Impaled
Black Metal
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Irony that i’m legit listening to goregrind while waiting for my appointment
Note: it’s not right now, i’ll edit when it’s done.
All i know is i my get blood drawn
Despite my tattoo, i’m a needle weenie
Edit: getting blood drawn tomorrow, my left arm couldn’t get any blood out
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419: Exhumed
Dreams of Consciousness Podcast Episode 419 features an interview with @sewage666 of Exhumed.
[cover photo by Ross Sewage]
Watch on Youtube
Listen on Youtube Music
Listen on Apple Podcasts (IOS)
Direct Download [right click + “Save As”]
[photo by Ross Sewage]
My thanks again to Ross for speaking with me, and to you for listening.
Music In This Episode:
“Lurid, Shocking, and Vile”
taken from the album To The Dead
“Ripping Death”
taken from the album Horror
“The Iron Graveyard”
“Red Asphalt”
taken from the album Red Asphalt
orcd.co/exhumed
Exhumed on Facebook
Exhumed on Bandcamp
Exhumed on Instagram
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Whump Oneshot - S.W.A.T
Did a drabble that ended up being over 3,000 words lmao. Basically Street gets trapped in a collapsed building by himself and suffers from a severe concussion, causing temporary amnesia. Hondo has to keep him awake and remind him of who he is.
Rating:
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Help Is On The Way
GhostFoxGoddess03
Street coughs harshly, his stomach churning uneasily as his surroundings slowly fade into view. His brain tries to make sense of, well, everything. White hot pain flares in his side, his attention immediately diverting to the source. He blinks rapidly, trying to figure out what he is looking at. His back is pressed against the tall wall, debris surrounding him. The air is thick with dust, coating his throat uncomfortably.
[[MORE]]He coughs again, clearing his throat. His eyes itch, burning slightly in the darkness. Something warm is trickling down the side of his face, dripping onto his chest. He glances around the space, confusion muddling his ability to discern his location. A sound interrupts his musings.
“Street, if you can hear this, please respond or click your panic button.” Panic button? He searches his memories for why he would have a panic button. Wait, where did the voice come from? He shifts and immediately regrets it, the sheer pain exploding through his side forcing the air from his lungs.
He slows down, only moving his left hand, fumbling through the debris next to him. His fingers find something small and plastic, a weird silicone covering the corners of it. He manages to grasp it, pulling it up from the destroyed ceiling beams.
It’s small. A dark grey puck shaped… thing. Three blue lights are lit in the center. He waits a beat, focusing his vision until he stops seeing two of them. His thumb finds the small circle under the blue dots, pressing down on instinct. A loud beep echoes in his ears. He finds his voice, his tongue thick and unwilling to cooperate.
“Um, Hi?” He releases the button, assuming that is what he is supposed to do. Why is someone talking to a street ? As far as he knows, no one else is with him. He scans the dim space around him, other than various piles of absolute architectural destruction, what appears to be brick walls, and maybe a shattered wood door, nothing else is with him.
“Street? Are you okay?” He shakes his head, clearing his thoughts.
“I mean, I don’t know what street you are looking for, but uh, no, I’m not okay.” He waits for the reply, a slow throb in the base of his skull getting slightly louder with every breath he takes.
“This is Hondo, I have Fire Capt. Henderson with me. He has a few questions for you.” Ah, maybe someone who knows what is going on and how he got to wherever he is right now.
“Hey man, what’s your name?” Oh, that is a smart question to ask, he presses the button, mouth open to say his name - and nothing comes out.
He stutters, searching every corner of his mind for the answer that isn’t there. That’s terrifying, he feels panic claw its way into his rib cage but tries to keep his voice steady.
“That, that is a great question. I was hoping you might know that.” He holds his breath, waiting for the reply.
“Given the fact that the last person with the radio you are using to communicate with was James Street, I am thinking that is you. Do you have a head injury?” Oh. He is Street. Huh, Street is a cool name. He reaches up to the warmth still covering the side of his head, his fingers coming away bright red. That’s not good.
“Now that you mention it, yes, I do believe I have a head injury.”
“Alright Street, we are working on getting you out of there. Can you tell me the last thing you remember?” Street, tries to recall anything before now. His mind is frustratingly blank.
“Sorry sir, I don’t remember anything. All I know is I woke up here. Um, where am I?”
“You are or should be close to the back of the performing arts building, you were evacuating the building after finding an explosive. It went off and it seems that you were thrown into one of the classrooms on the far side.”
Street considers his surroundings and his current predicament.
“That sounds about right Sir.” His voice is weak, he tries to ignore the cold seeping into his bones.
“Sir, how long has it been since the explosion?” Maybe this just happened and he will regain his memory soon.
“Around twenty minutes. You don’t have to call me sir. Where else are you injured?” The man’s voice grates on his nerves.
Street sighs to no one but himself. He takes a deep breath and starts with his toes. His left ankle is sore, maybe sprained with the way it is angrily throbbing. His boots feel tight around the hot joint.
His shins are bruised but otherwise intact. His knees are sore but again, no lasting damage. His thighs tingle, small pieces of sharp metal embedded into the surface of his skin, probably shrapnel from the explosion.
He goes further up to his hips and gasps. The first thing he notices is the warmth, then the fact that his pant leg is soaked, and finally the fact that something is protruding from his right side, right above his hip. He gathers his courage, looking down and squinting to see what it is.
Oh shit.
Some sort of round thin beam or rebar shaped metal thing is sticking straight out of him. He swallows hard, the pain overwhelming him. He forces himself to take deep breaths, inhaling air through his gritted teeth.
That’s really not good. He blinks rapidly, some part of him managing to focus on his mission.
He has a few small cuts on his stomach, jagged rips in his tactical vest.
His ribs are probably broken, every breath burning as if he is inhaling glass.
His left shoulder is at an angle, painfully disconnected from him.
His neck is fine, coated in slick blood from the wound he feels stabbing across the side of his head. He thinks it’s a graze given the amount of blood and how the pain travels from the back of head to the front.
His vision is fine, his nose and mouth seemingly unaffected. A small cut on the side if his cheek stings but compared to everything else he barely notices. His fingers grasp the radio, steadying himself before pressing the talk button.
“Do you want the report from worst to best or alphabetized?” He quirks a grin, attempting to distract himself from the dread settling in his stomach like a boulder.
The radio glows white, Capt. Henderson chuckling slightly as he replies,
“How about from top to bottom?” He can work with that.
“Okay, I have a graze on the side of my head, it’s bleeding pretty decently. I believe I hit the back of my head on the wall. I have a small cut on my cheek. My left shoulder is dislocated. My ribs are either cracked or broken or bruised within an inch of their lives. My- Agh-”
Blinding pain in his head stops him mid-sentence. He gasps, the spike of agony unrelenting. His vision fades on the edges, his breaths coming fast and shallow. He swallows the acrid bile rising in his throat.
It stops as suddenly as it started, the roaring in his ears lessening until he hears the voice on the radio, laced with concern,
“Street? What happened Street?” He finds his voice, still struggling for air,
“Sorry-, uh, really bad pain in my head. Felt like someone was taking a jack hammer to the base of my skull.”
“It’s okay, probably the concussion. Can you continue?” He frowns, trying to remember what he was doing before.
“Sorry, what was I saying?” The voice is calm and patient,
“You were listing your injuries, you had just described your ribs.” Oh, right.
“Yes, my ribs are bad, not really enjoying breathing right now. I have several cuts on my stomach. And then, uh, I have a piece of rebar in my side, above my right hip.” He pauses, awaiting the questions he knows they will have.
“You said a piece of rebar? Can you give a description of it?” He huffs, not wanting to think any more about it than necessary.
“Well, it’s all the way through me, I feel a puddle of blood under me. It’s about four feet long. Probably ¾ of an inch thick. It has weird ridges in it. Um, it looks to be a dark grey. Maybe charcoal. I really don’t know what else to say other than it fucking hurts.” He catches his breath.
“Alright Street, we will come back to that, continue.” He rolls his eyes, the calmness in the other man’s voice somewhat unbelievable.
“Shrapnel wounds in my legs but it’s not too bad. My left ankle hurts, might just be sprained. I think that is it.”
One second he is holding the radio, the next it has landed in his lap. He stares in surprise. When did he drop it?
“Good job Street, that was a thorough report. Obviously our major concerns are blood loss and your head injury. Can you estimate how much blood you have lost?”
Street squints, how the hell is he supposed to measure the amount of blood soaking his clothes or pooling on the ground? Eh, he will do his best.
“Given how much is currently surrounding me and soaking my clothes, I would estimate around 300 milliliters? That is what you use to measure blood loss right?” He detects a slight note of scrutiny in the man’s tone,
“I mean, yes, that is what we use, but are you sure?”
Street laughs to himself, his answer light on his tongue, butterflies buzzing around his head. Wait, do butterflies buzz? He doesn’t care enough to explore that. A lopsided grin paints his face,
“Hehe, nope! I don’t even remember what you asked if I am being honest.”
———————————————————————————
Sgt. Hondo frowns as he looks at Capt. Henderson,
“He is getting delirious already? Either his head injury is more severe or he has lost more blood than he thinks.” Capt. Henderson nods seriously,
“Agreed, we need to either get him out or someone in there with him. I have one of my men prepping now. He will try to enter through this space-” He gestures to the blueprints set up on the staging table, “-and stabilize him until we can get the equipment in there to cut the rebar.”
Hondo glances at the still smoking dilapidated building in front of them, barely concealed concern underlying his tone,
“Let us hope he can hold on for that long.” Capt. Henderson notes the grey stormy look in Hondo’s deep brown eyes and gives him a distraction.
“Why don’t you talk to him? You might be able to keep him awake.” Hondo knows the tactic and is almost insulted, but he knows that the team is counting on him to bring Street home, he will be damned if he lets Street go through this alone.
———————————————————————————
Street hums, he doesn’t know what tune it is but it brings him joy all the same. He wiggles his toes in his shoes, the only part of him that doesn’t hurt. He feels his grasp on reality starting to lessen, the objects surrounding him appearing larger than before.
Nausea rolls through him, whatever is in his stomach rebels against the harsh pain reverberating up and down his body.
He tries over and over again to remember what happened. But he feels as if he would have more luck finding a snake in a puddle of eels. The analogy stops short in his mind, that doesn’t even make sense, why would a snake be in a group of eels? Would a group of eels be called a puddle? His thoughts spin into a dizzying cycle, the forceful pounding growing behind his eyes.
Oh, there’s someone else with him, wait no, it’s coming from his lap. A small grey thing is blinking blue. He should do something with that. He fiddles with it, finding a small indent in the space under the blue lights. He presses it in, curiosity having him talk into it,
“Hello? Anyone out there?”
“Street, are you okay? You didn’t answer me earlier.” Street narrows his eyes, white spots dancing in the corner of his vision.
“What do you mean earlier? Wait who is this?”
“This is Hondo, we were just talking. Street, do you know where you are?” Street waits for his mind to fill in the gaps but nothing happens. Fear wraps itself around his chest, squeezing him until he is hyperventilating.
“Sir, Hondo, I, I don’t remember. I don’t, something is wrong.”
“Hey hey hey, Street, I need you to slow your breathing okay? Breathe in and out with me. In….. and out…….. In………..and out………”
Street tries to follow, his chest heaving with effort.
Shivers wrack him, his body trembling violently.
A jarring thought crosses his mind, voicing it before he can stop it.
“I’m not, I’m not making it out of this.”
The statement hangs in the air, heavy and final.
“Don’t talk like that Street, we have the best possible people working on getting to you right now. They are almost there but we need you to stay awake to guide them, can you do that for me?”
The man’s voice is steady but despite the gnawing agony wracking him he can tell that the man is keeping something from him. He gulps air, his voice higher than before,
“You’re, you’re not a very good liar Hondo.” His finger twitches, his grip on the small radio growing weaker.
“If you remembered me, you would know I don’t lie. Especially not to you Street.”
Street squints, a prickling itch crawling up his spine. He doesn’t know what to say to that. He doesn’t believe this man, Hondo. But he doesn’t really trust his own judgment right now so what does he have to lose?
“Right, given my pressing situation, I don’t really think I have a leg to stand on. How do we know each other?” He waits for Hondo to respond, ignoring the way his left eye is slowly losing the ability to see the outlines of the room in front of him.
“You are a SWAT officer, you belong to 20 Squad, you are one of my officers, I lead the team.” Oh, that would explain the shredded officer attire he is wearing.
“That explains a lot. I was being a hero and that’s how I got here right?” He says it with an edge of sarcasm unsuspecting the serious reply Hondo gives.
“Yes. You ran back inside against orders to rescue a teacher.”
Street frowns, wincing as it agitates the cuts on his face. If he came back to save a teacher, where are they? He flinches at the realization, his eyes desperately scanning the room.
He finds what he was begging himself not to.
To his right, in the far corner, he makes out a pink sweater, soaked in blood. The entire section decimated under heavy concrete and debris.
He wasn’t fast enough
The walls cave inward, bile rising in his throat. He can’t stop it, tears streaming down his face as he retches, losing everything in his stomach. His gags violently, dry heaving until his throat is raw.
His ribs scream at him as his abdominal muscles contract painfully, the dull ache now piercing deep into his core. The rebar shifts, blood rushing around it.
Someone is saying his name.
He fumbles with the slippery radio, holding onto it like a lifeline. His voice cracks, tears blurring the darkness devouring him whole.
“I didn’t, I didn’t save her. I wasn’t,-” A sob catches in the back of his throat, another wave of agony paralyzing him.
His head might as well be a balloon, every second that passes the pressure builds excruciatingly against his skull. His finger slips from the button.
“Street, listen to me and listen to me completely. You didn’t fail. You tried, she would have died with or without you but that is not what matters. What matters is that you tried, against orders, against all logic, you tried. That is who you are Street. You try even when all odds are against you.” There’s a pause, Street hanging onto every word.
“It’s what I respect most about you. The world dealt you a near impossible hand and although you made some questionable choices, you never stop trying. From your home life, to foster care, to losing your friend, to losing your job, every single thing that should have brought you down, it never succeeded.” Street isn’t breathing, Hondo’s words striking him deep.
“You are going to make it out alive Street. You are one of the strongest men I know. This is not what defeats you, I believe that with my entire being and I need you to believe it too kid."
Street freezes.
Kid
Images flash in his mind, Hondo in front of him, talking to him through the worst moments of his life. He sees his failures, his growth, his family. He remembers every time Hondo rescued him from himself. Every time he needed someone to talk to. Every time Hondo somehow knew exactly what to say. Late night conversations at the Luca’s house, the small space echoing with laughter. Hondo wrapping strong arms around him as he let himself fall apart. The team dropping by and taking care of him when he was struggling. Warmth blooms in his chest.
He remembers
"Hondo?” His voice falters, thick with emotion.
“There you are, glad to have you back man. You still with me?” Hondo’s steady voice envelops him behind a shield of safety.
He wanted to find the right words but he doesn’t need to anymore. His voice is low, filled with an emotion he doesn’t share often,
“I never really said it but you are-”
Blinding pain bolts down his spine, a scream ripping itself from his ravaged throat.
please god make it stop
His nerves are on fire, lightning streaking across his skin
please, he can’t
He curls into himself, desperately trying to escape the unbearable pain eviscerating him.
please stop, he can’t
Something is tearing him apart from the inside out.
please make it stop
Overwhelming agony explodes, his head the center of it all.
he can’t fail Hondo again
White light flashes through him, the void swallowing him whole.
———————————————————————————
Hondo’s eyes widen as he hears Street cut off with a scream. He grips the radio tightly, forcing his voice to find itself,
“Street?"
Deafening silence
He tries again,
"Street? If you can hear me, I need to know what is going on."
The small radio grows heavy in his hand. Not a whisper of a reply.
His heart constricts as the seconds stretch into minutes.
He closes his eyes and prays, begging for Street to have just passed out again.
A deep rooted feeling in his gut knows differently.
Capt. Henderson interrupts his spiraling thoughts,
"We got in, two paramedics were able to get to him. They are already calling for a medevac. Chopper is six minutes out. They said you need to contact his family, they should head to the trauma center, now.” Hondo’s eyes darken, his voice tight with emotion,
“We are his family.” He doesn’t say anything else, turning sharply, headed to his team waiting behind the caution tape.
“They just got to him. It’s bad. Chopper is on its way, they are taking him to Cedars-Sinai Medical Center. We are going there now, we will debrief Hicks on the way.” He doesn’t pay attention to the varying degrees of shock rippling through the four people staring at him. His mind already preparing himself for the worst.
———————————————————————————
Two weeks later
———————————————————————————
Street blinks awake, warm white light filling the room.
A hand is grasping his gently, the person attached to it slumped in a chair.
He frowns, his muddled thoughts trying to escape a thick haze.
He twitches his fingers, testing his ability to move.
The person beside him jerks awake, brown eyes filled with disbelief staring at him intensely.
“Street?”
He smiles softly, his throat too dry to make a sound. He shakes his head, wincing when it causes the world to spin. Hondo instantly reassures him,
“It’s okay, don’t try to talk yet. You’re safe now kid, everything is going to be okay.” Street lets the words wash over him, his body relaxing as they take effect.
He hums, feeling the vibrations rumble through his mind.
Hondo is here, everything is going to be fine.
He is safe
He squeezes the hand still holding his, letting the enticing lull of sleep take him again.
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Paid in Blood (Archfiend Sylus)
Another @whumpuary fic. Late again, but this is for Day 13’s prompt “Impaled/ ‘stay still’” Hope you all enjoy some vampire Sylus whump <3
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(Where Silverwings Rest) While looking into another lead on the Sacredcore, Countess Ariadne and her Archfiend run into trouble that leaves Sylus badly injured. Tending to him, Ariadne knows there’s only one way to help him heal.
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Ariadne swore as she fended off the final attack from the automatons in the temple. Yet another dead-end lead on the Sacredcore that had led to nothing more than an ancient temple with booby traps and dust. How many more of these would they have to discover before they actually found something useful?
Sylus kicked aside a broken contraption with disdain, brushing dust off of his sleeve.
“This is getting old.”
“Agreed,” Ariadne replied darkly as she cast about for any other magical signatures. When she was satisfied that they seemed to have sprung all the traps already, she and Sylus made their way to the secret exit.
“I grow weary of these acrobatics,” Sylus grumbled. “They’re tiering, and these contraptions have no blood to satisfy me.” His tongue slid over his fangs and Ariadne rolled her eyes.
“I suppose you’re hinting you want blood, then?”
“It would be appreciated for my efforts, Countess.”
“Well, I’m tired too,” she replied shortly, using her staff to break through a drapery of cobwebs crossing their path. “Neither of us deserve a reward until we actually find a decent lead to the Sacredcore.”
“That’s hardly sustainable,” Sylus growled low in his throat. “You would be so cruel to your dear husband?”
[[MORE]]She ignored him and continued down the path, seeing the exit ahead. She only made it a couple steps before her foot sank briefly with a click indicating yet another trap had been engaged.
“Move!”
Sylus picked her up and spun her around, shoving her so hard she fell to the ground, scraping her hands.
“Ugh! Sy—”
Before his name could even leave her mouth, a spear shot from a hidden statue and pinned Sylus to the opposite wall. A gasp of surprise left his mouth as his hand landed instinctively on the spear impaling him.
Ariadne stared in horror as she climbed to her feet. “Sylus! Are you—”
“Finish it!” he snapped in warning and Ariadne spun to deflect the next bout of sprung traps. She sent up a magical array which took out all of the contraptions in one go. Luckily it seemed like that was the final round, and she could see the open exit at the end of the hallway.
Unfortunately, their escape had currently been halted by a spear in Sylus’s gut.
Ariadne ran to him. “Sylus…” She hesitated, unsure of how to even proceed.
He grunted, teeth bared, breathing shaky. “It’ll…be alright. Give me a moment.”
“You can’t heal with it in you—what are you doing? Stay still!”
Sylus breathed through his teeth as she shoved him back against the wall. He chuckled breathlessly. A little blood flecked on his lips and he took a wet breath.
“I have to get it out. You said yourself, my lady, that I can’t heal with it stuck in me. Besides, have you forgotten? With that linkage, you can’t leave here if I can’t.”
She chewed her lip, knowing he was right. Like she would abandon him anyway—but she wasn’t about to admit to that.
“Then what can I do to help?”
Sylus took hold of the spear shaft in both hands, setting his jaw. “Just look away, my lady. This will not be pleasant.”
She realized what he was about to do, and did, indeed, look away. However, she quickly decided that listening to Sylus’s shuddering breath and aborted sounds of pain were almost worse than seeing the deed.
He let out a guttural sound, halfway because a growl and a groan, and she finally turned, seeing the archfiend slumping, free of the gore-soaked spear still stuck in the wall behind him.
His knees buckled almost instantly and she rushed the few steps to him on instinct, catching his weight. Sylus crashed into her, nearly sending her to the ground, but she somehow managed to steady him, even as she felt his blood seep, hot and sticky, into her clothes.
“Sylus, you…”
“What’s the matter, my lady?” he asked with a breathy chuckle against her shoulder. “You didn’t think something like me could get hurt?”
She didn’t reply, simply shifted so she was under Sylus’s shoulder and bent to pick up his dropped staff, handing it to him. “Let’s get out of here, we’ll find somewhere to rest.”
Blood dripped onto the floor as they made their slow and painful way to the exit. Ariadne was feeling even less favorable toward this place. Dead end leads on the Sacredcore, and her Archfiend had been badly injured.
Sylus leaned heavily against both her and his staff, swallowing sounds of pain as his legs shook slightly.
He really was hurt, she realized with sudden terror as reality sank in. She began to look around frantically for any sheltered place they could rest.
“I didn’t realize you could be hurt so badly,” she said quietly.
Sylus coughed a little, the sound wet. “I told you I was weak with hunger, Countess. I am not invincible, especially when I have gone too long without blood.”
A little guilt tugged at Ariadne but she heard movement behind them.
She spun to see more of the decrepit automatons stumbling out of the temple, raising weapons.
“Hold on,” Sylus breathed in her ear and picked her up, spreading his wings.
“Sylus, your wound!” Ariadne protested as he shot into the air, out of range of their weapons.
His jaw clenched, eyes blinking slightly, but he pushed on, carrying them back toward the mansion.
Ariadne didn’t protest, she simply stayed still in his arms, feeling the heat of his blood seeping into her dress. She slid her hand down and pressed against the wound.
Sylus let out a strangled grunt, wings faltering just slightly.
“Do you wish for me to drop you, Countess?”
“You’re still bleeding.”
“I’m aware.”
She could hear the strain in his voice, just as she could feel the strain in his movements. It seemed an eternity before she saw the mansion below. Sylus banked a little more violently than usual, causing her stomach to drop, clinging to him.
He landed heavily on the balcony, knees nearly buckling. Ariadne just barely got her own feet on the ground, pulling Sylus in the door to her bedroom before he collapsed completely on the floor, a wet cough bursting from him as blood decorated his white glove.
Ariadne felt a sense of panic seeing him like this.
“You truly are badly injured,” Ariadne murmured as she crouched beside him. “Should I call for a physician?”
Sylus gave a wry laugh. “What good do you think that would do me? Unless I’m allowed to drink them.”
“Then I will tend you myself. Do not complain if I am rough,” Ariadne huffed and crossed to the door, ringing for the housekeeper as she called downstairs. “Fetch linins and hot water.”
She turned back to Sylus and chewed the inside of her cheek, trying to hide her anxiety. She finally crossed back over to him and took his arms, doing her best to lift him up.
“Come on, try to get to the bed.”
He chuckled. “So, you’ll allow me in the bed when I’m weak and injured? You don’t think I’ll be even more dangerous in my current state?”
She pushed him a little roughly so that he fell back on the mattress with a hitch of breath.
“At least have care for the sheets.”
“I’ll get new ones,” Ariadne replied.
A knock came at the door. “My Lady?”
Ariadne hurried over to fetch the items from the housekeeper who glanced over her shoulder nosily. “My lady, is the Count injured? Should I send for—”
“We’re quite all right, thank you,” Ariadne said quickly, taking the tray and dismissing the housekeeper.
She set the tray on the table by the bed and reached for Sylus’s coat before hesitating. “I need to see your wound.”
He lay back against the pillows. “Go ahead. Are you so ashamed to undress me, my dear wife?”
Ariadne glowered at him and his half-lidded eyes as she felt her cheeks heat. “You’re insufferable. Bleeding out and you still find it in you to be vulgar.”
She shoved his hand away from the wound, yanked his coat open, and pulled his shirt up more roughly than intended. Sylus’s breath hitched as the wound was exposed.
She felt instantly ill at the sight. The wound was bloody and mangled, a horrific aberration marring Sylus’s well-muscled stomach. Blood seeped freely from it still and she hurriedly grabbed a wad of linins to press against his wound.
“Lift,” she instructed, and Sylus lifted his hips so she could put more under the exit wound on his back.
She pressed him flat and he growled a little, tilting his head back on the pillows.
“You haven’t healed at all,” she realized, stomach twisting as she pressed harder against the wad of bandages, trying to stem the flow of blood.
He exhaled shakily, abdominal muscles spasming under her hand. “You know what will help the most,” he looked up at her from half-closed eyes. “I’ll heal quicker with…sustenance.”
She pursed her lips, but it was unavoidable now. And really, Ariadne felt a twinge of remorse and actually decided she hated seeing him hurt like this.
“Let me bandage the wound first and then I’ll give you some blood.”
She made to check the wound, but Sylus caught her wrist, his fingers colder than usual.
“It’s too large a wound to close. You’ll have to pack it.”
She pressed her lips into a thin line, but nodded.
She wet a cloth in the steaming water and lifted the blood-soaked bandages away to clean the area around the wound. Sylus hissed when she got too close, a trickle of bloody water dripping down his side.
Bracing herself, she took up more bandages and with a deep breath, began to pack the wound.
Sylus let out a sound of pain, jaw tight as he tilted his head back. Sweat beaded on his face as he breathed through his nose.
“A little gentleness goes a long way, my lady,” he panted.
Ariadne pressed a little harder. “The bleeding has stopped. “I would rather you keep some blood in your veins so that I don’t have to give you too much.”
“How stingy, my dear Countess,” he laughed breathlessly. “You would truly leave me on death’s doorstep before you let me drink from your veins.”
“Please. You’re no more likely to die than I am.”
“True; however, like you, I can still feel pain, my lady.”
Something about the honesty of his words burrowed deep into her chest. It was true, Ariadne was no stranger to pain. With her illness constantly fighting against her immortality, there was no relief for her even in death. She wondered if Sylus had suffered similarly in the past.
At the very least, she realized, she could keep him from suffering as much now.
She washed her hands of his blood and lifted her chin. “Can you sit up?”
Sylus exhaled and pushed himself onto his elbows. His body trembled slightly and she reached out to help him sit the rest of the way up.
She removed the blood-soaked shirt and coat, trying not to notice too much how his muscles shifted across his chest and shoulders, refused to acknowledge the glance she took at his broad back veiled in a curtain of silver hair as she bent to retrieve more bandages.
“Lift your arms,” she told him after clearing her throat.
Sylus lifted his arms out of the way dutifully, then surprised her by looping them around her neck, pulling her close enough to rest his head on her shoulder.
Ariadne froze, an indignant protest dying on her lips as she felt him tremble against her. She felt her cheeks heat, hoping he wouldn’t notice, and set about quickly wrapping the bandages around his middle, securing the linin in place with a neat knot, hoping it would hold long enough for him to start to heal.
Sylus exhaled slowly, and nuzzled his nose into her neck. “Well then? Will you keep your word?”
Ariadne sighed and pushed him back a little. “You may drink my blood, yes, but not too much.”
He let out a shuddering breath, eyes already dilating in need. “I won’t need much.”
She helped ease him back against the pillows, taking her jacket off and rolling up her sleeve. Sylus’s eyes instantly locked on her pale skin, his fangs gleaming as his lips pulled back in anticipation.
“May I?”
Ariadne nodded and he wasted little time in pulling her arm toward him and sinking his fangs in.
Ariadne inhaled sharply at the initial sting, then swallowed against the sensation of blood being drawn from her veins.
Sylus grunted in something like relief as his mouth worked frantically against her flesh, and she realized that he must have been starving.
Guilt wracked her briefly, knowing it was her fault he had been denied decent sustenance. His honest need and relief broke something in her. With a welling affection, she settled her hand in his hair, stroking gently as he drank. Sylus let out a sound almost like a purr and pulled away with a final swallow, licking his lips before he kissed the inside of her wrist reverently.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
Ariadne nodded and helped him lay back; Sylus seemed full and content from the blood. She picked up a scrap of bandage and was about to tie it around her arm, when Sylus caught her wrist and pulled it close, tying the bandage himself, fingers less shaky now.
“Thanks,” she replied quietly.
“The least I can do for your generous donation,” he replied with a wry smile.
She was glad to see some color had returned to his face, but he still seemed weak. She stood again and started fussing, finding a soft blanket to put over him to keep him warm.
“You should rest,” she said. “I want you to recover swiftly.”
“Mm, yes, I’m sure you have many more uses for me,” Sylus said wryly, settling down before his hand caught her wrist and his voice softened to something barely audible. “Stay.”
The simple request made her stomach flutter. The rational part of her knew she should protest. She didn’t owe him anything. But he wasn’t being petulant, in fact, he seemed genuinely exhausted. Pain was hard to deal with alone, she was well aware.
So, against her better judgement, Ariadne climbed into the bed beside him as Sylus turned toward her slightly, letting out a soft exhale as if in relief.
“I’m cold. Warm me up.”
“Careful what you demand,” Ariadne shot back, but she shifted a little closer and allowed Sylus to tuck an arm around her waist, pressing his face against her neck. His eyes closed, long eyelashes brushing against her skin, making her shiver in a way that wasn’t unpleasant. She felt his body relax and after a few minutes, she settled against him as well, leaning into his warm chest and thinking that it was actually incredibly comforting to rest with someone like this.
Maybe she was becoming too fond of the Archfiend after all, but perhaps she didn’t really mind it.
~~~~~~~
Tag List: @hilliserose @itsmeaudrieee @regalillegal @carpet-worm @nevers109 @jeepangel @lumi-s-garlic @monarchthefirst
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Whumpuary 2026 Day 13
Characters: Octavian de Silv, Kaira Ta'Ruen
Prompts: “hold still” | impaled | possession
Word Count: 550
Tag List: @fourwingedsnake @whumperofworlds @pigeonwhumps @mr-orion @scaewolf
@the-ellia-west @melpomenelamusa @whumpuary
CW: hiding, impaled, fantasy whump
A/N: I’ve probably written the Octavian and Kaira reunion scene in The Hunter, the Myth and the Cure a dozen times now. It’s not my fault this encounter can go a hundred different ways, none of them ending well for Octavian.
For anyone confused, Kaira can exert her will over Octavian through their mental connection, achieved by runes carved into his back. This connection was temporarily disrupted. She really wants complete control—which he consistently resists—and she thinks that in order to gain it she needs to completely isolate him and break him.
———-
“This would’ve been easier if you had just obeyed.”
[[MORE]]Octavian clenched his jaw, keeping perfectly motionless in the gloom, back pressed to a lifeless tree trunk.
“You’re not playing fair, you know.”
As if she had been playing fair this whole time.
But right now, they were at a stalemate. This close in proximity to a Well, the mental connection Kaira had so gleefully abused was spotty at best and painful at worst. The power radiating from it in waves interfered with her rune-enhanced senses, too, leaving her with human eyes and ears to hunt him down.
But if she found him, she could use the Well against him. Even now, she must be passively absorbing the magic, filtering it through a metaphorical funnel so she wouldn’t burn out. The thought of her finding him sparked so much fear that he was certain she could sense it.
“Funny,” Kaira said softly from somewhere to his left. “How such a fantastical power source remained hidden all these years. A closely-guarded secret by your kind, no doubt.”
Octavian didn’t know if she meant the skinwalkers, the elves, or the Draigo. Perhaps all three.
“What a waste of potential.” She was moving closer.
Octavian didn’t dare move. Any sudden motion would catch her attention instantly. She held a bow in her hand and a hundred possibilities on her tongue.
“And to think that out of this… came you.”
A whistling noise. Octavian barely had time to register the sound, let alone react.
Thunk.
Pain flooded his senses as the arrow tore through skin and muscle and organ and muscle and skin, sticking in the bark behind him.
A strangled cry escaped his lips as his hand instinctively went to the arrow.
The pain multiplied.
She had pierced one of his lungs.
Every breath was fire, each slight movement aggravating the wound, the object shifting as his muscles twitched.
His mind was a haze of agony, each thought consumed as he clutched the arrow senselessly, the fetching soft between his fingers like a far-off memory.
And suddenly she was there, her face inches from his own. “You should have cooperated.”
Octavian’s mouth tasted like metal and bile.
“Now hold still.”
Before he could reply, the fire in his lung became like a scorching sun.
And he screamed.
The world became a blurry mess of smudged gray and black.
He was on the ground.
When did he fall to the ground?
Something warm touched his cheek, tracing a line.
Another line.
A circle.
He wanted to panic, but he couldn’t remember why.
He wanted to fight back, but he couldn’t remember why.
He wanted to run, but he—
Just let me take over.
No.
Nononononono—
Shh. I don’t need you to watch. Just let me in.
He can’t, he can’t, he can’t!
Let me in!
NO!
Somehow even more stubborn than before. Fine. Have it your way.
She smiled.
He couldn’t see her, but he knew she was smiling.
You can watch me kill them both.
In a blink, the arrow in his chest vanished.
But the stab of terror remained as Kaira pulled him to his feet and began to lead him away from the Well.
And he could not stop her.
She was in his head again.
Here to stay.
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Party Animal pt. 4
This work is inspired by this series by @jumpywhumpywriter.
Whumpuary 2026 | 13. “Hold still.” Possession. Impaled.
CW: forced nudity, non-con bondage/rope restraints, cloth gag, needles, possessive hero, villain whumpee
—
He was everywhere. He filled every corner of her mind. Wherever she looked, she saw him. His broken form, bruises painted on his skin, blisters scattered across his body. Even now, drinking latte in her favorite coffee shop, she imagined his swollen head resting on her thighs-
God, what was wrong with her?
She shook her head and sipped her coffee, savoring the bittersweet taste.
Villain was the definition of evil. She shouldn’t feel… this. Whatever it was.
But the whites of his teeth fleshing so close to her skin, the savage look in his eyes… A chill ran down her spine. She felt like a tamer of beasts who had been sent to a cage with tiger. It was thrilling. And utterly stupid.
She paid and got another coffee to go, for Superhero. Little gift to exchange for time with Villain. But she didn’t rush back home, no. She took her time, wandering past the shops, eyeing the displayed products. Nothing really caught her interest, until she passed the pet shop—she stepped back a few paces—and there, behind the window, was a set of collars. They were all different sizes and different materials and it was all too easy to imagine Villain in every one of them. Clawing his fingers at the too-tight leather strap. Gasping for air at the new oppressive sensation-
This needs to stop.
She knew people grieved differently and she lost too many in too short time, but this crossed every line. It couldn’t continue.
She decided to hurry—she didn’t want the coffee to get cold (and she definitely wouldn’t ask Superhero to see Villain again).
Villain was tied to a table. It was a remarkable handiwork—all the precise knots holding his body firm; not allowing him much movement besides insignificant twitch of a muscle.
Well, this didn’t go according to the plan.
Hero’s eyes travelled over his body. He was naked again. Stretched. His legs spread. The table ended at his shoulder blades, leaving his head unsupported and Hero reveled in how he switched between trying to keep his head up and letting it fall down, exposing his neck in such a vulnerable position. It would be so easy to just trace his windpipe with her fingers… and squeeze.
No. No. No.
She turned her head and looked out of the window. She’d never guessed when she returned to Superhero’s place, they’d have him in the kitchen. Like this. She hoped, at least, they would disinfect the place properly afterwards.
Superhero sighed: “You should be careful with the food, Bunny. He’s getting feisty.”
“And you should be careful with the starvation, if you want him to live.”
Superhero grinned. “Fair.” They sipped their coffee and then set the cup aside, next to Villain. “So. Where were we?”
A small metal box lay on the counter opposite them. Superhero rummaged inside it with their fingers, sending a sinister clinking sound through the room. There was something sharp. And it smelled of antiseptic.
Hero watched them pull a needle out—huge one and glass-like. It shimmered in the light as if exited to bite deep into someone’s flesh. It sent shivers down her spine.
“Did he try to run?” she asked and hated how small her voice sounded. She didn’t want Superhero to get the wrong idea—she was not pitying Villain.
“Oh no. But he was getting smart with his mouth. It’s better to smother it right away than let it flare up into something bigger.”
“I said I’m sorry! Please!” begged Villain. “I promise I will be good. I will be good!”
Superhero rolled their eyes, impatiently tapping the needle on his thigh. “Bunny, would you mind shoving something in his mouth?”
She looked around. There was a washcloth slung on the faucet and she grabbed it and rolled it-
“Please, no,” shook Villain his head, but when Hero approached, he pressed his lips tight and turned his head. Hero didn’t really know what to do. She could grab his hair and twist his neck to the point of pain. She could cover his nose and make him struggle for air. But she didn’t have this inside… this kind of violence. It was all good in her imaginations, but now…
“Open, pet,” ordered Superhero with cold voice, tracing the sharp tip of the needle along his inner thigh. The blisters there ruptured and spilled clear liquid. “Open. Or I’ll go get the ring gag and we’ll see how many of these,” they brought the needle closer to his eyes, “we can stick in your tongue at once.”
Tears appeared in Villain eyes, but he let his head fall and opened his mouth. Hero stuffed the cloth in, pressing it deep, until not one piece stuck out. Villain gagged a little at the end, but didn’t try to spit it out, didn’t try to fight.
Superhero smiled, their face as bright as always. “You see how kind we are? You won’t bite your tongue like this. Now, hold still.”
He was shaking again. His big scared eyes followed Superhero’s every movement, his chest heaving with panicked breaths, as they drew the needle closer to his skin—and then the sharp tip drove through his flesh. Villain arched his back. He let out a cry, but the gag muffled it, leaving only a dull sound. The moment the needle was inside, sliding beneath his skin along the length from his pelvis up to his ribs, he tried to wrench himself free of the ropes.
They didn’t budge an inch.
His frustration was palpable. His pain sweet, delicious.
She watched his body give a fight already lost, uselessly trashing in the ropes… before he gave in.
Now you understand what it’s like to go this mad and be unable to do anything about it. Now you understand how people felt when you happened to them.
Villain closed his eyes. He tried to say something. Probably “I’m sorry.” Not that Superhero cared. They spun second needle between their fingers and then slowly sank it in his ankle. Pushing it deeper and deeper, slicing his ligaments, letting it appear on the other side.
Villain screamed. Rent the ropes. Trashed his head around. It looked like he wanted to hit something with it, hard enough to cause concussion—anything to allow himself the luxury of unconsciousness.
“Stop it now, pet,” Superhero frowned. “Have you forgotten what I taught you about accepting punishments?”
Villain shouted something into his gag, and Superhero chuckled, one hand pressed to their lips. “Oh, right. You can’t talk.” They picked up a third needle, and Hero saw terror wash over Villain. His eyes gleamed with tears as he shook his head in a pleading no.
“You’re supposed to be grateful for every punishment, because I’m allowing you to become better.” They set the needle beneath his chin, the sharp tip aimed into his mouth, toward his tongue. “But I’m starting to feel like you don’t want to be better. My lovely Hero came back from you yesterday completely shaken. Care to tell me what you did to her? Or should I ask her instead?”
Hero’s stomach dropped, her palms slick with sweat. Villain watched her with desperate, unblinking eyes, and Superhero was smiling.
Wrong. Everything felt wrong.
Hero took a step back. “He didn’t do anything to me.” Her voice sounded thin, even to her own ears. A strange shiver slid down her spine, as if she could still feel his breath against her skin, the ghost of his sharp teeth hovering far too close to her fingers. “We just talked.”
Superhero answered with a disinterested hmm. No hesitation. They drove the needle in.
Villain screamed.
The sound ripped through the room, raw and animal, and Hero’s knees nearly buckled beneath her. She pressed herself against the fridge. She wanted to stop this and she wanted to hear more. Rage and stupid, stupid compassion fighting within her.
“Now listen, pet.” Superhero stepped close to Villain’s face and idly threaded their fingers through his hair. From a distance, the gesture might have looked almost affectionate, if not for the ropes and the needles and blood. “If you ever hurt Bunny—if you ever make her sad, or uncomfortable, or displeased—I will reorganize your bowels. Do you understand?”
Villain nodded violently, tears streaking down his face. Yes. Yes!
Superhero straightened and turned to Hero. “You can take him back to his cage. Or you can play with him more. But be careful.” Their tone was friendly as always. “If he gets his dirty hands on one of the needles, he will try to kill you. Don’t forget who he is.”
Then their gaze flicked back to Villain, smile growing, sharp and so unlike them. “Don’t get any more funny ideas, okay?”
Superhero left without ceremony, the door closing with a soft, final click, leaving the girl alone with the monster. Hero—unlike the maidens in the stories—was not afraid. She put herself together fast and studied him. With one sharp, practiced movement, she pulled the needle from beneath his chin. Villain groaned around the cloth stuffed in his mouth, the sound low and broken.
“You can spit it out.”
Villain obeyed, though not easily. The gag clung stubbornly, his mouth painfully dry, and it took a moment of fumbling, desperate effort before he managed to force the cloth free. It dropped to the floor, darkened and slick with blood. The needle must have pierced through the thick muscle at the bottom of his mouth; through his tongue, maybe even grazing the roof of his palate. He swallowed hard, breath hitching, as if afraid to test what still worked.
Hero moved to the needle at his side. It looked scary, moving with his every breath, but the wound was shallow, and pulling it out didn’t leave much damage in its wake.
She put the sharp instruments away, remembering her friend’s words, and turned her attention to the ropes. It would have been faster to cut them with a knife, but she didn’t want to wield a weapon anywhere near a killer of his caliber.
She worked patiently until Villain was free—almost. The ropes still bound his forearms together behind his back, biting into his flesh, forcing his arms tight against his body.
“May I sit?” His voice was weak, and for the first time Hero felt all her precautions slipping into absurdity. What could he possibly do in this state?
“You may.”
Villain moved slowly. With his hands tight, the motion was clumsy, but once sitting, his eyes went immediately to his ankle. “Shit.” The needle was still there, driven deep, the glass vanishing into bruised skin. All his muscles were tensed, as if trying to keep it from moving. “Shit, shit.”
“Well… you could have had your bowels reorganized.”
Only then did he look back up at Hero and she swore that something, at that moment, happened between them. A memory passed. Understanding shared. His teeth on her skin. The shiver that ran through her body and left something behind, something that was festering, growing inside her. His feral eyes, beast long forgotten that finally bared its fangs.
The moment passed, swift and unreal. Villain bowed his head. “Thank you. For not telling Superhero I tried to bite you.”
Hero hummed at that.
She was disappointed—she wanted to explore… this thing. Understand what was happening, why she couldn’t think about anything else but him.
“What will I get in return? For not telling?”
Villain’s head shot up, confusion in his expression slowly morphing into fear. “I… don’t have anything.”
“Hmm… Is that so?”
Villain stared at her for a long moment, as though afraid that acknowledging it might make this conversation real. But he couldn’t run forever.
“I only have- You want my body,” he breathed slowly, half question, half realization. She saw the desperation seep into his being as he shook his head. “There is nothing more to give.”
Hero stepped closer and placed her hands at his neck, thumbs brushing gently over his tense muscles. It still baffled her—she could touch her nightmare like this and he allowed it.
“I want you to belong to me.” She didn’t know what it meant or why she wanted it, but God, she did. Her fingers traced the line of his jaw, wiping the blood away, tilting his chin up.
“What do you say?”
Broken laugh escaped him, thin and breathless. “Do I have a choice?”
“We always have choices, dear.”
The same way you chose to kill Sparrow and Blue. Chose to burn my mother.
Her hands fell down, waiting. She forced herself to stay still, to breathe evenly, but she was shaking inside.
Yes. Say yes.
Villain bit his lip, pain and hesitation flickering across his face, then nodded slowly. “I am yours.”
Her heart started racing. She took hold of the needle buried deep in his ankle, and pulled it free in one smooth motion.
He was hers—and the weight of it hit her all at once.
God… What have I done?
—
Guess who’s little obsessed?
Tag list: @stars-hide-our-fires
PS: I meant Hero, not you Stars.
(I’m sorry I should stop trying to be funny)
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Whumpuary #13: “Hold still” | Impaled
When a thunderous boom echoed from Donatello’s laboratory, the others got to their feet with more resignation than concern. This latest big project had set off no fewer than six similar explosions but somehow Donatello remained unfazed, spouting dismissive excuses about overtuning this, miscalculating that.
“Raphael, go grab the fire extinguisher from the kitchen,” Leonardo sighed as he braved the smoke, waving Michelangelo along. “I doubt he’s replaced the one in his lab yet.”
“Yeah, yeah…”
“Donatello?” Michelangelo ventured. “You copacetic, amigo? It wasn’t that coolant leak again, was it?”
“No, just a…ugh…a buildup of combustible dust,” he coughed, arduously pushing himself upright from a crouch to sway idly dazed with several shards of debris in hand. “T-That’s what I get for going without stainless steel, I guess, but I don’t know where I’m gonna find another—”
“Wait, hold it!” Leonardo gasped. “Hold still, stop right there! Your plastron!”
“Hmm?” Blinking hard, Donatello followed his wide eyes down to his side, to the shallow, shivery rise and fall of a wide chunk of metal lodged there. New awareness and pain throbbed in; blood throbbed sluggishly out. “…Oh. I was…wondering where that piece ended up…”
He staggered, losing his hold on any fragments he had gathered as Michelangelo scrambled to maneuver his desk chair underneath him. The jostling as he dropped into it sent branches of lightning from his side, wringing out a guttural, strangled sound. Between the smoke, dust and agony, everything blurred.
“—fire extinguisher—” Raphael’s voice drifted from what seemed like miles away.
“—medical kit!” Leonardo barked frantically back, followed by a strident clang of what was presumably the fire extinguisher hitting the floor. If he didn’t clamp trembling hands over the chair’s armrests to remind himself where he was, Donatello might be soon to follow.
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Day 13: Impaled
“Hold still” | Possession | Impaled
Fullmetal Alchemist Brotherhood 01x41
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For Klavier Gavin, being snowbound at a strange, Gothic hotel while working with Interpol was bad enough…but when you add in the defense attorney he once got disbarred it might just turn into a disaster. And that’s not even counting the dead body!
Chapter One (Day Four: Impaled)
“Klavier?”
His eyes shot open again. He twisted his head, nearly frozen in disbelief, and found himself face-to-face with the last man on earth he expected to see here. “Herr Wright?”
(@hurtcember Day Four)
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The lance that impaled him bore a beautiful example of Solutrean Ice Age technology. The flint blade was long and leaf-shaped, with exquisite pressure flaking and a smear of toxic poison milked from abyssal rays.
“The Descent” - Jeff Long