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clickerflight · 5 days

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Clove: Part 18 - Fight Back

YOOOOOO Goldenrod being an active agent in his own story? Wild!

Masterlist

Part 17

Content: Werewolf whumpee, Vampire whumpee, human whumper, fae whumper, bound and gagged, dragged, ritual sacrifice, laceration, whumper gets whumped, threats and mindgames

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The blue grass was damp and cold from the mists, dragging across Goldenrod’s bare skin, his tunic long fallen off in ribbons. Goldenrod didn’t struggle anymore. He gathered his strength, chewing quietly on the mushroom like flesh in his mouth. Jack’s magic dug painfully into Goldenrod’s ankles, though he couldn’t see Jack as he walked just far enough ahead in the mists that they shrouded him completely, though he could hear the mad sorcerer muttering. Something about rituals, blood, and servants. Goldenrod couldn’t make out much more than that.

Goldenrod tilted his head, looking back the way they’d come. He knew he wouldn’t see Ephraim, but he wished he could. He hoped that Ephraim would come running through the mists, fangs on display before tearing out Jack’s throat. Goldenrod was scared. His hands shook in their bindings, his skin remembering pain that he endured for such a long time. He didn’t know what Jack wanted with him this time, but Goldenrod wasn’t the shrinking pup he had once been. He wasn’t Jack’s Hyrum anymore. Even if Ephraim didn’t come in a nick of time, even if Goldenrod would die, it would be on his own terms. Fighting all the way down, and hopefully taking Jack with him.

Something loomed out of the mists, tall and dark. Black obelisks arranged in a circle and carved with the same engravings as the ones on Jack’s bared chest.

The sorcerer waved his hand and Goldenrod yelped in surprise and pain as he was dragged over the sharp gravel and up onto a cold stone table.

Jack put a hand on Goldenrod’s chest, ignoring the werewolf’s squirming as he said, “I have waited so long for this, my pup. This is what you were born for, Hyrum. This is what you are meant to be. My gift to the powers that hold the courts together, that I may gain their power.”

Goldenrod growled, biting harder into the flesh of the mushroom.

“Stay, my pup. I must arrange the stones,” Jack said, his tone quivering with excitement.

Goldenrod watched Jack hurry off, grabbing a stained basket full of white stones before he started to place them around the ritual sight.

Goldenrod writhed, trying to free his arms held so close to his throat. He chewed more fiercely at his gag, swallowing the bits that he chewed off. He was getting close. He was so close. He was not going to die here without drawing blood too, despite how he trembled with fear and his heart and mind shrunk away at the thought.

Jack hummed something breezy and dark as he placed the stones around the table, eyes bright with a manic flame.

“I am so close,” he said eagerly. “This has been what my whole life has come to. Yours as well, pup. I’ll prove them all wrong. I’ll take back my power over the others of my kind. They think me crazed and wild. They locked me up! Never again. Never again.”

Goldenrod growled low in his throat as Jack put the basket down, double checking his stones and their placements before approaching. He drew an obsidian dagger as he did so, flicking his other hand to change the shapes of the bindings, revealing Goldenrod’s throat.

He placed the blade gently at Goldenrod’s throat, stroking the werewolf’s face. “Your voicebox first. Try not to die too quickly, yes? It’s best if you’re alive for most of it, if not all of it.”

Goldenrod felt his pulse quicken, his stomach turning with fear and the expectation of pain. He was trembling and sweating just as much as he did when Jack would ‘train’ him, but there was something new inside of him. Something feral and powerful and loved.

Goldenrod bit through the rest of the mushroom, spitting it out at a speed that startled Jack back. Not far enough back, though.

Hyrum’s sharp, snapping mouth closed around Jack’s wrist, forcing him to drop the knife. It cut Hyrum’s collarbone slightly, but he paid no heed to the pain as his teeth met with a crunch inside Jack’s wrist.

The sorcerer screamed, leaping back, his entire foul tasting hand detaching from his arm as he did so.

Goldenrod felt something he’d never experienced before as Jack screamed and bled. As he faltered in his approach.

Goldenrod felt the Hunt.

The werewolf snarled, so filled with energy that it was only a minor trial to snap the bonds, grabbing the obsidian knife and leaping from the table after Jack.

The sorcerer screamed again, the sound music in Goldenrod’s ears.

Jack fled the circle, Goldenrod hot on his heels. The prey finally becoming the hunter. Goldenrod could only imagine how ecstatic it would feel to finally kill his tormentor, ripping his throat out like a scared screaming rabbit’s.

However, this did not come to pass. As Jack sprinted past the edge of the ritual circle, Goldenrod was caught in the boundary, gently bounced back onto the sharp gravel. Goldenrod snarled, striking at the boundary with the knife, but it remained there, a pale desaturated blue color, malleable, and yet unbreakable.

“Coward,” Goldenrod hissed, blood dripping from his lips.

Jack stood bent over his arm, the place where he lost his hand was clean, as though it had been cut off. Goldenrod could see it bubbling, flesh slowly growing back.

“You ungrateful THING!” Jack shrieked. “You horrible little bag of bones! You should be grateful to me! I raised you! I fed you! You would have died as a pup in the snow if it weren’t for me!”

“Death would have been preferable,” Goldenrod replied, clenching his fist around the handle of the obsidian knife. “Release me. Now.”

Jack hissed, a demonic sounding thing. “You are still my creation. I have every right to end you. And I will. I no longer have the need for sleep. Do you?”

Goldenrod growled, his anger still as strong as ever, but the fear was creeping in. No. He was tired. He wanted to lay down and lick his wounds. The moment he let his guard down, the moment Jack was healed, Goldenrod was as good as dead.

“I can hold off until Ephraim can get here,” Goldenrod decided, promising that to himself and to Jack.

Jack threw back his head and laughed, mouth wide open to show his sharpened teeth. When his laughter subsided, he laid his cold eyes back on Goldenrod. “You believe that, do you? Do you know what the fae will do to him? At best they will kill him quickly. At worst, torture him for years and then kill him. The fae do not take kindly to imposters in their lands, you know. He’s likely dead as we speak.”

“I do not care what you say,” Goldenrod replied, baring his teeth. He did. He really did. But he couldn’t let the words sink in. He needed Ephraim to be okay. He needed Ephraim to come rescue him. He needed help.

“You should,” Jack replied, pacing back and forth. “Give me the knife, pup. There is no need to drag this out.”

“No,” Goldenrod replied firmly. That seemed to break something in Jack.

“GIVE ME THE KNIFE!” Jack screamed, lunging at the barrier.

Goldenrod flinched, but not enough to keep him from lunging in return.

Jack just barely got out of the way, the knife sweeping over his head before he scrambled back again.

Goldenrod panted, standing ready with the blade, anticipating another attack, but Jack backed off, cradling his growing hand.

“Fine, have it your way,” the sorcerer snapped.

Jack backed up until Goldenrod couldn’t see him anymore through the mists.

Goldenrod stood ready for a long minute before he backed up towards the table, avoiding stepping on Jack’s discarded hand, which was slowly melting into a puddle goo. He carefully sat on the table, watching the mists around him. The fight wasn’t even close to over, and he let the tension and fear stay, warding off the exhaustion.

Without the present threat in view, however, his mind drifted. Was Ephraim dead? No, he couldn’t be. Goldenrod would feel it, wouldn’t he? What if he didn’t? What if Ephraim was dead and Goldenrod had no idea. It made the werewolf feel a little sick thinking about that.

The pain in the cut on his chest and his many bruises were starting to get to him.

He growled quietly to himself, but he didn’t dare look down at the wound in case Jack took that as an opportunity to attack him.

In any case, Goldenrod needed to find a way out of this. And quickly. He needed to rescue Ephraim. Huh, that was a strange thought. Goldenrod rescuing Ephraim? It almost didn’t make any sense.

Hyrum set into a careful watchfulness, wary and poised to strike, never letting go of the blade. He wasn’t going to let this crazed monster take anything else from him.

…………………………………….

The palace of the fae looked to be something like a cross between a colosseum and a mountain. Ephraim had no idea where it came from. There had only been mists and hills for however many hours he had been walking, and then, quite suddenly, they were in the forests at the base of a mountain.

Ephaim had tried to ask questions of his captors, at least to get a better handle of the situation, but was provided with nothing in return for his efforts. So he silently followed as he was guiding, beginning the climb up the stairs to the palace.

“You’re explaining this, right, Kortop?” Jokel asked.

Kortop sighed heavily. “Yes. Though, if this vampire is who I think he is, I won’t actually have to explain anything. Our Queen’s favorite little house husband will explain it all.”

“Mm. That’s good. How do you think she’s going to react?”

“I have no idea.”

Ephraim kept his gaze on his feet as they reached the top of the stairs, starting through the cave-like halls, dotted with perfectly carved pillars. After a moment. Ephraim realized the roughness was just a facade, the dips and jagged rocks formed images he couldn’t quite make out. He felt he needed to be just a bit taller to have the right perspective for the images to make sense. The height of the fae.

Ephraim’s attention was drawn forward again as they reached a set of double doors. The guards at the doors were not fae. The two cyclops looked down at Ephraim before their gazes turned to Kortop.

“We are here for an audience with the queen,” Kortop said. He waited as the Cyclops frowned, one opening his mouth to say something, but Kortop snapped, “Now. I will bear the consequences.”

“Your funeral,” one cyclops muttered as they pushed the door open.

With that, Kortops took Ephraim’s arm in his sharp grasp. “Look alive, vampire,” he said with a grim smile. “And be on your best behavior. I’m sure you know we Fae are only half as fickle as our Monarchs are.”

Part 19 - Coming soon

Clove Taglist: @wolfeyedwitch @the-blind-one-speaks @whumpsday @extrabitterbrain @inkkswhumpandstuff @honeycollectswhump @whump-blog-reblogs @pigeonwhumps @mj-or-say10 @percy-frayer @currentlyinthesprial

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clickerflight · 10 days

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Hiii its your Whump Art Exchange assigned partner here

Just wanted to say ive been enjoying your writing in secret (i was reading it to get a better grasp at who is your character) and once we post all the fanarts im gonna come out and like it all 🫶

Also Kolt's kinda fun to draw.

AHHH! Thank you! This means so much to me! Fallen is the one story out of my current three that gets the least amount of attention but I'm so proud of it and love it so much! I can wait to see your drawings (And thank you for the reminder that I need to get on mine lol)

#I'm so excited!#ask #i love kolt #more than is probably sane #he's so interesting to me #and I'm exploring some issues I have with my own mental health and health in general through him #I gave him my eyesight actually #>:3

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clickerflight · 10 days

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Aight. So I'mma sit here in my corner and cry then.

Initials

[masterlist]

CW: whumper pov, pet whump, dehumanisation, cutting (NOT self-harm), gore

Mireille hadn’t put too much thought into it, not really. But she didn’t need to. The moment she lay eyes upon the initials carved into the jewelled perfume bottle in the home of one of her suitors, it was decided.

Henri was a good man, certainly as good as he could get, though not without some imperfections. He was of good stature, broad shoulders, though unaware of how to present them, always slouching slightly, as if the weight of his own frame was too much. And really, that wasn’t acceptable in the eyes of perfection. Maybe Mireille could make him great, could make him her own and teach him how to be proper, but maybe this was the best he could get and she’d just waste her time. Honestly, she’d rather be certain of her efforts, but he didn’t need to know, for his presents still made lovely decor.

He did have good taste, otherwise she wouldn’t have entertained him for so long.

All that matters now though, is the sunlight catching in the glass carvings of the bottle, the image replaying in her mind. She wants it too, and she wants it now, and Mireille knows just the possession perfectly suited for this:

Her little ashtray.

There is no thought in her mind of where to do this, who to ask. None of them would see the vision in her mind, the exact way it’s supposed to look. They’d all mess it up, ignorant of the gracefulness she lent to her ashtray. No, this is a personal project.

It is too easy to acquire a proper knife without suspicion. These men –the useful ones– – would bend over backwards just to get a chance at pleasing her. Sometimes she’d go as far as calling it boring, but what else was she supposed to do when all it took was the batting of her lashes, looking up at them with big, dumb doe eyes and slightly parted lips? Her body spoke a language none of them could resist, none of them were ever more than prey to fall in worship.

And worship they did, falling to their knees to satisfy her in all the ways she allowed them. She was their queen in satin sheets and velvet dresses.

So here she sits, legs crossed elegantly on her precious couch, the fine knife not yet unpacked, resting in a silver case, embedded with diamonds.

No one else understands that not only does the result need to be flawless, but every single step needs to be immaculate, from the tools to the cutting to the one performing. An image has to be created, a scene, and none of those lowly things could ever understand her vision. That was what has always made her inherently different, inherently superior, and deserving of rightful worship.

A servant rushes into the room, hitching breaths restricted by the working collar, eying the golden bell set carefully on the glass table in front of her.

“You called, Mistress?” they ask, staring cautiously at the floor, not yet daring to raise their eyes to meet hers. Good. She wants them revering.

“Yes. Fetch me my ashtray, won’t you?” Mireille drawls, her bubbling excitement hidden under layers of refined grace. “And bring me some strong dogs. They will be needed.”

The servant nods, not worrying their stupid little head about her meaning, teasing what's to come, and rushes out as quickly as they came. They look frail, purposeful like porcelain, probably why she bought them, though their name or number had left her mind long ago. An unimportant piece of information abandoned along the way, replaced with something of value.

Only minutes later, the same servant returns, gripping the ashtray’s golden leash too tightly. It’s barely noticeable but nonetheless doesn’t escape her all-seeing eyes; the way their knuckles drain of colour disturbs the otherwise pristine scene. They are followed by two guard dogs, muscular and well rested, their posture straight and imposing, their gaze hard and cold like unmoving stone.

The ashtray looks perfect as usual, the thought both pleasing and stinging in a way that does not fit her image. So Mireille pushes it aside, a worry for later or preferably for never. They can’t have taken long to get him ready. And yet…

“Undress the ashtray. I want his chest to be free” Mireille orders, snapping her fingers. The servant quickly complies, buttoning the fine blouse the ashtray was decorated with open, pulling up away from him and folding it with learned precision.

It only takes a hand movement for the ashtray to step forward, for him to sink to his knees in front of her. The poor lamb doesn’t yet know what is coming.

“Hold him.”

The ashtray gasps and for a single, disobedient moment looks up at her with big panicked eyes. The way his blue eyes shine in the golden light of the chandelier does nothing but strengthen her resolve. Maybe, in another world, the view in front of her would be a painting she saw at an auction, a beautiful angel wrapped in gold captured by beasts of stone, unknowing of his fate. And like a painting, it is only natural for her to leave her mark.

He doesn’t struggle, even when she can’t imagine this was part of his training, he just looks at her pleadingly, unsure what he is even begging for.

It’s a scene now and Mireille will be a perfect part of it.

Slowly, she stands up, taking the silver case from the table as she passes it, positioning herself right in front of the ashtray. It opens with a satisfying click, revealing polished metal, sharp edges, red velvet and her initials finely engraved on the handle. Mireille can just about stop a laugh from bubbling up.

She crouches down to the ashtray’s eye level, laying a hand on his cheek. He doesn’t even lean into it. “Don’t. Move.”

Mireille takes the knife, letting it gleam in the gentle light, and hands the case to the servant still watching.

She can’t mess up now. It has to come from her heart.

Carefully, she traces her initials into the skin on his collarbone, making only slight cuts, letting her letters swirl around.

M. A. B.

Holding the knife like a painter's brush, with meticulous, perfected movements. It comes to her like second nature and the first step is completed.

In a final decision, she lays the knife’s edge on the first line of the M, watching the ashtray’s breath hitch in horrible anticipation. Not even a wince has broken through his training and Mireille is more than curious to test how far she can take it.

Were he any cheaper, she’d love to test what would get him to break his training. If she could get him to speak after all. But that wouldn’t be graceful, now would it? It would be a waste.

Instead, she presses it into his flesh, cutting down slowly, precisely. Once, then twice. The ashtray’s breath gets laboured and it only fuels her. She knows what she wants; an ornate engraving, decor on his skin, a signature on her masterpiece.

Fresh, richly red blood pours from the cuts, running down his bare chest like tiny rivers, connecting and separating, getting caught in raised scar tissue.

Mireille moves carefully, taking her sweet time, her lips opened slightly, imitating an artist. Position, press, slide. His flesh parts beautifully, like he was made for this. For a moment, she looks over to the servant, who is pressing the case against their chest, their face showing sloppily concealed horror, and it makes her smile. They would probably call it brutal, ignoring the gentle way her knife slides through his skin, not meeting any resistance. They’d call it violent, not comprehending the second artwork the rivulets of blood form through the hand of fate itself. They lack the mind of an artist and the nature of a human.

By the time she reaches the A, the ashtray is barely holding back sobs, letting out silent, crooked whimpers –a sound so ugly she should punish him for it–, as she etches her mark deep enough to hit the bone. Still, he doesn’t move, doesn’t strain against the unforgiving grip holding his arms, against her carving following the twirls and flourishes.

She doesn’t admit to herself that it is more challenging than she thought, to follow the rounded lines with a tool that craves sharp edges and straight incisions. The curves of the B make the knife catch on the bone and the ashtray lets out a soundless gasping scream, blue eyes nearly rolling back in his head. The tears he could barely hold back before now run down his face in a disobedient river, mixing with the blood on his chest, destroying her artwork.

He lifts his head upwards, in a last attempt to stop the flow of the tears, but it only makes them drip from his chin into the gashes and he is destroying everything–

A slap echoes through the room, loud enough to make his pathetic sobbing stop in an instant.

“Get your act together.” Mireille hisses, grabbing his chin and letting her manicured nails dig into his pretty face. “Or I will rip you apart, you worthless piece of trash.”

Only the word Worthless seems to get through to his stupid fucking pet brain. There is a reason he was made into a thoughtless object instead of anything else. His beauty is his only strength, the only reason they didn’t mercy-kill him, punish him for stealing space and air and atoms from anything with more use.

He is an ashtray or he is Nothing. And if he keeps ruining her attempts to make Something out of him, he will wish she had let him keep his voice to beg for death.

At last, the ashtray doesn’t act up any more, stays motionless and silent as she finishes the B. When she pulls his skin taut, she can feel him tremble with the effort to keep still. Seems like his training had some use after all.

Finally satisfied, Mireille lays the bloody knife aside, giving herself some time to analyze her work. Briefly, she turns to the servant to order a towel, before devoting her attention back to the signature, quickly overflowing with blood. It’s beautiful, but her interest lies somewhere else.

She digs two fingers into a line of the A, pulling the incision apart. The ashtray only manages a whimper that she gives no regard to, as she digs deeper and deeper through the tissue, against the continuous blood flow. Then, against the intense red, her own personal gold shines through.

Bone.

A pleased giggle escapes her.

It is done.

Whatever will happen, whoever will lay their eyes upon them, it will be eternally clear who he belongs to. There are nicks in his bone that her knife and her hands caused and he will forever know.

And when her stupid little ashtray comes back to his senses and remembers his silent purpose, he will thank her for it tenfold.

Taglist: @whumpsday, @2in1whump, @sodacreampuff, @webbo0, @toyybox, @sowhumpshaped, @clickerflight, @itsawhumpsideblog, @piniatafullofblood let me know if you want to be added or removed :)

i hope you enjoyed this chapter!! if you did, i would be very thankful if you considered donating to @whumpcloud's gofundme for their top surgery (of course only if you are financially able to!!!). it would mean the world to us both <3

#The Ashtray #ashtray/skye (oc)#mireille belmont (oc)#whumper pov #female whumper #pet whump #conditioned whumpee #human furniture #dehumanization #honey's writing #i couldn't find a good reaction image #so I decided to draw my own #heccin #ow #i don't care what issues she's got in her head #I would kill her if given the chance

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clickerflight · 14 days

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Anyone wanna read another Danny Phantom Vivisection fic? First chapter is out :3

Ectoplasm is Thicker than Water - Chapter 1 - ClickerFlight - Danny Phantom [Archive of Our Own]

#whump #whump writing #danny phantom fic #ghost whumpee #vivisection #vlad is a good dad

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clickerflight · 16 days

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Clove: Part 17 - The Pit

Good news! I have finished my danny phantom fanfic so I can move Clove to the more active position in my writing rotation. So, this story will progress much faster (think one or two pieces of clove writing per week)

Masterlist

Part 16

Content: Fae whumpers, vampire whumpee, collared and bound, manhandling, lacerations around the mouth

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Ephraim sat against the cold pillar, arms wrapped around knees and his head down, toes curled into the strange grass. He shivered as the fog twisted around him, dampening his clothing and hair, leaving him to grow cold. He hadn’t thought about much of anything for the past few hours. What was there to think about? How he failed, again? Goldenrod gone into the mists of the fae wilds just like Benny? Ephraim’s own impending death?

Goldenrod had been so scared. Ephraim tried to keep his eyes wide open, staring at his tattered pants, because if he closed his eyes the only clear thought he would have would be the image of Goldenrod’s wide, fearful eyes.

Ephraim felt as though the fog had entered in through his ears and left him quiet and damp and miserable inside there too.

He hugged his knees closer, shifting his head for the hundredth time trying to get the collar to stop from cutting into his jaw. He had checked the collar earlier. No openings, no seam lines, nothing. Same with the chain. He was well and truly trapped.

A sudden wind picked up through the fog, chilling Ephraim so thoroughly he couldn’t help but gasp and it took him a moment to look up, shivering.

The fog was blowing back and away from him, showing him more of the cold, dreary landscape. There were no trees or buildings, just rolling blue hills as far as he was able to see.

Well, there was something else. Three figures striding towards him.

He should stand up, meet his death face to face, but he couldn’t bring himself to stand and expose himself to even more of that cold, cruel wind.

The three fae approached, chatting with one another and laughing. The leader looked to be the shortest, gossamer wings glimmering as though there were sunlight shining down on them. He was beautiful in the way that vampires were supposed to be, but didn’t quite manage, ethereal and uncanny.

The one walking on his right had an extra pair of arms, several fox tails waving around behind her, while the third looked like a bird of prey, his arms and wings the same limb and his face shaping into a beak which clacked gently as he spoke.

Ephraim could hear them speaking with one another, laughing softly, but he couldn’t understand what they were saying, their voices warbling and unclear to him.

Ephriam twitched when they looked directly at him, their gazes becoming something sharp and hungry.

“Oh, sweetheart!” the shortest called in a singsong voice, finally making sense to him. “Did you get lost?”

Ephraim shook his head a little.

“Foolish, then,” the bird of prey said. “To come here so boldly.”

“No,” Ephraim said, trying to keep the fear out of his voice. “There was a man I was following. He has my…. My son.”

“Son? Not fledgling?” the shortest asked, wings flickering. “Stealing children now, are we, experiment?”

He reached out a hand and Ephraim heard the chain come out of the stone. He tried to scramble to his feet, but the chain moved too quickly, jerking him forward to land sprawled at the feet of the three fae, the chain held in the shortest’s hand. The three of them laughed as he caught his breath, his chest aching with the impact.

“It’s funny every time,” the bird fae said, his beak clacking sharply, causing Ephraim to flinch as he started to get up.

The four armed fae put a foot on his back, keeping him from rising as his control over his breathing left him, tearing at the grass as adrenaline spiking in his tired, cold system.

“Tough luck about your son,” she said, crouching and grabbing his wrists. He yelled as she repositioned his arms behind his back, the chain forming solidly around them to hold them there. “We don’t allow freaks of nature to wander around our wilds, though,” she whispered.

She lifted Ephraim, putting him solidly on his feet before pushing him forward.

“Please, wait!” Ephraim said desperately as the three fae closed around him, dragging and pushing him forward. “Please! I have to save him! Jack’s going to-”

The four armed fae grabbed him by the hair, wrenching his head back as though he were a doll with no resisting force.

He cried out in pain, arched awkwardly as he tried to reach with hands bound behind his back to push her off.

“Shut it, vampire,” she hissed before releasing him, watching him stumble before grabbing him by the back of his tattered shirt to control him better.

The fog vanished before the three fae as they walked, and the low, rolling hills suddenly fell away.

There was a pit in the fog. It stretched on and on, blocks of reddish granite dotting the edge in intervals until it all disappeared into the mist.

And in the pit…..

There had been stories that things did not decay in the fae wilds. Not unless acted upon by an outside source. There were hundreds of bodies in the pit, all with gaping wounds in their chests, mouth open and bloody, fangs ripped out, all of them as fresh and pristine as the day they died, horror frozen on their dead faces.

A horrified sob ripped out of Ephraim as he searched the faces, looking for Benjamin’s. Is this what happened to his fledgling?

Before he could find anything, the four armed fae threw him down, back against the stone before grabbing him with all four hands to make sure he was laying flat on it.

“Give me the stake, Jokel,” she said to the bird fae, who reached into his bag to do so as Ephraim writhed, the chains digging into his wrists and back.

“Hold on,” the shortest fae said, sounding offended. “I want his fangs.”

The four armed fae huffed as the fae with gossamer wings stepped forward, his robes sweeping over the grass like a hiss of death.

He grabbed Ephraim’s jaw, despite Ephraim’s vain attempts to avoid his hand. His fingers were sharp, and cut shallow lines in Ephraim’s jaw and lips as he pried the vampire’s mouth open.

Ephraim stopped struggling as the sharp claws forced their way into his mouth, heavy on his tongue and gums. He closed his eyes tight, whimpering as he waited for the fae to take his fangs, mentally preparing himself for the sharp and terrible pain that was sure to come, but a silence fell, heavy and long.

He cracked an eye open to find all three of the fae staring at him.

The gossamer fae ran a thumb over his broken fang. “You’ve bitten something you shouldn’t have. What did you fight, vampire?”

The gossamer fae removed his fingers from Ephraim’s mouth and Ephraim licked his bloody lips quickly and nervously. “Fae,” he croaked. He was dead anyways. And if they did decide to torture him, perhaps that would provide him with an opportunity of escape. ”About half a century ago, I think.”

The fae all shared a look before sharp eyes turned to him again. “Where.”

“Quiet Brook,” Ephraim replied in a shaky tone.

That got a reaction. The four armed fae released him immediately like he’d burned her, and the bird and gossamer fae looked faintly disappointed.

“Right,” the gossamer fae sighed. “You’d better not be lying. The queen will want to meet you.”

“Queen? I don’t have time for that! I have to-”

Jokel grabbed him by the chain, close to the collar, and forced him up. “You have an audience with the queen. You will do as we say, and you might even live.”

Ephraim swallowed hard and nodded against the collar, holding his breath as it crushed his windpipe slightly. The pain didn’t really matter. He could barely feel it through the confusion, relief, and fear.

“Just our luck,” the gossamer fae sighed as Jokel released Ephraim’s collar and they all watched him stumble to keep upright. “I really wanted a couple more fangs for my collection.”

“How are you coming along with that, Kortop?” the four armed fae asked, walking beside him as Jokel took charge of walking Ephraim forward, much more gently now.

“Oh, I’m getting close. I want to have it done by the harvest festivals so I can wear them all out and about. It’s going to look incredible when it’s finished, but I think I might have to go vampire hunting if I want it done on time.”

“A trip to the human realm doesn’t sound too bad,” the four armed fae said thoughtfully. “I’d like to come if you do go.”

“Of course! We’ll make a vacation of it. Jokel, are you interested?”

“Not really.”

“Spoil sport.”

Ephraim looked back over his shoulder at the pit, blood dripping down and along his chin in cold, windswept lines. There were so many dead vampires there. So many slain when they could have just been sent back. But how many vampires avoided the pit for much worse fates in the courts?

Ephraim couldn’t stop shivering. He wished so badly to go home, to be in the garden, to hold Goldenrod. He wished it so badly his chest hurt and his eyes burned. He lowered his head, fighting back tears as he was escorted through the cold hills of the fae wilds.

Part 18

Clove Taglist: @wolfeyedwitch @the-blind-one-speaks @whumpsday @extrabitterbrain @inkkswhumpandstuff @honeycollectswhump @whump-blog-reblogs @pigeonwhumps @mj-or-say10 @percy-frayer

#whump #whump writing #clove #vampire whumpee #fae whumpers #collared and bound #manhandling #lacerations #Ephraim #Hehehehehehe #I'm excited to get this arc rolling!#I've been daydreaming this scene for a hot minute #This is all so fun!

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clickerflight · 20 days

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Reblog if you write fic and people can inbox you random-ass questions about your stories, itemized number lists be damned.

#anyone want to ask about the whumpy Danny phantom fic I’m writing?#or any of my stories really

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clickerflight · 23 days

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My boiiiiii! He having a bad time in fact

@myhusbandsasemni ‘s oc Zeke

He’s not having a good time<3

#paperdemon #art #digital art #artists on tumblr #zeke #cold whump #rain whump #unicorn whumpee #cursed unicorn #when I write out his story #it will go on this blog

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clickerflight · 23 days

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Hi, your Whump Art Trade partner here. I got some questions about Kolt, your character?

How tall is he?

Do you know what's his body shape? (i can see his face clearly from the ref already)

He has some kind of superpower? It seems so. Or is it just a device he's using on the ref?

Any recommendations on written or art pieces I could check to know him better?

Maybe you have a tag for your art of him?

That's it, thx (btw your oc is super cool i liked the first ref a lot)

Hello! He is probably pretty tall. I’m thinking 6,4 before the whump, 6,2 after the whump.

His body shape is a sort of ‘returning to health’ body shape. Still skinny but layering on some muscles.

He does have a power! Basically a glorified laser that can explode people and things to bits.

If you read “fallen” in my “crestlen” world (have a look at my master list) you can get to know him. I have shared the only pictures I have of him with you already. You can see the use of his power in the ‘escape attempt’ bit.

Hope that helps! Sorry it took so long to respond. My new job wrecked me today lol

#whump #kolt #fallen #crestlen #ask

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clickerflight · 1 month

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Fallen: Part 9 - How Much is that Doggie in the Window

I was supposed to write this ages ago, but misread fallen as fleeting on my to do list so :p Also, I do adore the hallucinations in the way of 'they're hurting my guy :)' They're fun. I have plans for them.

Masterlist

Part 8

Content: Villain whumpee, hallucinations, miserable times, wet cat vibes, nonsexual nudity, discussion of past injuries, mentions of drugs and needle marks

..................................................................

It was raining now. Kolt was completely drenched, his thin shirt and sweatpants doing nothing to protect him from the elements. The nice woman who had been helping him had needed to go to work and gave him a little bit of money, which helped him get pretty close to where he needed to go, but not far enough,

He shuffled through the rain, the lights shimmering before his blurry eyes as he went, arms wrapped around himself as he sniffled and allowed himself to look less and less like the man he had been before.

Ah, look at him. Like a soaked puppy dog, Gambler said with relish in his voice.

“Shut up,” Kolt said softly, pushing past the dark hallucination. He swore he could feel the rain slicked poncho the man was wearing under his scarred palm.

Ooh, we’re brave today, aren’t we, Watcher said, which sent chills down Kolt’s spine, unrelated to the weather. Watcher didn’t speak often, but when he did, it was usually a portent of something terrible coming his way. He hoped this time wasn’t one of those occasions.

We should do something about that, Beater said, stepping out of an alley. In the past, Kolt would have just ignored them. Rationalized that they were just hallucinations. But they weren’t just hallucinations any more. They could affect him now. Force him to do things he didn’t want to do. They could hurt him or stop his progress, so he treated them like cautious enemies.

He moved carefully, not allowing them to corner him or surround him.

So fast when you’re let out of your cage, hmm? Beater said, jogging to catch up, trying to get ahead of Kolt, but Kolt turned down another street.

Never let them know your next move, Watcher whispered in that two toned voice. It made Kolt want to throw up.

Where are you going, puppy? Shouldn’t you be in a window? How is anyone supposed to want to buy you if you getting all muddy and bruised in the streets? Gambler asked, and before Kolt could get out of the way he felt something trip him, sending him sprawling.

They had to be real. There was no way a hallucination would be so real, right?

Kolt shook his head, pushing himself out of the mud. He couldn’t think about it right now. It would only slow him down.

Persistent, Beater commented, impressed. Looks like they didn’t take all of the fight out of you. But we knew that. You are so so good at hiding what is actually going on in that big brain of yours.

You were such a good dog for Dr. LeAnne for so long. It is amazing you’re able to remember anything after that, Gambler added and all three of the hallucinations laughed.

Kolt tried to drown them out, his heart beating faster when he saw the familiar door ahead.

“Please,” he couldn’t help but whisper to himself. “Please still be here.”

The hallucinations, still laughing, hung back as he approached the door. He knocked, the sound weak under the sound of the rain. He waited, arms wrapped around himself again, water dripping out of his long hair and into his face as he waited.

Someone moved inside and the door opened. Dr. Dalley Hitchcock still looked the same, round of face and chest, friendly looking besides a dark look behind his eyes, and sturdy.

“Dalley,” Kolt breathed, emotions swelling up in his chest. Shame from being seen like this, gratitude and relief and hope, fear that he would be turned away because Dalley’s alliances had changed; everything. Kolt opened his mouth to explain, to be rational and ask for help politely, to apologize for the intrusion, but his eyes blurred further, obscuring Dalley’s features and a sob ripped out of his throat in such a manner that Kolt covered his mouth like he could take that and the rushing tears back.

“Kolt? Is that you? We thought you were dead,” Dalley said, reaching out and taking Kolt by the elbows to guide him inside, closing the door and blocking out those three clear shapes Kolt could always see even as he cried.

Kolt was sat in a chair, elbows propped on his knees as he tried to regain his composure.

“Where have you been?” Dalley asked, rummaging around and grabbing things. “Not even the Dragon Gang could figure out where you’d gone.”

Kolt shook his head in his hands. No one could find him except Gale. And Gale was who knows where.

“Kolt?”

Kolt wiped his face hard, sniffling and lifted his head. “I was in a lab somewhere,” he said with a grimace. “Look, I don’t really feel good, Dalley. Can this wait until-”

“No, of course. I apologize. That was insensitive of me. You wait there for a moment while I get some things ready in the bathroom and we’ll get you taken care of,” Dalley said, shuffling off.

Kolt was left among the piles of supplies and books, all at once chaotic and organized. Just like the last time he’d been here. He was grateful that Dalley was a creature of habit. Kolt would have been left wandering the streets looking for an ally for quite a while if Dalley had moved.

Dalley came back quickly and leaned down, taking Kolt by the elbows again to help him up. Kolt usually would have protested, but he did not think there was much left of his ego to rescue at the moment, muddy and bruised and scarred as he was.

Soon, he was sat in a chair in the bathtub, Dalley with rolled up sleeves and pant legs standing in the tub with him.

“Alright. Are you attached to these clothes? I’m thinking it would be easiest to just cut them off if you don’t mind.”

Kolt shook his head and Dalley got to work.

Kolt was naked in the chair as Dalley turned on the faucet, moving the shower head to where Kolt could touch it.

“That temperature alright for you?”

Kolt reached out and nodded. A warm shower. When was the last time he had one?

Dalley cleaned Kolt off quickly and efficiently, enough so that it was clear this was how he regularly treated the clients that came through his door.

As soon as Kolt was clean, Dally had him dry off and then stand up for a proper assessment.

Kolt wanted quietly as Dally tallied up his scars and old wounds, taking in the way he stood and the bruises around his elbows.

“Do you know what meds they had you on?” Dalley asked, prodding gently at the needle marks.

Kolt shook his head as Dalley moved his fingers and wrists, assessing any damage or loss of movement. “Something that made me weak and sick…. And it made my eyesight worse.”

Dalley clicked his tongue, looking up at Kolt’s face. “Here, sit down. I’ll check that for you.”

Kolt did, turning his head and letting Dalley push and pull at his face as he examined him.

“Do you still have your powers?”

“Yes,” Kolt said, flexing the hand he’d used to kill Kate.

“Alright, tell me when my finger becomes clear.”

Kolt did so and Dalley hummed, taking out a pen light to peer into Kolt’s eye.

“Did they want you for your power?”

Kolt had to fight very hard to keep from closing his eyes at the reminder. “Yes. They wanted to turn me into a weapon. They didn’t succeed.”

Dalley laughed. “I should hope not. Alright. Looks like you’ll need some physical therapy for a couple of your joints, your muscles are atrophied, your spine looks a little bit messed up but that shouldn’t be a problem. The new healer Phoenix has working for him is incredible. Some of these scars might need a bit of surgery to loosen up and give you more movement back, you’re definitely going to need some surgery for this one-” Dalley tapped Kolt’s lip where the scar pulled everything so tight he knew teeth were always showing on that corner of his mouth- “Or else your teeth might dry up and fall out eventually. We’ll need full dental work up of course. Your eyes are a bit of a concern and I think we should consult someone about your powers just in case anything is wrong. Have you been experiencing any psychological effects from everything that happened?”

Should he lie? You should always tell your doctor the truth, but this…. This was different. Kolt wanted to wait it out and see if a few good nights of sleep and safety would help sort him out.

“A little dizziness and some strange ocular illusions, but I do not know if that is because of my brain or my eyes,” Kolt said. There, good enough for now. He’d explain more if it became necessary.

“Okay. We’ll just keep monitoring you. Now I-”

“When was the last time you saw Gale?”

“What?”

“Gale. When did you see him last?”

Dalley leaned back, thinking for a moment. “A few months ago, I think. He said he was going undercover. Looking for you, actually. We thought it a bit of a waste of time, but things were quiet back then, so we weren’t going to keep him from doing so. Did he help you out?”

“I think so. I vaguely remember him, and I have suspicions that the scientists who had me have him.”

Dalley narrowed his eyes at Kolt. “I will tell the Phoenix and we can see what we can do, but-”

“No. I’m going to-”

“Absolutely not! You have a long recovery ahead of you,” Dalley said sharply in a tone that reminded Kolt exactly why he respected the doctor.

Dallley blew out a breath and said, “You are going to dry up and get dressed, eat something and go to bed. Understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” Kolt said. There wasn’t much he could do now, after all. He was just too tired. A bed sounded heavenly right about now.

Dalley nodded, putting a hand on Kolt’s shoulder and leaning in a little so Kolt could see his expression clearly. “I am glad to see you alive. We searched for you for as long as we could. Gale never gave up, and he won’t give up under whatever treatment those lunatics put him through.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Kolt sighed, shaking his head. “I’m just so glad you’re still here.”

Dalley laughed. “Well, you know me. I am loathe to leave my little crevices.”

Kolt hummed, amused as he slowly got up, ignoring the way his hip and spine clicked as he did so.

So, Kolt followed Dalley’s advice, giving Dalley a pee sample before going to bed so he could send it off alongside some of Kolt’s hair to be tested for what he’d been drugged with.

Kolt, now clothed in warm pajamas and properly clean after one more shower, climbed into bed, curling up under the blankets.

His mind felt heavy, and despite his desire to think and to try and make plans, he couldn’t keep his eyes from drifting closed, sleep overcoming his muddled, exhausted brain.

Part 10 - Coming soon

Fallen taglist: @looptheloup @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @snakebites-and-ink @starsick1979

#villain whumpee #fallen #crestlen #whump #whump writing #hallucinations #nonsexual nudity #mention of drugs #mention of needle marks #kolt #dalley #i love these guys #I think this story is so cool #I have a hard time writing it because it's a bit more complicated and layered #and kolt is supposed to be really smart and everything #but I still love this story

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clickerflight · 1 month

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There is nothing worse than feeling helpless and useless.

(AKA, we linger on the pain of the most recent part of Clove :3)

Clove Masterlist

I do commissions!

Clove Taglist: @wolfeyedwitch @the-blind-one-speaks @whumpsday @extrabitterbrain @inkkswhumpandstuff @honeycollectswhump @whump-blog-reblogs @pigeonwhumps @mj-or-say10 @percy-frayer

#whump art #vampire whumpee #clove #chained #collared #dirty #i love him so much #i love this story #this image had haunted me for over a year #you're welcome

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clickerflight · 1 month

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Like Blood and Oxygen

[masterlist]

CW: mental breakdown, obsessive thought patterns

The chandelier casts a golden light across her bedroom, a candle spreading the sweet smell of vanilla, and it makes Mireille want to vomit. It makes her want to reach into the fire, to take it into her palm and squeeze and choke the light out of it. It makes her want to rip the chandelier down, execute it on the ground, stamp on each jewel until it cracks and shatters beneath her bare feet.

Instead Mireille paces in front of her mirror, as tall as the ceiling, golden frame like artwork –fucking artwork, it’s fucking art, she is fucking art–, money spent on a horrid shade of gold, more money than her stupid fucking servants will ever have, and

What.

Does.

It.

Matter.

Why care at all.

Because her stupid fucking nightgown sits horribly on her curves, silky red doing nothing but making her skin crawl and no one will see her anyways it doesn’t matter but it does. For the hundredth time she fumbles with the fabric, draping it on her breasts, flowing over her hips, just long enough to cover what it has to. Maybe instead it should cover her whole like a grieving widow or a burial shroud for all she’s worth.

She could rip her skin off with her teeth, undress herself to the bone, bare veins and sinew if that would make her be something. Mireille knows what she should look like, she knows, every fiber knows, and yet the gown hides her waist and there is no one to touch her, to see the work of art she has spent her fucking life creating and what worth has art if it isnt being looked at.

They should be grateful, grateful to lay eyes upon her smooth skin, shining blue eyes, luscious hair, her voice and her body and–

And yet they don’t. They do, but not really.

Not. Enough.

It’s not enough, none of it is, but how is that her fault? It’s not. Of course it isn’t.

Mireille has friends, and they love her, they fucking love her. She’s gorgeous and elegant, each movement deliberately poised, it's like second nature, it’s her nature and her job. She leaves kisses like burns and burns like kisses and both leave a mark on the world that will never fade.

Instead, it will twist and scar, a never healing wound but at least it is a reminder.

Mireille should be at the center of their thoughts, the center of their world, their universe. She should be their star and their sun, granting them warmth and light when she feels like it. They should strive for nothing more than to please her, read her thoughts and treat her right, touch her right and kiss her in worship that comes from the heart.

She doesn’t need to ask for it, she shouldn’t! If they were the right people, they would know, instinctively. They would know the meanings she so carefully covers in words and jewelry, would read it like the bible, would examine every intention. They would know and they would love her.

Love her like she was created to fit their souls, to fulfill them. Only her closeness is sweet relief, wishful satisfaction. Love her like warmth, like the sun, like blood. Love her like oxygen.

Love her.

Please.

Taglist: @whumpsday, @2in1whump, @sodacreampuff, @webbo0, @toyybox, @sowhumpshaped, @clickerflight let me know if you want to be added or removed :)

#man she’s so pathetic #i whisper carefully so she doesn’t hear me #she hold my golden boy in her hands #absolutely wild to hear that mindset #and fantabulously written honey!#mireille belmont (oc)#the ashtray #obsessive thought patterns

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clickerflight · 1 month

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The Adventurers are hard to capture, but there are a few times they have spent long periods of time in captivity.

Don't let her fool you. Anisha may be small and blind, but her shrinking form is only an act. She will put you flat on your back before you can get through with your threats.

Kira is only slightly handicapped by her missing prosthetic, making do with whatever she has at her disposal. Still, she'll leave any fighting to her teammates while she plans their escape.

A genius and mathematician outside of danger, king of the yard inside any prison. Most people don't dare mess with Laurance when they catch a glimpse of his scars, though.

Matsu is mouthy and bitey, his only saving grace being his skills as a surgeon. Still, he tends to get into the most trouble of the group, relying on his quick healing to keep him on his feet.

Honestly, this was mostly an excuse to draw these for with longer shaggier hair and in rags.

#whump art #prison whump #the adventurers #scars #I had so much fun with this #I should draw and write about adventurer whump more often #I adore them

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clickerflight · 1 month

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Fleeting: Part 3 - Our Employer

This is where the plot starts >:3

Masterlist

Part 2

Content: Multiply whumpees, vampire whumpees, Caustic powders in the face, fighting and biting, kidnapping, silver burns, cage, cuffs

...............................................

Esial pursued the fruit section of the quiet supermarket where he and Joseph were collecting breakfast for the day before Joseph went on his shift at the rehab center and Esial went to work at the zoo. He was also very carefully ignoring the allure of the lunchables. He could practically feel them staring at him in the fridge behind him as he looked over the apples and peaches. He did not need a lunchable. He needed something real to eat, not crackers and fake meat and cheese and whatever they put in there to make them so enticing.

He dragged his mind from that and to Joseph. He’d been pretty quiet on the drive over today and Esial was pretty sure he knew why. Joseph still probably felt bad about overstepping that boundary about Kyle and decided it was better to be quiet for the time being, but it was almost off putting for Joseph to be keeping to himself so much. Esial liked listening to Joseph’s commentary as they did mundane things. It allowed him to learn new words and keep up with the language as it changed. It seemed to change much faster than it did before he was in stasis.

Esial sighed, putting down the apple he had been looking at and coming around the fruit displays where Joseph was quietly deciding between salad mixes. Esial put a hand on Joseph’s shoulder, which was just tall enough to be bordering on awkward. People had gotten so tall as well.

Joseph jumped slightly, looking at Esial and smiled. “Hey. I’m almost decided and then we can head out.”

“No, you are fine. You have time. I wanted to speak with you. I am not angry or upset, you know,” Esial said quietly.

“What?”

“About last night. When you talked about Kyle. I am not angry. It is fine. I understand that you want us to be friends, and maybe we will get to be one day, but not now.”

Joseph groaned softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, Esial. I didn’t… yeah. Okay. I’m sorry.”

“No need,” Esial replied, patting Joseph’s shoulder. “It is fine, as I said. I would like to be friends with Kyle and have the chance to thank him, but it can wait until we are both more comfortable. Now, I need you to keep me from getting lunchables today. They are absolute wonders of this modern world, but they are not actually enough to sustain me.”

Joseph snorted. “Yeah, well, normal food doesn’t technically sustain you either, Esial.”

“It sustained me well enough for century,” Esial said defensively.

“Didn’t you tell me that you were sick all the time.”

Esial scoffed and rolled his eyes. “It did not stop me from killing hippo.”

Joseph chuckled, leading the way back to the fruits to help choose everything out. Once they were done and checked out, they made their way to Joseph’s car so he could drop Esial off at the zoo.

The drive was more normal now, with Joseph making a commentary as they went. Esial was fairly certain he knew more fun facts about the city and everything within it than actual useful skills.

“Oh, when does your shift end today?” Joseph asked as he stepped out of the car in the zoo parking lot, the horizon the soft blue color that comes from morning steadily approaching.

“Around 1,” Esial replied. “You will have to come pick me up in warehouse.”

“We can do that,” Joseph said, pocketing his keys as he walked Esial to the employees entrance like he did every day. “I’ll text Muir so he knows in case I get busy. I think he usually takes his break around then so he can pick you back if my meeting runs long.”

“I can call rehab drivers if you are unable to pick me up,” Esial said with a shrug. “It is fine.”

Joseph shrugged. “I’ll let Muir know anyway.”

They were almost out of the parking lot when three men in dark suits stepped out of a black van. Esial nudged Joseph who hadn’t noticed as he was texting his bond mate.

“Look at them. They look like they are from spy movie,” Esial said, amused. He wondered if they were government agents of some kind here to inspect the zoo. They were dressed a bit formally though.

Joseph frowned, looking up to see the men approaching, a fourth getting out of the car, but hanging back. “Let’s hurry up to the entrance,” he said quietly.

Esial nodded, moving a bit quicker, but the men were on them faster than expected. A hand on each of their shoulders slowed them down as the head of the group said, “Hello. If you wouldn’t mind, we just have a couple of questions for you.”

Joseph turned quickly, throwing the hand off of his shoulder. “Oh, right. And who are you?” He asked, trying to edge Esial back towards the zoo.

The two men behind the leader shared a look as the leader smiled, white polished teeth seeming to glow in the dim early morning light. “We are just representing our employer. He is a connoisseur of ancient artifacts and knowledge. He had heard of your friend here and sent us to just ask a couple of questions and see if a meeting could not be arranged between the two of them.”

“Right,” Joseph said, straightening himself out and pulling out a business card. “You can have your employer know that he can contact me at this number or call the rehab center itself. My friend still has some rehab to go before he can answer any questions, but we can certainly guide you through the process of arranging that meeting when the time comes that he is available for such things. There are rules now, after all,” Joseph said, a little sharply. He honestly got this question fairly often when people learned how old Esial was, and he was tired of people treating all ancient vampires as though they were dusty old books instead of people who have been through a traumatic experience.

The leader tilted his head. “Oh, my employer pays very well, and it won’t be a long or strenuous meeting. Your friend and our employer may have more in common than they know.”

“Again, you can contact me or the rehab center through the proper channels,” Joseph said, his tone brooking no argument. “Good morning to you.”

He turned, keeping a hand on Esial’s back.

That lasted about 2 seconds before someone had a hold on his collar. Joseph reached back, trying to grab at the man who had him. Esial turned with a snarl, sharp fangs on display as he launched himself at the men who had been trying to come for him. He growled and fought, hearing Joseph fighting with the other man behind him coughing and rasping.

Esial dodged every attempt to grab him, snatching one man’s arm and biting down, twisting his head to rip at the flesh before having to dodge out of the way again. The injured man fell back just as he heard a thud behind him and smelled something that made his throat itch.

The man who had been fighting with Joseph came into view and threw something into the air. Esial tried to dodge it, but ended up in a cloud of dust that burned at his eyes and throat, sending him to the ground pawing at his face, gagging and coughing.

Someone landed on him, full force, pouring more of whatever that powder was directly onto his face. He spasmed, the powder burning his skin\ and getting into every crevice as they forced his hands behind his back, clasping something that felt like leather around his wrists. No. It was leather covering something. Something he couldn’t break.

He was dragged over the pavement, gagging and spitting as they hauled him up into something. He was thrown and screeched as his face made contact with something hot and sharp, like toaster wires.

He flinched back, getting seated, still unable to see as something was slammed next to him, clicking into place. There was another thud and then the sound of a car door closing.

Esial bent his knees, wiping his mucus and tear stained face off on his pants, trying to get his eyesight back. His throat felt like it was filled with cotton as the men got into the car, one of them swearing as it started up and they backed quickly out of the lot.

Esial gasped for air, prying one burning eye open. He could make out the shine of silver. He figured that was what had burned him. He seemed to be in a cage made of it, bolted down in the back of the van. There was a partition between the back and where the men were likely sitting. Esial looked around at the walls of the car, seeing strange tools and implements he didn’t really understand before his red and watery eye landed on Joseph.

Joseph laid on the ground, his arms also shackled behind his back, and while his face was red and irritated, he didn’t seem responsive.

“Joseph,” Esial hissed, struggling with the bindings even though he knew they were made of leather wrapped silver. “Joseph! Wake up!”

Joseph didn’t even twitch as Esial snarled, turning in his cage to see if there was any way out. The padlock seemed to also be made of silver, and Esial knew he wouldn’t really be able to even get to it with his hands cuffed behind his back.

He growled, throwing his clothed shoulder into the cage, but all he got for his troubles was a sensation of heat through the fabric and a new pain to go along with the irritation in his nose and throat, though he had cried enough to clear his eyes.

He finally calmed down enough to listen to the men at the front of the van, the partition not being thick enough to keep the sound out.

“It bit me!”

“Your worker’s comp will cover it.”

“Yes, but it hurt! Vampire bites aren’t supposed to hurt this much!”

“Ancient ones do. Trust me, you should be grateful that the boss doesn’t trust you enough to feed on you.”

Esail bared his teeth again. Another ancient vampire was doing this? Why? What was the point?

Wait… the men had mentioned their boss collecting ancient artifacts. Did that mean their boss wanted Esial himself or to know more about the amulet his father had made for him? But he lost that amulet 5000 years ago. It wasn’t like he knew where it was anymore.

The men quieted down for the rest of the trip and Esial satisfied himself with craning his neck to see if Joseph’s phone was still in his pocket. If it was, Muir would likely be able to follow them, even if he and Joseph didn’t have their connection. It was alright. Muir would come find them and it would be alright. They would be rescued and safe and whoever did this would hopefully go to prison…. Hopefully. Esial had been learning about how ineffective that system was in the face of money, and whoever the boss was here seemed rich.

He would just have to wait either way. He wasn’t getting out of this van on his own.

Part 4 - Coming soon

From Dust to Ashes: @whumpsday @honeycollectswhump @writereleaserepeat @tragedyinblood @hyrules-sleepiest-knight @why-not-ask-me-a-better-question @thecyrulik @gt-daboss @currentlyinthesprial @pigeonwhumps @not-a-space-alien

#whump writing #whump #vampire whumpee #multiple whumpees #fleeting #esial #joseph #caustic powders #fighting #biting #kidnapping #silver burns #cage #cuffed #the boiiiissssss!#are having a bad tiiiiime!#Who would have guessed lol #here comes the plot

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