes of debt, leaving you empowered and ready to reclaim your fiscal freedom.

Investing with Conviction: Ditch the fads and trends! Scorpio's Moon whispers of long-term, strategic investments. Research meticulously, invest with conviction, and hold your ground against market jitters. Remember, slow and steady wins the financial race under this lunar influence.

Under Scorpio's Moon, swap market trends for meticulous research and long-term vision. Invest like a celestial chess player, analyzing risks and opportunities with an eagle eye. Ditch the herd mentality and forge your own path, fueled by an ironclad conviction in your choices. Hold your ground against market jitters, knowing that beneath the surface, hidden gems may slumber. Slow and steady is the mantra here; remember, the tortoise beats the hare in this moonlit financial race. So, research, strategize, and invest with unwavering conviction, for under Scorpio's watchful gaze, depth and patience unlock the path to true financial power.

Uncovering Hidden Assets: Unleash your inner financial detective! Scorpio's Moon shines a light on hidden assets, forgotten accounts, or unexpected opportunities. Revisit old investments, renegotiate contracts, and explore alternative income streams. You might be surprised by what you find lurking in the shadows.

Dust off your financial magnifying glass, entrepreneurs! Under Scorpio's Moon, your inner Sherlock Holmes awakens, sniffing out hidden treasures in the shadows of your finances. Revisit dusty portfolios, unravel forgotten bank accounts, and renegotiate contracts with laser focus. Explore alternative income streams like a celestial treasure hunter, unearthing untapped potential lurking in neglected corners. Don't be afraid to delve deep, for beneath the surface, unexpected gold may glimmer. Remember, Scorpio thrives on unearthing secrets, and your financial future might just hinge on one illuminating discovery under this moonlit detective mission.

Generosity with Purpose: Scorpio's generosity isn't about showy displays; it's about strategic partnerships and calculated philanthropy. Invest in causes you truly believe in, forge mutually beneficial alliances, and watch your network blossom into a web of financial resilience and shared success.

Under Scorpio's Moon, your generosity takes a strategic turn. Think calculated philanthropy, not showy displays. Invest in causes that ignite your soul, forge alliances that weave your values into a tapestry of shared success. It's a cosmic quid pro quo, not handouts. Offer your expertise, leverage your network, and watch your generosity blossom into a web of mutual gain, financial resilience blooming from seeds sown with purpose. Remember, Scorpio craves depth, not superficiality. Choose your partners wisely, align your values, and witness your network transform into a powerful ecosystem of growth, proving that under this lunar influence, giving isn't just spending, it's strategically investing in a brighter future for all.

Bonus Tip: Embrace the raw power of Scorpio! Surround yourself with dark colors, intense music, and powerful imagery. Channel your inner warrior through physical activities or intense workouts. Remember, power, not superficiality, reigns supreme under this moon.

So, there you have it! The Moon in Scorpio is your invitation to dive deep into your business and finances, shed the skin of mediocrity, and emerge stronger, more resilient, and financially empowered. Prepare for intense work, unwavering determination, and unexpected transformations. Remember, under Scorpio's moonlit gaze, the greatest treasures are often found in the darkest depths.

#moon in scorpio #scorpio moon #business astrology #astrology notes #astrology updates #astrology facts #astrology #astrology community #astrology observations #astro posts #astro notes #astropost #astro girlies #astro community #astro observations

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shywhumpauthor · 10 months

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Two Weeks of Whump—Day Three

Car Battery // Scalpel // Alcohol

Masterlist

Cw: medical whump, deranged/mentally ill whumper (not outright stated, heavily implied, intended), noncon nudity (not sexual), noncon touching, torture, kidnapping, restraints, noncon drugging

“No- no no, don’t do this! I- I’m serious, stop!” Whumpee spat, twisting their limbs against the thick cuffs until deep bruises began to drag across their wrists. “I’ll fucking- I’ll kill you! Don’t fucking touch me!”

Despite the anger behind their tone, fear flickered behind Whumpee’s wide eyes, letting Whumper see straight through to them. The terror disguised as tension in their muscles, terror clinging to each breath.

They just hummed, a delicate rhythm only audible to themself as Whumpee’s screams and threats filled the silent lab. A dark, unfinished basement turned into a theater. Curtains of plastic draped neatly over the walls and shelving units, bright fluorescents installed across the ceiling to sharply illuminate every detail across the room. New equipment, pristine metal shone in the light, sharp shadows cutting across the floor.

Whumper moved the specialized lamp to the side of the table where Whumpee lay strapped to, still thrashing heavily and fighting their restraints. They flicked the light on, adjusting the long neck so the light was spilling down across Whumpee’s exposed torso, illuminating every inch of pure, untouched skin.

Whumpee’s chest shuddered, breath hitching as Whumper lay a gloved hand on their abdomen, feeling the muscles tense under their fingertips.

Their fingers danced over to Whumpee’s inner elbow, double checking their IV and smoothing down the medical tape where the edge had begun to peel up against their clammy skin.

The basement was cold. Whumper didn’t feel it much, below their scrubs and surgical gown, but they could see the goosebumps along Whumpee’s arms, the shudders that wracked their restrained form. They were naked, the sheared tatters of their clothing Whumper had cut away a few minutes prior peeled away and discarded into the waste bin just by their feet. There was a thin surgical drape laid over their lower half, but it hd been disrupted by the squirming.

With a gentle, steady hand, Whumper reached down and fixed it, pulling it back into place.

All good.

They gave Whumpee a soft smile, dragging their hand up and across the captive’s midriff, tracing a line up the center with the tip of their nail.

Whumper pulled their hand away and stepped back, resuming their humming as they made their way across the basement to a deep basin sink, where they turned on the water and began scrubbing their hands with sterile antibacterial soap.

It was as if they didn’t hear the screaming at all. Completely indifferent to the threats and the pleads and the begging as they dried their hands with a clean blue towel, before grabbing a face mask and fitting it over their mouth and nose.

They stepped back towards the sink and began washing their hands for the second time.

“Please! Please I- I won’t tell anyone! Just- just let me go!” Whumpee sobbed, slumping back against the cold metal table, the struggling having only exhausted them. Tears slid across their temples, the lights above them blurring as they tried to fight back the cries.

The running water suddenly fell silent, and Whumper stepped away from the sink again, moving to a small rolling tray off to the side. They slid on a pair of surgical gloves, and began to unload metal tools from a silver case. From their position, Whumpee couldn’t see what they were really holding, only glimpses of the light reflecting off the blades.

A cold, heavy feeling settled in the pit of their stomach, and Whumpee let out a small sob, twisting their head to the other side so they didn’t have to look.

Whumper finished arranging the tools, delicately placing the final scalpel on the clean tray, sliding the table over and locking the wheels in place just next to where Whumpee was restrained. They tugged the gloves off and tossed them into the waste bin, and returned to the sink for their third and final hand wash.

The room was eerily quiet, the running water blending with Whumpee’s sniffles, Whumper’s hum filling any silence, yet the room seemed to snuff out every sound. Whumpee could hear their heartbeat, the blood pounding in their ears, hands curling into fists, nails biting into their palms as they tried to calm down their rising panic.

The water turned off, and Whumper dried their hands, pulling on a fresh pair of gloves.

Their footsteps were deafening as they walked back to the table, pausing over Whumpee’s body. The captive shuddered, unable to resist the instinct to raise their eyes to Whumper, whispering one last “please..”

Whumper didn’t blink, taking the scalpel delicately in their hand. They pressed their other hand to Whumpee’s sternum, tracing their fingers down to the bottom of their ribcage.

They brought the scalpel to the skin, letting the blade rest against flesh for a moment as they hummed the final few notes of their song.

Then slowly, they dug the edge deep into the flesh, and dragged the blade down.

————————————————————

@promptsforyourwhumpfic

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glimmeringtwilight · 2 years

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Imagine Dottore breaking his s/o to the point they see his demented shit as genuine acts of love

YES. This is the IDEAL for Dottore. If you're not looking forward to waking up on the exam table; if you don't want to do the same to him, then he's doing something wrong.

Ok I'm gonna put this below a cut because this turned nsfw fjfjfkskdk

CW: knifeplay, drugging, addiction mentions, body horror, referenced torture/conditioning, yandere themes, abusive relationship, NSFW (no explicit sex but it's Discussed), mindbreak.

It is a bit of a double-edged sword. You come to associate his more... unsavory actions, with love. So, while him treating you gently is nice and all, it's not the same. If he's not carving himself into you, if he's not cutting you open to watch your heart beat for him, you feel... neglected.

But once you stop giving him reasons to bring you to his operating table, he does it much less. Dottore might enjoy pulling you apart, unwrapping you like an exquisite gift, but he knows where to draw the line.

He can't do it every day, no matter how you might complain. Your incisions have to heal, your stitches have to be removed, your dressing has to be changed, etc. He'll indulge you, sometimes. Give you a sedative that he's sure you've developed a... dependency to, if you beg prettily enough.

Or, he'll tie you up, leave shallow cuts along your back with a scalpel so you're reminded of who owns you. Knifeplay and aphrodisiacs make a frequent appearance during intimacy with him once you're broken-in enough to enjoy it... Once it stops seeming like so much of a punishment to you.

Dottore seems like the type to be really bored with vanilla sex too, so admittedly, if you develop some weird kinks as a result of his conditioning, it's all the better. Honestly, nothing is off the table. You want to be on top? Sure, as long as you behave. You like biting? Sure. Branding? Absolutely. Medical play? Marry him.

He's definitely the type to put yours and his combined cum in a vial to study later. Some nights, it's just yours he wants to study. Some nights, he'll keep going until you've given him a complete sample.

But my absolute unhinged thirst for Dottore aside, he just wants you to want the things he does to you; to see things the way he sees them. Mutual obsession. It's not enough for you to love him, you have to obsess over him just as he does you.

Of course, he wants you to still be mostly the same as you were when you caught his eye. If you're completely broken, left as a hollow shell of your former self, then he'll try to fix you, instead.

Maybe he'll even feel guilty. He doesn't just want a corpse to fuck, he wants you. And if he just wanted to be on the receiving end of obsession, he'd fuck one of his clones. No. He wants it from you, and it's not the same when your eyes are so lightless, so hollow.

But it's okay. Just take this, swallow it all, good pet... It's a shame you'll forget all of the bonding time you spent together, but he needs to do this. He needs a clean slate, so that he can break you down and build you back up the right way. Maybe you just need a gentler hand... He can do gentle. Really, he can.

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the-last-f2p · 6 months

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can I request 68 and 69 with yosano

Yeah :D

68: “maybe after this, you’ll go back to being my sweet and obedient darling” and 69: “you’re not you without me. we’re meant to be together for eternity”

Featuring: Akiko Yosano

TW: User does have a healing ability but it's like only able to heal scratches and breaks, double suicide mention, implied violence?, blades, more specifically scalpels.

Akiko Yosano does not take kindly to any type of bullshit when it comes to you. You're supposed to be cute and helpful Y/N not another nuisance like somebody who actually SHALL be mentioned:

Fucking Osamu Dazai!

You first "joined" the detective agency after the port mafia injured a cute little bystander who was very near to death, Yosano of course had to help the bystander who got just a little bit of head trauma so sadly doesn't remember this.

The bystander awoke in the A.D.A medbay a couple hours later where Yosano was sharpening her knifes. (Like a serial killer, cool!) Of course a little freaked out they kindly asked where the hell they were. after Yosano responded "A building", which was just so useful, introduced themselves as Y/N.

You two hit it off and after Yosano found out about their new bestie's healing ablity she suggested (read as forced) them to work in the Armed detective agency as an apprentice of sorts.

Healing minor injuries as most people didn't want Yosano to chop off all of their limbs to heal a broken arm. And at the end of the day you two would clean up, talk for a while and go around Yokohoma together 'til you decide to leave.

Now thinking of it you are REALLY nice. Kind, sweet, attractive? Very protectable. And you're hanging out with Dazai great..

Fast forward back to present day and boom here you are with Dazai all handsy and flirty with him since he's your best friend! Yosano remembers when she was your best friend.. Pranking Kunikida and laughing at his reaction! Yosano could've pranked him with you.. And Dazai asking you to double suici-OKAY YOUR GIRL AKIKO HAS HAD ENOUGH.

She storms off into the medbay while tugging you by the collar. She has fire in her eyes and an intense need for blood. More specifcly, the blood of Dazai.

"Yosano what're you doing..?" You ask edging nearer to Yosano in order to either get a closer look at the blade she's holding or take it off her completely.

"Nothing really. You're not you without me, we're meant to be together for eternity," Yosano lets out an unsettling laugh "Maybe after this you'll go back to being my sweet and obedient darling." Oh she's holding a scapel.. Freshly sharpened as well.

But remember what they say: It's always the first insicion that hurts the most. But so does the second. And the third. And the fiftieth but by that time you should've learnt your lesson!

#Decided to start some form of rotation for fanfic fandoms it should be bsd genshin then hsr #yandere yosano #yandere yosano akiko #yandere akiko yosano #yandere bsd #yandere bungou stray dogs #yandere #yandere girl #yandex

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thecareandkeepingofwhumpees · 2 months

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My entry for @febuwhump day 16: came back wrong. I strayed a bit from the original prompt, but that’s where this idea originated.

Hi, @whumpy-wyrms! You asked to be tagged if I ever wrote anything about Maddox.

Content warnings: medicinal drugs, surgery, description of a corpse, dry heaving, needles, possible body dysmorphia/dysphoria triggers, and myriad scientific inaccuracies.

Maddox viewed himself, his body, as expendable.

So was it really any surprise that he, like the favorite toy of a toddler, dragged around with them everywhere without care or caution, had grown ragged; stained and fraying at the edges? No, of course not. But the fact of the matter was that his scarred and needy body had caused him more problems than it was worth.

As a scientist, it was his job to discover innovative solutions to any problems that may present themselves, and as a mad scientist, those solutions were not limited by a code of ethics or lack of government funding, meaning he could, should, and would find an alternative to his current situation.

As was so often the case, the solution came in the form of a robot. Two robots, actually. One that would become his new body, and one to hold the scalpel, because he couldn’t very well operate on his own spinal cord, now could he? No; no, that wouldn’t work. He would need to be under anesthesia, at the very least, throughout the entire procedure. Thankfully, being self-employed, he could grant himself as much time as he saw fit to build, code, and perfect two robots. It’d taken a few years and many sleepless nights, but the time had finally arrived.

Maddox laid himself down on his operating table, the robot that was soon to be him poised nearby, and slid a needle into the vein in his wrist, connecting it to the IV that would pump the anesthesia into his bloodstream. Arranging himself into the planned position, he allowed the drowsiness seeping into his mind from the drug to carry him into nothingness.

When Maddox regained consciousness, everything was wrong.

No, that- no, nothing was wrong. The procedure had gone perfectly. He should be ecstatic.

Years ago, Maddox had given himself top surgery. It had been, at that point, the most invasive procedure he’d performed on himself. It was messily done, and the scars it had left were long and jagged, but what he had felt when it was finished was relief, like an itch just out of his reach had finally been scratched.

Now, the only thing he felt was something close to horror.

His brain was spamming him with the urge to double over vomiting, an instinct that, as he was no longer in possession of a stomach, was rendered useless. Of course, he must allow for an adjustment period as his brain adapts to its new situation, he reasoned as he sank to the floor, retching. He stayed on his knees until his mechanical breathing fell back into a normal rhythm.

Then he pulled himself back up onto his feet, and glanced at the operating table, which was a bad idea because he was on the operating table. Well, no. Not him-him, but his corpse. An incision, cleaner than Maddox’s human hands could ever have achieved, slit his corpse open from the top of his head to the middle of his back, flaps of skin hanging loose as if he were a frog abandoned in the middle of dissection.

Maddox was surprised that the sight didn’t send him into another round of dry heaving, but perhaps his brain had finally realized the futility of the motion. Instead, he pulled himself back onto the table, and curled up against his corpse. As he now had no reason to worry about going hungry or contracting a disease, there was nothing to prevent him from mourning himself for as long as he needed.

#febuwhumpday16 #febuwhump #maddox #came back wrong #whump #whump writing #febuwhump2024 #self-whump #self-inflicted whump #supers universe #caretaker talks

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theflintwarlock · 4 months

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Flint and the magic of history

For hundreds of thousands of years, our ancestors back to the stone age have been using flint (and obsidian) tools in areas where those rocks are abundant. The art of shaping flint has been lost to most for generations, but with the help of archaeology and extant ruins we can uncover some of the techniques they used. But what does that have to do with Witchcraft?

Lots!

First of all, it helps us connect to our ancient history and the spirits of our ancestors. Connecting to the practical work of our ancestors and ancient people is important for death and spirit work, even those whose language we would not understand at all today. Those people existed on the same land as us, and they can speak to us through these practices. We can feel a little bit of how they felt back when they lived their lives, how they might have shaped a tool they used to hunt and to carve wood to help build their homes. The very bricks used in the middle ages, even, were often knapped flint. Most especially ancient holy sites and churches.

Flint is a double-edged sword, used for hunting and building a home where you can be protected from the elements and the outside world. As such, it is an especially versatile rock in Witchcraft. It can protect you against the elements and it can carve new life through death, the hunting of prey that eas practiced from the time of our ancestors. It built the walls which are sacred to many Christians, medieval churches and monasteries were commonly made of flint. But its roots go much earlier than Christianity.

The rock itself is also extremely diverse! It is a type of quartz/chert that is rock hard, shattering in unique patterns when struck. It's razor sharp edges were used for cutting meat and as a scalpel, as well as arrow heads and small axes. It comes in many different colours, from red to orange, brown, grey-blue and almost black (though obsidian is black it is a similar but distinct stone). Encased in flint you can often find deposits of various minerals, including quartz, ancient sponges, fossils and iron to name a few.

I use each colour of flint slightly differently: red and orange flint for heart and connection to the earth and family, grey and blue flint for protection and stability. Hag stones are also commonly made of flint and they are excellent forms of protection. Flint pebbles and shards make an excellent addition to a grounding, protection or friendship spell bag, and can help bring you closer to the gods.

In my next post on flint I will talk more about the practice of flint knapping itself and how I use it in my practice.

#flint magic #the warlock speaks #crystal magic #ancestral work #neo pagan #ancient christianity #witchcraft #witchblr

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slippinmickeys · 1 year

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Awesome Writer’s Workshop last night from @audiofanficpod

Writer’s Workshop entry, the second:

“But… but there’s only one bed,” she said, turning to look at Mulder over the rounded edge of her shoulder. He stood just outside the room in the hallway, the paisley pattern of the carpet making his already tired eyes cross. “They said it was a double,” she went on, appealing to his sense of propriety or chivalry —he wasn't sure which.

“Maybe they meant the size of the bed,” he sighed, pushing past her to get a look at the room himself.

“I’m calling the registration desk,” she said, making her way over to the room phone at a clip.

It was a nice room for New York, not big, but it had large windows, with a great view of the city.

“Yes, this is Dana Scully, I’m calling from room 2021, and there seems to be an issue-”

He didn’t envy whoever was working the desk – Scully was decidedly Not Happy, and her tone was as sharp as the scalpels she used to carve up the dead. And then, as he took in the view from the 20th floor, the lights went off all over the city.

“Hell-hello?” Scully said from behind him. He could hear the double-tap click as she tested the phone’s various mechanics.

“Not sure we’re getting a different room tonight,” Mulder said, drifting over to the bed and flopping down on top of it.

Scully looked at him questioningly, her head tilted like a Yorkie.

“Blackout,” he explained, gesturing vaguely toward the window. They had not bothered turning on any lights.

Scully said something uncharitable under her breath and Mulder let his head thunk back onto the pillow under him. His clothes were rumpled and smelled stale and sour. All he wanted to do was shower and sleep – in that order and without any delay.

The look on her face, the best he could make out in the dim light from the dusky sky, was pretty, but pissed. Sometimes, he mused, she was more thorn than rose.

#writers workshop #the x-files #fanfic #my fic #prompt

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yvfu · 10 months

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She held out her hands, palms up, the white fingers slightly spread, and with a barely audible click, ten double-edged, four-centimeter scalpel blades slid from their housings beneath the burgundy nails.

how do they fit?

#neuromancer

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distinctlywhumpthing · 2 years

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two truth serum questions for aiden bby, curious what he’ll say vs. think:

do you remember your ‚past-you‘ and if yes, what do you miss about him?

if you could design a day for yourself, full control of everything, what would you do?

Unintentional 20

Previous — Masterlist — Next

As always, beta-read by @alittlewhump <3

CW: BBU, institutionalized slavery, dehumanization. Explicit language. Trauma. Surgical/medical whump/experimentation. Emeto/vomiting. Wanting death to end torture. Drugging mention.

He had the length of two squeaking strides after whatever door slam or key jangle had woken him before Harrison slapped him across the face. “Wake up.”

“Fuck off,” he growled. “You don’t need me conscious for your depraved game of operation.”

“I miss the delightful company, even if you are at your best drooling all over yourself.”

He opened his eyes to glare at Harrison, ignoring the uptick of the heart monitor, but he wasn’t in his line of sight. Turning his head to look was out of the question with the head frame on. The anchor points had only just stopped hurting. There was a lot of space behind where he lay strapped to the table in the middle of the room anyway. The clang of surgical steel was unmistakable though.

Inhale, exhale, smooth and steady. The monitor slowed its alarm and he tried to keep himself calm while waiting.

Harrison was never quiet for very long anyway. “We’re placing the electrodes today.”

So much for controlling his pulse. “What? I thought—”

“I can’t lose a day just for the Drip. We’ll do it at the same time.” Harrison was at his side now, adding another bag to the IV pole. The lines clacked lightly as they were rattled, movement echoed in whispered tugs to the needle inserted beneath his collarbone.

He curled his hands into fists. The restraints became too tight around his tensed muscles, edges suddenly harsher against his skin. “Let me guess, mad scientist extra credit activities aren’t getting you onto honor roll like you wanted?”

“I’d show you my grades but…” Harrison didn’t even look to see if he’d forced a reaction, just went on tying a band above his elbow, another needle in hand for the Drip.

Tiny prick and a beat later cool liquid ran into his bloodstream. He doubled down. “It’s not about impressing the teachers with your grades though. You want to be fucking valedictorian and stand up in front of everyone else so they know you’re smarter, you’re better.”

“You’re certainly no expert. Don’t worry, I’m sure you didn’t miss much at your high school graduation.”

He grit his teeth. “Do they tease you? I bet they tease everyone, it’s just what they do. They’re all idiots. But you know it’s different when it’s aimed at you.”

Harrison met his eyes. “What exactly happened with the last friendship you had? Sweet Mira, was it?”

The air left his lungs but he sucked in a breath and kept pushing. “You’ve never been one of them, have you? And that’s why you’re down here every day with me, trying to prove something. But you know what? They will never see you, they’ll never accept you for who you really are. You’re not one of them and you never will be.”

There was a clang beside him, just beyond his line of vision. Instruments being fumbled. “That’s enough.”

He smirked. “You’re—”

“Do you want to find out what it’s like to have a scalpel as an eleventh fucking finger?” Harrison stepped into view holding one up, face and tone as stoic as ever.

He swallowed.

Harrison raised his eyebrows.

“No, doctor.”

“Enough then.”

“Yes, doctor.”

Harrison nodded absently before returning to the preparations outside his field of vision.

His palms were damp as he curled his hands back into fists. One was weaker than the other, arm full of WRU’s proprietary cocktail. God, fuck he could feel it starting. This was the fourth—fifth?—time, and each one brought a fresh dimension of suffering. Like there wasn’t actually anything formulaic at all about what went into that blue liquid. For all he knew, there could be another lab even deeper than this one where someone even more depraved than Harrison was just tossing together random combinations of chemicals for shits and giggles.

Harrison had rambled his ‘best theory’ off one time, in a monologue that had clearly been designed to impress an audience more coveted than his surgical guinea pig. A bit of something toxic but not lethal, just to do some baseline damage; a bunch of -aites and -ines; definitely something that made you a little high but not high enough that it could ever be mistaken for a pleasant trip.

The first time had been unyielding as it blacked out everything he had, everything he was. Condensing it into a nothingness with enough weight and mass to become his new center of gravity. It was drowning in frigid, oppressive, infinite water and being hung out to dry in aching, blinding heat. It was having everything at once with absolutely no control.

He had no memory of the second time, when they’d brought him back. It had been before Harrison intervened, he thought. There’d been less than two years to eradicate instead of seventeen and he hadn’t even noticed.

Not until the third time. That was when the reliability—or was it validity maybe…

God, he could remember the stupid yellow index card he’d written in eleventh grade to differentiate the two before an exam.

Instead of giving Harrison another clean slate, it drew things out. He’d cried the entire time. It was like each fragment of memory had to be peeled from whatever inanimate, lifeless form it had been reduced to. Except somehow it was his brain being scraped against a cheese grater. Each little shaving of his former self painfully extracted.

Except he’d never be able to make that comparison work, in any reality where the stupid Drip didn’t fucking work like it was supposed to. Not since the time that Harrison had taken him by the wrist. Sanitized his hand so that his raw cuticles stung. Brought his fingertips to prod his own parietal lobe.

And he’d thought it was weird that some of his friends had to touch their eyes every day to put contacts in.

He’d vomited and passed out.

Woke up to Harrison still puppeteering his index finger to trace the oblong circle of the craniotomy. His stomach had been empty that time but it had tried its damndest. If you think this is bad, we should see how you do holding your own intestines. He’d bit straight through the inside of his right cheek that day but he’d managed to stay quiet until Harrison was finished.

Anyway, that third time on the Drip, it was clearly not right. Within the first ten minutes, Harrison had left him alone, couldn’t work with him “weeping like a fucking widow”. He’d remembered exactly what had happened to bring him back to this place. Exactly what sins he’d committed, why he deserved to be returned, to be sent for refurbishment, and to wind up with Harrison completely unmissed.

He’d lost his voice crying and screaming like he could scare it all away with words or volume alone. He hated to have it back. To have her back—himself with her, back. He didn’t want to know that person. He didn’t want to feel that life.

Harrison didn’t seem to care that it wasn’t rendering him devoid and malleable anymore. On the outside he was the number-less, name-less, Nothing being cut apart. Inside, he was anything but Nothing. He was Bo, who had been Beau, who used to be 359. Each time more pieces of an even greater life coming to light. He didn’t want to remember more. He couldn’t handle more. The memories, the grief, the anger—the entire life that had been signed away to this place. The hopes and dreams and promises.

He hated that real person fiercely, along with all the lesser ones. He hoped every time that the Drip would work again and deliver him back into ignorant bliss. Nothing Harrison did had anything on this. At least with the physical pain, he’d eventually pass out or there’d be drugs or it would fade to something else. This was relentless and it was overwhelming and he just wanted it to stop.

A whine escaped his throat and he wrestled against the restraints.

“Do you have somewhere you’d rather be?”

It took some effort to string together a retort. “Under your scalpel already,” he managed to grit out.

“You can’t rush perfection.”

His hands were throbbing from how much he was cutting off his own circulation by pulling against the restraints. “I hope you kill me.”

“Sadly, that’s not on the menu today. No drugs either, I need you conscious to make sure the electrodes are in the correct positions.” He held out a square of folded blue fabric. “Bite down on this.”

“But it’s going to happen sooner or later.” He was erring on the side of desperation but he didn’t care. “You’re not that good or you wouldn’t be some fucking outcast basement Dr. Jekyll.” He paused but Harrison just waited, holding out the towel. “It’s going to be even worse than before when you have some botched Frankenstein. Just—”

“Enough. I applaud the dedication to your newfound death wish.” Harrison reached out to blot his cheek with the corner of the towel. He hadn’t realized he was crying. “I really love this journey for you.”

“Fuck—”

“Shut up and reconsider my offer—that I am generously extending a second time—before I just let you bite your fucking tongue off. Something I’m sure we’ll both regret tomorrow when you sound like a romantic reciting the WRU commandments around a handler’s cock.”

He swallowed and opened his mouth to let Harrison place the square of folded blue fabric between his teeth.

Harrison didn’t waste any time and started cutting through some of the sutures in his scalp. Releasing them one by one.

“It’s true, eventually I might kill you, by accident or on purpose.”

Percussion of the scissors being dropped onto the tray beside his head.

“But you’re already nothing. Your life is nothing, your pain is nothing.”

Scalpel biting into his flesh to reopen what had healed. Suction to keep the incision clear.

“You are Nothing. So it really doesn’t matter.”

Whir of the drill.

He blinked through tears but it didn’t seem to do anything to improve his field of vision so he just kept his eyes closed. Tried to focus on breathing evenly through his nose. This wasn’t anything worthy of really screaming for but it was still nice to have something to bite down on. He’d definitely done a number grinding his teeth enough already.

“Alright, come on. You can cry over your haunted past on your own time.” Harrison tugged the cloth out of his mouth.

His tongue felt too dry and too thick. He didn’t feel the tears anymore but his vision was still blurry. “I thought I was Nothing and had nothing?”

“You’re such a good listener. Keep talking while I place these electrodes.”

“I’m out of ideas.”

“Bullshit. You’re just being a little stick in the mud.”

“Really,” he insisted.

He couldn’t control anything in his head. It was just images and faces and feelings rushing past in a blur. Peeling back layers of obfuscation from his memories like onion skin, crinkling along with the sanitary medical packaging Harrison was opening next to him like this was any other day. Procedural, methodical, predictable. He wasn't sure how many packages Harrison had opened or if he was somehow just stuck in a loop of replaying the sound again and again for something simple to hold onto over the torrents raging in his head.

Thankfully, Harrison never kept his mouth shut for very long. “I need you talking. Why don’t you describe your perfect, ideal day?”

“Impossible,” he slurred. “It’s still happening.”

Previous — Masterlist — Next

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

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kybercrystalhealing · 1 year

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a scenario i return to from time to time: so like what if sidious decided to be a little subtler with his handmade assassin? what if he chose the scalpel instead of the hammer and put all that bitter elocution and keen social agility to use? we call this the Consort Maul au and we are never going to write it, but we do enjoy the Concept—

the young man comes to them on tatooine, out of the shapeless shadows of a dusty sidestreet doorway: head bowed, palms open, lithe frame draped in tired silks and misplaced velvets, neither in nor out of place. from his forehorn hangs a fine-linked chain, wrought in some dull dark metal and swept over his shoulder like a courtesan's braid. in the deep shade of his hood his face blurs into beauty.

"my lord," he calls master qui-gon, eyes on the packed sand below his sandalled feet. "i fall upon your mercy." core vowels, all soft and round and quiet.

his voice is pleasant. you are knights, are you not, he says, with his eyes on the sand and his shoulders bare in the burning double sun. you can help me.

in the force he feels—strange, muffled, an echoing space. dark matter, undefined; bordello perfumes. something seeping through.

a complication.

i can be useful, he says. an edge of pleading, almost practised.

his eyes, when he lifts them to obi-wan's, are lovely molten gold.

#sorry we're having a maul moment!!#look the art for this is. it's not exactly a sketch but i don't think it's getting more finished #on ice for now.#with a pose from uh. bronze age funerary sculpture #not sure if postable. we'll see how this one goes #darth maul

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deathfavor · 1 year

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continued with @furiaei from HERE

Earl knows plenty well that what she does is nothing more than a DISTRACTION for herself more than for anyone or anything else. Now that he’s able to be up and move without a few steps exhausting him. That’s not to say he’s fully recovered, the stitches and scrapes still linger, pain creeps up when he moves too much and exhaustion brings him down. But he can at least move easier now without aid. But he knows plenty well the looks – he’d seen tamed versions when he first lost his leg. But now the stares are heavier to see that he is in fact still alive, still with them. A double check to ensure he was REAL and not a mere trick of the eye. Many had experienced grief. It was no surprise to be cautious.

This is a delicate topic, and Earl has never been the best when it comes to expressing emotions or having those emotional discussions. He was too analytical, too logic over emotion. Horo always said he was bad at it. But he understood what this was about. He understood it very well. It wasn’t that the loss didn’t hurt him – but there were more factors at play.

“ There are no certainties in this life, Miya. With or without power, no one nor anything is entirely unstoppable. Black Rings were thought to be, but the Chief proved that otherwise. Power is a tool, but not an invincible or limitless one. “ He shakes his head slightly.

Still, the Legion’s advisor and temporary head listens as she speaks to air her grievances with him, with Legion, and with the others. Another might have offered softer comfort. Earl was as he was though. Rough at the edges but well-intended for those he allowed to be closer.

“Stop wallowing in your regrets and what-ifs.” Earl’s firm voice cuts through the air with scalpel precision. It’s a sharp and clear reminder as to why Earl is the pillar of Legion. He didn’t have the inspirational strength and encouragement that Zoya did, but he was the person that anyone could look to for security. “ Do you think Zoya would want that? What good does it do to waste energy and time over it? “

She might not be looking at him, but that doesn’t shake his focus on her. “ What can you do? Refocus and redirect yourself. Focus on your people, just as I have to focus on Legion as my top priority. I’m not abandoning Zoya, but that has to take a secondary role to other matters at the moment. “ He exhales for a moment. “ She won’t be in any shape to be involved in matters as it is. “ His lips press together, a distant look creeping into his eyes as he glances up towards the sky. It always appeared whenever someone brought up the Black Ring, like he was reseeing whatever was in the depths of hell that he’d endured. “ I took a lot of it on, but it was HER that was the main focus. If we can’t find her, then that means others can’t either. It’s better she’s hidden away to recover without the stress of the government mutts breaking down the door every second. “

#furiaei #finally got to this #and made sure to put it in beta for you #᛭ — [IC] raven wings guiding the wolves [EARL]

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stargazersmut · 1 year

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A Trade | Pt 8. Evergreen (18+)

Joel X Reader (First Person) 18+

Includes: Smut, threats of violence, dubious consent, teasing, verbal humiliation, manhandling, mild violence, weapons

Check out my Ao3 profile for more! StargazerSmut

As you try to reconcile your strange relationship with Joel, you find you have company at the hospital

I listen carefully, and it’s hard to hear anything over the sound of my loud, rising heartbeat. I recognize the familiar timbre of Joel's voice, but I can’t tell how many others. It sounds like arguing.

I quickly double back to where I left all the supplies I gathered, and pull out a couple of scalpels, stripping them out of their protective casing and shoving them in my back pocket. I swear to myself when this is over that I’m going to find myself a proper knife, and it is never leaving my side.

My heart is in my chest as I try to slip down the hall to the staircase as quietly as possible. I knew this place was too good to be true. Either people had already set up here themselves, or this was some kind of trap.

I peek outside one of the windows and try to see anything going on outside. My stomach sinks as I see what looks like a military vehicle, except it’s in bad condition. I don’t see anyone near it, though.

The sounds of voices get louder as I creep down the stairs. I grip one of the scalpels in my hand, like Joel taught me.

“I’m not here to hurt anyone, I was just passing through and thought the building was empty.” Joel. His voice is tinged with a strange put-upon inflection that I know isn’t genuine. “Just put the gun down and we can talk.”

A male voice responds. “I’m not gonna tell you again, get on your fuckin’ knees!” He sounds younger, nervous.

For a moment I don’t hear anything. I’m pretty sure it’s just the two of them.

I take a deep breath and steady myself, fully aware that this might be it, I’m about to die. For the briefest moment, I look at the door to the outside, directly down the hall. If I’m quiet and quick, I could almost certainly make it through the door and at least make a good run for it.

This would most probably leave Joel for dead. I don’t have long to think about it, but I decide that I can’t do that. I don’t think he would do that to me.

So, I steady myself, knife in hand, and edge to the corner of the door frame.

The young man again. “Who are you with!? Where are the rest of you!?” A shot rings through the air.

I step into the door frame and his back is turned to me. Joel is on his knees, a gaping hole in the wall next to his head, about a foot away.

He sees me. His eyes widen, and I know he’s trying to communicate something to me. Probably to run.

I motion to him to keep talking to the man as I inch closer.

“It’s just me. But I have supplies. I even have some extra weapons and ammunition stored outside. I’m sure we can work something out.”

I silently count down from three to Joel. As soon as the last of the words are out of his mouth, I lunge on the man. I use all my strength to wrap my arm around his shoulders and drive the scalpel directly into him.

It’s not entirely effective and he whips around, pointing his gun at me, hand clutching his neck with the other. He’s gushing blood, but takes a wild shot. I feel a sting in my shoulder but ignore it. I stab again, with less aim this time, but Joel shoves me out of the way and onto the floor.

There’s the sounds of struggling and the coughing of blood, and both men are wrestling on the ground. I scramble up and manage to stomp the gun out of the man’s hand, sending it skittering across the floor.

I go running for it and once I have it, I aim it at the man’s head, which Joel has in a headlock against the floor. “Joel do I?” I scream. “What should I do?’ I sound like a scared little girl. I feel like one.

“No!” He holds a hand up, panting heavily. The man has stopped struggling, and is now just kicking weakly on the floor. “Go outside.”

“But Joel…” I hold up the gun, terrified and on the verge of tears.

He reaches up and yanks it out of my hand. “Outside!”

I think about arguing, but I think better of it and sprint out the front doors. As soon as the cold air hits me, I feel dizzy, gulping in deep breaths and trying to think about what to do next.

A loud shot rings out and I jump.

I remember the vehicle. I run out into the parking lot and try to check each direction to see if anyone is around, but I see nothing. I search the vehicle for keys, but there are none.

I scream in frustration as I pace, waiting for Joel. A terrible thought crosses my mind, and I wonder if he was the one shot.

I turn on my heels to go back inside the building as he comes jogging out, his face smeared with blood, and limping, carrying our bags.

“What happened?” I ask, frantic.

He holds up a set of keys. “Get in the goddamn car.”

“But,”

“Now!.” He shouts.

I listen, and crawl inside the passenger seat, and before I can even fully shut the door, he’s tearing off through the parking lot and onto the street.

I say nothing for minutes, studying the anger and concentration on his face as he speeds down the road.

“We need to get out of the snow.”

He pulls into a dirt road, leading into a forested area. The vehicle lurches in response, shaking on the bumpy terrain.

“There will be more.”

He stops the vehicle abruptly near a patch of thickly covered evergreen trees and starts getting out. I quickly follow his lead, grabbing my pack and hauling down the trail behind him.

I can see the path he’s taking isn’t covered with snow because of the thick treeline. No tracks.

I pant and struggle to keep up with him for what seems like hours. He doesn’t say a word as we go, only grunting and letting out the occasional frustrated growl at any brush that gets in his way.

Eventually the sun starts to set, and we slow to a steady walk. Another hour after that we come across what looks to be like a camping site or trailer park. It’s littered with rusted old car pieces and furniture, but it’s obvious that it hasn’t been touched in a long time.

Joel motions back to me with a hand. “Stay.”

He doesn’t need to tell me twice. The adrenaline that coursed through me at the beginning of everything today has long left me, and I’m coming down hard. I crouch onto my knees and feel aching everywhere in my body. My lungs are raw from taking in the cold air all day and it hurts to breathe.

A few minutes later, he calls to me from one of the trailers. I step inside, and I’m disappointed when the air is just as chilly as the outside. “Should be safe for tonight.” he says cautiously. “No fires, no lights.”

I nod, already shivering. I don’t think I’ve ever felt as miserable during the entire outbreak as I do now. I feel completely stripped and worn down, aching down to my bones.

I turn away from him, sitting on a dilapidated kitchenette bench, and start quietly sobbing to myself. It comes over me suddenly, and with such force that I can’t stop it, the tears just begin flowing out of me.

“Hey..” He begins in a gruff voice

“Leave me the fuck alone.” I whimper. I feel absolutely pathetic, and I loathe him standing there to see it.

“I need to look at your shoulder,”

“My shoulder?” As soon as he reaches out to touch it, I feel a sharp sting. I had forgotten about it earlier. “Did I get shot?”

“Just calm down…” He rethinks his words. “Just relax a second, let me look.”

He pulls a small flashlight out of his pack and holds it in his teeth, and starts peeling off my coat and overshirt. I hiss in pain as the layers come off, but manage to stop my tears.

He pulls the neck of my sweater down over my shoulder, and I feel his warm fingers against my skin, prodding at the spot that stings.

“It looks nasty, but you’ll be fine. Just nicked.”

He fishes an alcohol pad and a bandage out of my pack and starts dressing my wound.

I mentally chastise myself for not grabbing more supplies before we had to run away.

Even though I’m only wearing my thin sweater now, I can feel Joel’s body heat up against me, and it starts to help my body relax a bit,

He finishes up, draping my coat over my shoulders and lets out a loud sigh. I hear the familiar metallic scrape of his flask unscrewing, and he takes a long swig before offering it to me. I do the same.

I curl up onto the bench and don’t protest as Joel sets to work in the dark putting both of our sleeping bags out and sets up a bed for the night.

As I crawl in, I hear some shuffling and then I feel Joel slide in and settle against me, pulling his open bag over us as another layer. I pull away for a moment, but then he says, “You need to stay warm tonight, I don’t want your temperature dropping,” that familiar command to his voice again.

I’m too tired to argue, and his warm body pressed up against me feels incredible.

A big arm wraps around my front, pulling me against him, and makes me wonder if he’s not doing this entirely for just my benefit. His hand dips up under my shirt and I feel his thumb gently stroking against my stomach. I feel his face bury into my hair as he breathes deeply.

I soften into him and let him hold me. My body and mind are hurting today and I don’t have the willpower to question his motives. I let myself indulge in his touch. I fall asleep in his arms.

#joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #tlou smut #tlou fanfiction #joel miller smut

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