#foster canavan

[inkwell-and-dagger]

young adult foster upon ye

HTKAI Taglist: @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @ash-1s-wr1t1ng @whumpy-wyrms @creppersfunpalooza @toyybox

#foster canavan #How To Kill An Immortal #whump art #whumpblr #whumper #whump community #whump #whump oc #oc whump #art #oc art

[allergic-to-four-leaf-clovers]

We'll Bust Your Kneecaps <3

for context I was listening to bust your kneecaps by pomplamoose and I remembered this canon lore event I haven't talked about so here it is but in whump form. enjoy. also the heart is there for the sillies lmao

CW:!!!! failed escape attempt, violence, uhh- description of (I don't know how to describe this in a serious way) Foster Fucking Swinging A Baseball Bat At Rayan's Kneecaps™. uh. view with caution??

↓ ↓ ↓

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Escaping seemed like both an easy and appealing prospect to Rayan. Especially after being stuck in that godforsaken basement for who knows how long; he couldn't remember the last time he'd been outside. He'd planned out his escape thoroughly, and made sure to do it when Esrana let him out of his binds for once, and Zayn just so happened to forget to lock the basement door after feeding him again.

He couldn't say that — at first — actually getting out of the basement was fucking terrifying. The steps leading up to the hallway above seemed infinite, and he'd heard all too many times how the stairs creaked and groaned if someone were to apply enough pressure. Luckily, the staircase seemed to be in a merciful mood, and he barely made a sound as he slowly but surely ascended.

Barely a minute had passed till he found himself in front of the door that led to outside, to freedom, carrying himself on unsteady legs. A feeling of triumph came over him. Seriously, they had to work on securing him better, it was pathetic how easy it was to escape in Rayan's opinion.

...But, as soon as he reached for the door with his hand, he felt.. off. Like something — or someone — was watching him.

And fuck, he couldn't have been more correct in that assumption.

He heard a sickening crack and, at the same time, a hard object hit the back of his knees; a baseball bat. Pain pulsed in his legs at once, and the sudden blow made him stumble over and, unfortunately, hit the ground with a grunt.

His attacker brought the baseball bat over their head and continued to hit his knees, his calves, his thighs, his ankles. One by one, until Rayan could've sworn he saw a drop or two of his blood on the tip of the bat. Shit.

But Rayan was in agony. It hurt, god, it hurt so fucking bad. And, as he rested his head back against the floor and let his body mingle with the sweet embrace of unconsciousness, he heard Foster's voice.

"That's what you get for trying to get out, dog."

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#whump prompt #whump writing #whump #whump concept #writing #oc writing #rayan hyacinth #foster canavan #ocs #oc whump #failed escape attempt #tw violence #uh oh!!!

[ocprompts]

WAIT HOLY CRAP I CAN RAMBLE?? OH HELL YEAH

I'm not gonna go *too* into the main plotline and I'll only do one of the characters cuz it does contain a lot of triggering content, but it's all on my other blog which is a whump blog lmao

okay sO- forsaken souls woo!! I hope I do this right-

the main character of Forsaken Souls is Rayan Hyacinth (previously Cora Maguire; I'll explain why in a sec!), who uses he/it pronouns. he is immortal, and stuck at the physical age of 35, though could be much older by now (late 30's, early 40's). he is an ex-serial killer, which is where the whole Cora ordeal will come in soon, and there are a group of his remaining / surviving victims just doing some good ol' revenge shenanigans so to speak, who are quite fittingly named The Survivors! y'know what I'll name them but I won't go too into them I don't want this to be too long to fill your askbox or something- Foster Canavan (they/them), Ezra Hendrix (he/zem/they), Madir Ahearn (he/him), Esrana Flynn (she/her), Zayn Flynn (he/they) and two other characters created by one of my wonderful mutuals and partner in (whump related) crime /j: Amaryliss O'Harris (she/her) and Fletcher O'Harris (he/him). holy crap that's a lot.

anyhow, there are multiple reasons Rayan used to be called Cora, such as:

he changed his name cuz he's transmasc

he also needed to change his name cuz. y'know. being a serial killer kinda means you become a little more known. the name change in general didn't work out lmao but he's sticking with it

he just sorta didn't like his name and thought it didn't fit him

AND OH OH OOU OIOHOOHOHHO AND because, in canon, Rayan tends to talk about Cora as if they were a different person. he doesn't want to associate himself with Cora, and his kills, etc etc. it confuses me sometimes, especially cuz in any of my written words their name tags are seperate (e.g. "rayan hyacinth" and "cora maguire" are both each seperate tags) but it's fiinnnneeeee

uhh in general he's Not Doing Okay™. he's going through the horrors ig. he's my little guy. my original boy

also this is him!! I I made this using this cool picrew just found. I don't draw so y'know-

his clothing style is more like Caroline Carr's, so very gothy (yeah he dresses feminine too!!) but y'know we balling

love the earrings!

#oc show and tell #p-3-t-r-1-ch-0-r #not a prompt #asks

[ash-isnt-writing]

Whumptober 9, 2023

Polaroid | Mistaken Identity | “You’re a liar”

Character(s) used/Mentioned:

-Rayan Hyacinth (OC belonging to @v-3-ll-1-ch-0-r / @v-3-ll-1-g-0-r-3

-Foster Canavan (OC also belonging to @v-3-ll-1-g-0-r-3 )

-Vanté Ramirez (OC)

A/N: Thank god this is the last one it’s 4 am 😭

=====================================

“Now, smile for the camera!” Foster said cheerily, raising Vanté’s polaroid camera that they’d ‘permanently borrowed’ from him.

Rayan looked up with a scowl, feeling blood stripping from his lip. His bruised eye ached with the effort, more than the rest of his body was. In that moment, he just wanted to fucking die, but knew even thar was only a temporary mercy for him.

The flash of the camera was blinding in the dim, dingy basement, making him hiss and blink rapidly to try and alleviate the sting.

“Dear me, you’re not very photogenic are you?” Foster snickered, letting the photo print before gently grabbing the inked film. “Anywho, I’m gonna let this cure down here, I hope you don’t mind. Not that I’d care, either way.”

“Fuck you..” Rayan scowled at them, making Foster chuckle.

“I’m asexual, but nice try.” They grinned. They then set the camera aside with the photo, and then left, closing the door behind them as they flicked the lights off, leaving Rayan in darkness once more.

=====================================

#whumptober #whump #cw whump #tw blood #tw bruises #cw death

[pheita]

7 Influences Tag

Tagged by @micastarsandmirrors

Rules: Give a short summary of your WIP, name 7 books, TV shows, games, movies, comics, etc. that have influenced your story, and tag 7 people. Explaining why they were influential is optional. My WIP: Mystical beings live among humans since the dawn of humankind. In this world lives Aleena, a nymph, a trained Shieldmaiden and granddaughter of war heroes, who doesn’t only tries to find herself but also feels responsible to find out what the recent changes of the energy lines mean because it could mean the end of the mystical beings. Along with this, she has to deal with first love, training her distant related cousin who just found out he is mystical, handle her nosy family and raise her foster daughters to become the next generation of Shieldmaidens. When the enemy reveals himself and the old mystical beings refuse to fight still traumatized from the last war within their community it is up to the younger mystical beings to save the day and their own kind. Influences: 1. Lost Girl: A strong female protagonist living in a world full with fae. Sounds familiar, right? 2. Grimm: The idea of mystical beings being able to cover themselves as humans comes from here. 3. The Sonea trilogy by trudi Canavan: A relucant female protagonist who has no other option than fighting. I love reluctant heros. 4. Xena: Ever since the amazons became a thing in Xena the idea of female warriors never left me. Xena is sort of mental mother of the shieldmaidens. 5. Myths from all around the globe: Somehow I need to have a base for the mystical beings. 6. The Darkover Series by Marion Zimmer Bradley: I know Bradly is a probelmatic author as a person but her stories have a lot of interesting ideas in this series and how the laran (psychic powers) got used inspired the powers of the mystical beings. 7. The music of Faun and Loreena McKennit:( I know this are two in one) It has this etheral and mystical air to get into the mood for writing. I tag @cog-writes @violet-clouds-and-skies @madmooninc @weaver-of-fantasies-and-fables @lonelylibrary @alittle-writer @eternalwritingstudent

#7 influences tag #writing #mystical world

[juushika]

I try to do this every year: here's the best media that I encountered, but which was probably not released, in 2017. It’s long!! oops!!

Books

I read 176 books in 2017. My primary reading goal was to prioritize authors of color, ideally making them half of my reading material. This fell apart somewhat in the face of various and intense life stresses, but in the end 40% of the books I read this year were by PoC, up from 10%* from last year, and I'm proud of that. It's something I will continue to prioritize.

* a metric which may be somewhat out of date, as I discovered neato things while looking into Jewish authors!! but I'm too lazy for recalculations, so let's let it stand

Patience and Sarah by Isabel Miller. I love this book so much that it took me five months to write a review. Miller wrote it with precise, peculiar inspirations--the identity of a mysterious artist; sessions with a ouija board--and while I traditionally resist the idea that the author is a conduit rather than a creator (yes to authorial responsibility! boo on authorial intent!) I think there can be moments when an author reaches above and beyond themselves. I believe Beagle did this in The Last Unicorn:

A lot of things appeal to people out of their own histories in that story. I feel sometimes like Schmendrick, when the first time he actually casts real magic summoning up the shades of Robin Hood, Maid Marian and the Merry Men...people who never existed, really they’re myths, and yet there they are. And at that point he falls on his face, picks himself up, and thinks: "I wonder what I did...I did something..." Which is very much the way I feel about The Last Unicorn. Finally, fifty years later. (source)

And I believe that Miller does it here. This is an exceptional novel; its purpose and joy and energy is remarkable, and it may be safe to call it my favorite book of the year.

Graceling series by Kristin Cashore. The books stand alone and are all perfectly good; but it's Bitterblue that won me, and I think it benefits from reading the entire series. This uses a speculative concept to explore trauma and abuse in ways that are simultaneously metaphorical, literal, and unique to the worldbuilding. I admire a narrative that's able to capitalize on the potential of its genre in that way, and there's interesting narrative-in-absentia techniques at play here, and, crucially, it's thoughtful and compassionate.

Temeraire series by Naomi Novik. I adore the companion animal trope, and am dubious of dragons; I did not expect that this would be so thorough an exploration of the former as to totally negate the later. It engages almost every question that surrounds this trope, especially re: sapience, personhood, power dynamics; the long-form adventure allows for a diverse and evolving culture. And it's tropey in every way it needs to be to give its premise emotional weight. Multiple books in this series won a 5-star rating, and as many made me cry. It's as in love and as engaged with this trope as I am. Simon Vance's audio narration makes these an especial delight.

Her Smoke Rose Up Forever by James Tiptree, Jr. I read this in the same year as my first Joanna Russ book (The Female Man)--and neither are perfect, but both are invaluable, and the combined effect has stayed with me. But nothing lingered moreso than this Tiptree collection: so exhaustive, so exhausting; the tension between her profound bitterness and daydreaming, between her (presumed, implicit, assumed) male PoV and persistent feminist themes, elevates this collection beyond the limitations of individual stories.

The Devourers by Indra Das. It would be insincere to say that this is what I wish every werewolf novel would be--I love them all uniquely--but this is what I wish every werewolf novel would be: this visceral, this vivid, this inhuman, this engaged with the concept of the Other.

Orlando by Virginia Woolf. The only real goal in life is to love or be loved as Virginia Woolf loved Vita Sackville-West; the energy that emanates from this, passionate and playful and irreverent, is incandescent. I always expect historical books about sex and gender to be restrained or dated, and for good reason, but this has aged so well; it's fluid and complicated, but too quick to become heavy. In every page, a delight.

Honorable mentions in books

Ursula K. Le Guin. I read a handful of her books this year; I didn't love them all equally (The Beginning Place is hardly her most famous but it's my favorite so far) but I'm consistently impressed, no matter how minor the work. She's profoundly skilled; she integrates and expands her central theses in ways that capitalize on the speculative genres she writes in, to great effect.

Octavia E. Butler by Gerry Canavan. I hesitate to say that I loved this biography more than Butler's novels themselves, but that reflects how it felt to read this: it summarized, contextualized, and celebrated Butler's cumulative effort and impact in a way that made me appreciate her anew.

When the Moon Was Ours by Anna-Marie McLemore. I read a lot of YA I bounce off of, a lot of magical realism I don't think works; but this I loved, for its specific images, for the way that the fluidity of its style suits its issues of gender, for its beauty and love.

The Summer Prince by Alaya Dawn Johnson. The energy in this is infectious, and needs to be, as it's as much about a love affair with a speculative premise and a place as with a person--and all those elements are accessible, distinctive, alive.

Thomas the Rhymer by Ellen Kushner. Fairyland which feels truly transporting and fantastic, truly fae, is hard to capture. This is such a quiet book, unassuming in structure and frame, but its depiction of fairyland is one of the most convincing that I've ever seen.

Games

Nier: Automata. I watched this played on release, and called it then, in March: game of the year. I was not mistaken. There's more this could do, further it could go; but what it does, with its androids and tropes, its meta elements and narrative structure and soundtrack, is phenomenal. One of the most remarkable things that a game can do is be profoundly wedded to its interactive medium, because few other platforms have the opportunity to interact with the consumer so directly--and Automata achieves that, to great effect.

Kirby series. I have no particular love of platforms, Nintendo, or nostalgia; but these looked cute, and: they are. Kirby is shaped like friendship, and the softness and colors of level design, the creative gameplay of Kirby's transformations, the sincerely impressive interaction with level elements in games like Epic Yarn, are a complete package. These brought me unmitigated joy; that's not something I often find.

Honorable mentions in video games

Dishonored 2. The plot and setting hasn't stuck with me as much as the first game. But to internalize criticism and then go on to make a more diverse game is fantastic (and it pays off, in Meagan Foster especially), and the small, almost-domestic moments and ongoing lore/religion in the worldbuilding are very much my thing.

Dark Souls III DLC. The base game was on my list last year, so this entry feels like cheating--but these were substantial additions, big worlds and significant narrative and so many new monster designs, all of which compliment the base game. It's an impressive product, and I wish more DLC resembled it.

Closure. A little indie puzzle platformed that exceeds expectations for that genre because the way that its core game mechanic interacts with player, art design, atmosphere, and narrative is so successful. (It even makes up for sometimes-finicky physics.)

Visual Media

Car Boys. I'm disappointed that Nick Robinson proved not to be the person we wanted him to be, but that doesn't change the profound impact that this series had on me. Not only is it a fantastic example of emergent narrative, it simultaneously embraces my fear of existential horror and my profound longing for a greater meaning. This served a similar function for me as did Critical Role last year, despite dissimilarities in tone and content.

Dark Matter season 3. The boy and I have been watching this together, and with few misstep we've been consistently satisfied with the way this series combines found family tropes and genre mainstays. But season 3 is a cut above. It's still all those things, but the ongoing, consistent character development, particularly of the female characters, most especially of the Android, is phenomenal. There were episodes that made me cry, that I would call legitimately perfect.

Blame! I've enjoyed everything I've seen by Polygon Pictures, including Knights of Sidonia, but this is the best they could be: tropes I love, a perfect setting for their visual style and capabilities; great pacing, writing that does interesting things with its subgenre. Without competition, the best film I saw this year; it looks great and it’s just so engaging to watch.

Person of Interest. Found family/AI feels is in essence all I've ever wanted from a narrative, and this delivers, delivers in droves: it has the crime serial format I love but, like Fringe, deviates from format to great effect. But it's the particular combination of themes that sold me: using AI as a launchpad to explore all varieties of personhood and socialization.

Honorable mentions in visual media

Yuri!!! on Ice. There is a need in the world for stories like this; queer love stories, stories about what it means to become one's best self, stories which are funny and sweet and profoundly empathetic. This year started poorly (and just kept on keepin' on, but:) and there was a sense of karmic balance that this existed post-election. It's escapism without being hollow; it's how I want the world to be.

Polygon. Monster Factory goes here. So does Awful Squad. But the boy and I have been branching out and watching almost anything that pops up on this channel; the balance between inoffensive good humor and video game nerdom is really likable.

#Juu reads #Juu plays #Juu watches other people play #Juu watches #reference #too many to tag #Temeraire series #James Tiptree Jr. #Indra Das #Octavia E. Butler #Nier: Automata #Kirby #Dishonored #Dark Souls III #Closure #Car Boys #Person of Interest #Yuri on Ice #Monster Factory

[newyorktheater]

Kara Young (Lil Melba Diaz), Esteban Andres Cruz (Venus Ramirez), Benja Kay Thomas (Queen Sugar) and Pernell Walker (Munchies). Photo by Monique Carboni

Wanda Wheels bristles when Mateo calls her “kind” in this sprawling, funny, foul-mouthed, messy, moving ensemble piece, Stephen Adly Guirgis’s first new play in New York since his Pulitzer Prize winning Between Riverside and Crazy five years ago. “Don’t pin a ‘kindness’ target on me,” Wanda says. “There’s a place for kindness. It’s not here.” Here is Hope House, a government-funded temporary residence in New York City for women who have been cruelly treated in life and now are junkies, drunks, ex-cons, former hookers, or mentally ill, or just New Yorkers who have nowhere else to go. Over the course of the three hour play, we come to learn more about their complicated lives, and wind up sharing the affection the playwright feels for them, even as they curse each other, confront one another, furtively drink or take drugs, get physically violent. But there is kindness too, just in disguise.

Patrice Johnson Chevannes (Wanda Wheels), Elizabeth Canavan (Rockaway Rosie), Benja Kay Thomas (Queen Sugar), Pernell Walker (Munchies), Victor Almanzar (Joey Fresco), Liza Colón-Zayas (Sarge), Andrea Syglowski (Bella), Neil Tyrone Pritchard (Mr. Mobo), Wilemina Olivia-Garcia (Happy Meal Sonia), Sean Carvajal (Mateo), Kara Young (Lil Melba Diaz), Viviana Valeria (Taina) and Esteban Andres Cruz (Venus Ramirez). Photograph by Monique Carboni

Full review on DC Theatre Scene

Elizabeth Canavan (Rockaway Rosie), Liza Colón-Zayas (Sarge), Kara Young (Lil Melba Diaz) and Pernell Walker (Munchies). Photograph by Monique Carboni

Liza Colón-Zayas (Sarge) and Andrea Syglowski (Bella) Photograph by Monique Carboni

Sean Carvajal (Mateo) and Dave Anzuelo (Father Miguel). Photograph by Monique Carboni

Victor Almanzar (Joey Fresco) and Esteban Andres Cruz (Venus Ramirez). Photograph by Monique Carboni

Esteban Andres Cruz (Venus Ramirez) and Andrea Syglowski (Bella). Photograph by Monique Carboni

Elizabeth Canavan (Rockaway Rosie), Patrice Johnson Chevannes (Wanda Wheels), Kara Young (Lil Melba Diaz) and Benja Kay Thomas (Queen Sugar). Photograph by Monique Carboni

Elizabeth Canavan (Rockaway Rosie) and Kara Young (Lil Melba Diaz). Photograph by Ahron R. Fost

Kristina Poe (Betty Woods) and Greg Keller (Vinny). Photograph by Monique Carboni

Sean Carvajal (Mateo) and Kara Young (Lil Melba Diaz). Photograph by Ahron R. Foster

Pernell Walker (Munchies) and Victor Almanzar (Joey Fresco). Photograph by Ahron R. Foster

Liza Colón-Zayas (Sarge) and Elizabeth Rodriguez (Miss Rivera). Photograph by Monique Carboni

Halfway Bitches Go Straight To Heaven by Stephen Adly Guirgis Wanda Wheels bristles when Mateo calls her “kind” in this sprawling, funny, foul-mouthed, messy, moving ensemble piece, Stephen Adly Guirgis’s first new play in New York since his Pulitzer Prize winning Between Riverside and Crazy five years ago.

[princeashy]

Musical Medicine: Heartstrings heals from a homeless shelter to a supportive community

Musical Medicine: Heartstrings heals from a homeless shelter to a supportive community

[ad_1]

+1 

Heartstrings, pictured outside of the Second Wind Cottages. From left to right: Josh Canavan, Mike Foster, Ben Premore and Angelo Baez. 

Casey Martin

The members of Heartstring are sitting outside in the center of the…

View On WordPress

[inkwell-and-dagger]

I can't find the post but I remembered I made one about Foster's name being an alias since yk batman wannabe stuffs..... now I wanna figure out what their actual name would be............

I like to think that their actual name is something they tell people they trust wholeheartedly. Foster is the heartless, stoic persona they play. [insert name here] is them

#foster canavan #idk im thinking about it #whumper

[allergic-to-four-leaf-clovers]

Character Sheet: Foster

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Full Name: Foster Zephyr Canavan

Nickname(s): None

Age: 27

Height: 5'4

Sexuality: Asexual

Romantic identity: Biromantic

Gender: Non-binary

Sex: Male

Pronouns: They/Them

Eye Colour: Grey (right) and Blue (left); heterochromatic eyes

Hair colour: Black

Ethnicity: White British

Languages Spoken: British English

Birthplace: Worcester

Current Residence: ~no canonical setting for forsaken souls so I'm not sure what to put here~

Occupation: Corner shop employee

Favourite Food(s): they don't really have a favourite but they like any kind of curry at least

Favourite Drink(s): Any flavoured water, white wine (though they drink that rarely), any herbal tea,

Favourite Artist(s): The Taxpayers, Teddy Hyde, Mother Mother, I DONT KNOW HOW BUT THEY FOUND ME, Mitski, Sir Chloe, The Brobecks, The Cardigans

Favourite Songs (from each artist listed above!!):

The Taxpayers: I Love You Like An Alcoholic, No Lodging For The Mad

Teddy Hyde: Sex With A Ghost, A Wistful Waltz

Mother Mother: Burning Pile, Wrecking Ball, Hayloft I / II, Verbatim

IDKHBTFM: Mx. Sinister, Choke, Absinthe

Mitski: Liquid Smooth

Sir Chloe: Michelle, Animal

The Brobecks: Better Than Me

The Cardigans: Step On Me, Lovefool, My Favourite Game

Favourite Game(s): They probably like tennis so that's close enough

Hobbies / Interest(s): Backpacking, wood carving, handicraft, medieval history and weaponry, history in general I dunno they're a nerd /j /pos

Other: they probably like eating ice. can't blame them. also haha no parents no siblings haha L L /lhj

#ocs #my ocs #oc writing #whump oc #whumper #forsaken souls #foster canavan #get to know my character #get to know my oc #character sheet

[coolsugarlaura-blog]

My journey through Adoption

Introduction

My name is Laura, i am 29 years old and i want to tell the story of my Adoption journey.

I was born on the 14th February 1988 at Kings College Hospital Denmark Hill. My Mother’s name was Marion Rose Therese Canavan. She was an Auxiliary Nurse, and born in Clapham in Lambeth on the 18th June 1965, Marion is 5’2 tall, medium build with thick brown hair. Her eyes were blue/ grey with fair skin and rosy cheeks. Marion was a Country girl and she had a wide warm smile.

Marion met my Father when he  was 15 years old and had a close relationship with him for 2 years. My Father was called Clement Valentine Hermery  Smith  who was born on the 28th April 1970 . Clement was tall with fair hair and Blue eyes.

I have a half sister called Mary, she was born on the 13th June 1986. Mary was also Adopted through the London Borough Bromley .

My social history was that from the 14th February to 19th February I stayed at Kings College Hospital Maternity ward and from the 19th February 1988 to 13th April I was placed in Foster care.

Although through my child hood I was very happy, when I was growing up I released being Adopted was not as straight forward as it seemed.

there are all these unanswered questions I need to find out.

I am 29 years old and just found out my birth mother is much closer than i thought.

[inkwell-and-dagger]

How To Kill An Immortal

Chapter 1 — Taken

Word Count: 3,125

Contains: kidnapping, (potential) knife violence, asphyxiation,

next || masterlist

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Immortals.

Those with the unnatural ability to surpass the regular limits of the human body, able to endure even the most lethal of wounds, able to heal from injuries with an uncanny speed, fall under this title.

But it wasn't as if they were particularly sought after. Unlike other, more mythical beings that plagued the world, they were treated normally. Hell, if one were to pass an Immortal in the street, they'd look like any normal passerby. Just a regular person, unless one would happen to witness their healing process or uncanny ability to walk off lethal injuries themselves.

Not to Foster Canavan, though.

The mere concept of Immortals existing unsettled them in a way. The fact a normal person, anyone, could possess such an ability naturally didn't seem right to them. Just like every other thing that wasn't quite like what they deemed as 'normal' in this world. It wasn't as if they wanted the ability to be Immortal, no, if anything they despised the things. After what one did to their own damned fucking parents, they could hardly stand the thought of being in a room with an Immortal. They weren't human in their eyes, no matter how hard anyone tried to convince them otherwise. And they'll never be human, no matter how human they look or act.

So when they realised an Immortal would be lurking amongst Durham for a while, they were determined to get rid of the vile thing themself.

There was only one problem, however: Foster had no bloody clue where to actually find the Immortal. The only reason they'd even become aware of the thing's existence was after they'd seen him walking down the street. They recognized almost immediately after that it was an Immortal — the vibrant, almost inhuman, green hue of its eyes and the darkened infinity symbol mark on his palms gave it away. They didn't know the Immortal's name, nor where it lived, where it was born, etcetera. And, quite frankly, they didn't give a shit. They just wanted to get the damned thing off the streets.

Prowling up and down the street they'd last seen the creature, Foster hid in the shadows of their hood. Although they weren't hiding from anybody in particular, it was a comfort to know that they wouldn't stand out too much. And despite the fact that they had an inkling of a doubt that the man would show up here again, they couldn't help but try anyway.

Lost in thought, eyes fixed onto the cracks in the pavement, they didn't notice a figure walking by until their shoulders collided. Snapping out of their trance, they looked up to the man they'd bumped into.

“I'm sorry,” Foster started, taking a moment as they mumbled the apology to assess the man's face. The stranger stood at around 5’7, they guessed, with ivory skin, brown hair and… green eyes.

Startlingly green. Almost unnaturally so.

Oh.

Successfully masking their expression of triumph, they kept their face neutral as the Immortal responded. Meanwhile, Foster clutched the small knife in their hoodie pocket even tighter. It may come in good use if he didn't come quietly.

“It’s okay. Wasn't your fault.” With a strong, Northern Irish accent, the damned creature replied casually. Shrugging, it turned to leave, before Foster's scarred hand grabbed a hold of his forearm.

“Aye, I've seen you somewhere. Yesterday.”

The Immortal raised an eyebrow, and Foster cursed themself as his expression turned to one of suspicion. “And what's making you stop me again?”

Crap. Thinking of an explanation, Foster tried to lengthen the time they had, even just by an inch. Then again, they doubted this excuse would be effective. “You.. erm, you look like an interesting guy?”

“Thank you?” The Immortal shuffled on the spot uncomfortably, gently prying its arm out of Foster's grasp. As the thing turned to leave again, much to the dismay of Foster, they realised they just had to get on with it and make their intentions known.

As soon as the tip of a knife, cold and dangerous, touched the back of his neck, the Immortal stopped in his tracks. Foster spoke again, “Listen ‘ere you little shit. You're gonna be coming with me, and you're gonna do everything I say. Otherwise, this—” They accentuated the word by pressing the pocket knife into the Immortal's skin, eliciting a whimper from the creature— “Is gonna end up three inches into your neck.” Foster grinned, though the expression was grim. “But I doubt it'll kill you.”

Foster relished in the fearful gaze meeting their own, the creature’s reaction priceless. “Huh—?”

“Come with me, Immortal.”

The Immortal begrudgingly nodded in response. His reluctance was evident. Foster's grin only widened, turning the Immortal around and beginning to lead him down the street. They shifted the position of the knife to a more subtle place, against the creature's lower back, digging the blade in if the vile thing moved too slowly. “Tell me your name.”

“Fuck you.”

Foster just pursed their lips, grip on the pocketknife tightening with their horribly disguised irritation. That was fine. They'd find out eventually. “How old are you?”

The Immortal hesitated, mumbling his response. His age wouldn't reveal too much, right? “Thirty.”

Foster frowned in suspicion. “You look too young to be thirty.”

A hint of a smirk involuntarily tugged at his lips, despite his situation. “Should I be flattered?”

The smaller mortal scowled. “Just keep fucking walkin’, Immortal.” They emphasised the last word as if it were an insult, pressing the blade of their knife further into Rayan's jacket until he fell silent and continued down the street. The road was quiet as dusk arrived, the only noise being the echo of their footsteps down the road.

The Immortal's fear was palpable, and Foster could practically taste it in the air. An icy, frigid feeling. It gladdened them to know that they were the one instilling this fear into such a ‘powerful’ creature.

With some time, Foster managed to track down where their parked car was, unceremoniously shoving open the car door and pushing the Immortal towards it; a silent command to get inside. They doubted they’d need to tie him up, given how compliant he was already.

But it did seem they overestimated him. Defiantly, he stood up again, standing quite a few inches taller than Foster. It was as if he was mocking them. “Look, I'll give you whatever you want. Money, or whatever,” the Immortal leaned closer, voice quivering, betraying his thin facade. The Immortal was terrified, but stood his ground, “I'm not getting in there.”

“I don't want money. Get in the car.”

“No, not until I—”

“Get in the car.”

“No—” his protest abruptly turned into a strained grunt as Foster's hand wrapped easily around his neck, and the mortal grinned at the quickening pulse under their palm. Lifting his hands to grasp their wrist, attempting to pry his captor’s hand off once realising he couldn't breathe. “Get off of me!” He rasped, sinking his chipped black nails into the flesh of their wrist, earning a pained grunt from the mortal.

The mortal scowled, an expression riddled with disgust, as they slid the knife back into their pocket to hold him down against the car door with their other hand. Squeezing tighter, they watched in sick, grim satisfaction as the creature's pleas turned into gasps and whimpers for air.

The Immortal’s pitiful noises soon subsided after a couple minutes, movements weakening when his consciousness began to slip. Foster watched, hardly fazed by the scene, instead squeezing tighter until, finally, Rayan was unconscious. They placed him down on the backseat, leaning over his unconscious form.

“Thank fuck,” They whispered, quickly checking nobody had watched the ordeal before grabbing the bundle of rope from the passenger seat. Roughly binding the Immortal's wrists and ankles together, they wasted no time in instead shoving him into the boot of the car. Just in case he woke up and decided to cause trouble.

—> —> —>

Foster had been driving for a good fifteen minutes now, lost in the winding roads outside of Durham. Thankfully, if the vile Immortal was even awake now in the first place, the thing in the boot was silent.

They pondered over what they could do now. Chaining the guy up in their basement is really the only option they have; they can't exactly kill him, can they? Foster lived alone, which they were infinitely thankful for, but they had to put into consideration that their neighbours might grow suspicious if they were to hear him. Scaring them into silence will have to suffice if they grow too curious.

With that thought, they pulled into the driveway of their house. It wasn't too much of a noticeable building, quite mundane compared to some of those around them. But they enjoyed the simplicity, the neatness. Boring to some, perfect to them.

Striding out of the car and to the boot, they hesitated. They were conflicted; they didn't want anybody witnessing them dragging a tied up, thirty-year-old man into their house, but then again they didn't want to risk leaving him unattended for too long. Foster didn't trust that the Immortal wouldn't try and escape once left alone.

They checked their phone. It was nearly midnight. They doubted anybody would be awake at the time, so Foster was sure they'd be fine.

Fuck it. What did they have to lose, anyway? Certainly not much. Gloved hand opening the boot of the car, they were amused to see the Immortal, bound and distressed, staring up at them with teary eyes. They almost felt bad for the vermin. Almost.

“Out you go,” Foster grunted, holstering the man up into their arms despite the height difference, slinging him over their shoulder and wasting no time in getting inside. They'd worry about closing the boot in a moment. Until the damned thing stopped squirming in their arms, they weren't going anywhere.

“Let go of me—!”

Foster ignored the pleas from the damned thing, throwing it inside before it could make even more noise and, most likely, alert anyone nearby. They smirked down at the Immortal as he squirmed on the floor of the hallway, attempting to at least stand up. Foster just pushed him back down with the heel of their boot, adding an uncomfortable amount of pressure that stopped his struggling entirely.

“Now,” Foster sighed, in almost a bored tone, “you are gonna stay right here whilst I lock the car. If you do so much as move an inch, I'll remove your ability to move entirely. And I don't mean by restraining you. Understood?”

The man nodded in silence, most likely too frightened to speak. Good.

With a small, amused chuckle at the sight of the Immortal's terror, Foster shut the front door once more. They didn't lock it, knowing that they'd scared the Immortal into compliance for a little while. They hastily locked the car and carried in the spare rope they had, returning to the doorway after a few moments. As expected, the Immortal remained in place.

Finally entering and locking the door, they set the rope aside and grabbed the Immortal by the back of his jacket, dragging him down a nearby staircase to their basement. It was only a place for storage, the only interesting assets being a couple cupboards and boxes of old things they wanted to keep, but it would suffice for now. They ignored the pained grunts and occasional thuds as the Immortal's restrained body was dragged down the staircase.

Swinging open the basement door, a loud creak splitting through the air as it swung on rusted hinges, the Immortal was thrown into the basement. A small grunt of pain followed the thud of his body hitting the frigid ground.

“Welcome home, Immortal.” Foster sneered, slamming the door shut.

—> —> —>

Rayan was freaking out, to be honest.

He had believed — how stupid he was to believe — that taking an evening walk would soothe his mind, at least temporarily. He had believed that the cool, crisp air was all that he needed. Just some time on his own, to ground himself and take in Durham when there wasn't activity buzzing around him. He'd been proved wrong.

And now, here he was: hands tied by uncomfortably tight rope, still fuzzy and disoriented from being choked until he was unconscious, locked in a pitch-black basement. He didn't even know who his captor was — didn't recognize the scarred, grinning face that had watched with glee as he struggled for air, and had happily dragged him down a flight of stairs and locked him in this… place.

He took a moment to attempt to look around, but all he saw was black. Lifting his hands, he hardly saw them in front of him. Great. From what little he'd seen before the door had closed, the room only held a couple boxes and dusty cabinets, none of which would be particularly useful unless one of them held an item which could assist him in escaping. But right now, he just needed to calm the fuck down.

He didn't like the dark. He didn't like not being able to see what's around him, what's behind him, and every little creak of the floorboards above him as his captor moved around upstairs made his skin crawl.

He shuffled back until he hit a wall, the sudden impact making his heart skip a beat. With something to assist him, he lifted himself to his feet. He didn't know why he decided this was a good idea — his ankles were bound together after all — but he did it anyway.

He suddenly stopped, glancing up as he heard footsteps. He had no doubt that his captor was returning, and he could only imagine what for. He sank to the floor again, trying to make it seem he wasn't trying anything, as the door creaked open again and he gazed, terrified, up at the silhouette of his captor.

“I bet you have a lot of questions,” They started as he was about to open his mouth, striding inside and dragging an object with them. A chair.

What would they need a chair for?

“And, to be frank, I'm not giving you any answers,” They placed the chair in the centre of the room, then walked back to the door. Flicking a switch on the wall, a single light bulb lit up the basement in a flickering yellow light. Rayan was, at least, thankful there was a light source in here in the first place.

His captor returned to him, crouching down to be level with him. They grabbed his wrists, tracing a thumb across the infinity symbol across his palm, etched into his flesh. “All you need to know is this: I know what you are, Immortal. And soon, I'm gonna figure out who you are.”

Leaving Rayan to figure out what this could imply, they made another trip back to the door. They turned back as Rayan finally had the courage to speak.

“You're.. not gonna kill me, right?” The question seemed almost childish to Rayan as soon as he uttered it, knowing that the answer was obvious. He couldn't die.

Hopefully.

“You and I both know I’d love to.” And with that, the buzzing light flickering off and plunging the Immortal into darkness, the door slid shut again.

—> —> —>

Rayan Cruz Hyacinth. Or, Cora Cruz Maguire — but that was his deadname, so Foster ignored that. Born in Dublin, Ireland, on the twenty-sixth of October, 1994. He had two siblings — Madison Maguire, around thirty-seven years of age, and Theo Maguire, twenty-five years of age. He had Perfect Immortality, whereas Madison had Imperfect Immortality and Theo was mortal. He was married to a man by the name of Vesker Faithern, and they have a child. Both of his own parents are deceased.

Interesting.

Foster shut down their laptop, letting the soft whirring of the fans inside diminish as they closed the top. They knew this sort of stuff was probably illegal, but technically all of this was. There was no going back now, and it wasn't like they had much to lose anyway if they did get caught.

Standing up out of their seat at the kitchen table, they relished the tranquillity of the silent house around them. It was as if there wasn't a man in the basement in the first place! They were glad that he wasn't making any noise. It would be unfortunate if he was causing trouble; they didn't want to use their bat too early on, after all.

Speaking of, they decided to check up on him before they went to bed. Just to make sure there was no chance he'd escape during the night.

They'd taken off their trainers after they brought the chair to the basement, so their footsteps were much quieter as they descended down the steps that led to the basement. Letting the door creak open, marking their arrival, they clicked the flickering light on again.

Rayan had found refuge in one of the empty corners of the basement, wide eyes red from crying. He looked up, shuddering in fear of the silhouette staring down at him with a cruel, mocking grin. “I see you've made yourself comfortable,” Foster stated, walking casually inside and crouching down to the Immortal man’s height.

Rayan scowled, a pathetic attempt at defiance. “As comfortable as I can get in here. It's cold.”

His captor just pouted sarcastically, grabbing the rope around his wrists and dragging him out of the corner. “Too bad.”

Rayan couldn't help but grunt, scrambling to his feet. He didn't want to be dragged across the dusty floor. Begrudgingly, he followed Foster as they led him to none other than the chair, pushing him down onto the cushioned seat.

“I'll have to remove the cushioning somehow in the future,” Foster mused, much to Rayan's dismay, as they picked up the bundle of rope from the nearby cabinet. “Stay still.”

The process was painful, but more so in the way it was awkward. The rope around his wrists and ankles were uncomfortably tight. It didn't seem to help how his captor was whistling a merry little tune during it, silencing his complaints with a hard glare.

Eventually, strapped to the chair, Foster stepped back to admire their handiwork. It.. wasn't the best, but it was good enough. “I'm sure you'll be comfortable enough. I hope you like the dark.”

“I- I really don't—”

“Too fucking bad.” They said cheerily, though through gritted teeth, as they turned on their heels and walked to the door. Flicking the basement light off, they glanced over their shoulder before they shut and locked the door.

“Sweet dreams, Rayan Hyacinth.”

—> —> —>

CHAPTER ONE OF HTKAI IM SO PROUD OF MYSELF!!!!! this was. actually longer than I expected. uh. anyhow! Vesker and his and Rayan's kid were created by my wonderful mutual @ash-1s-wr1t1ng, and he also originally created Theo!!!!!! I hope you enjoyed :3

How To Kill An Immortal Taglist: @kira-the-whump-enthusiast

#How To Kill An Immortal #rayan hyacinth #foster canavan #vesker faithern #tadhg faithern-hyacinth #madison osoro-maguire #theo maguire #immortal whumpee #whump series #whump writing #whump oc #oc whump #writing #defiant whumpee #whump community #whumpblr #captive whumpee #captivity whump #captive whump #whumpee #whumper #whump

[inkwell-and-dagger]

this isn't whumpy, but just a potential idea for a separate outfit for my lovely foster!!!

anyhow!!!!! I love how I rendered the jeans ALSO!! I gave them a fuck ton of freckles cuz why not

#foster canavan #How To Kill An Immortal #they're so baby i love them your honour #a hot chocolate would fix them i think #whump oc #whumper #art #whump art #oc art

[inkwell-and-dagger]

Fight to the Death

A young adult Foster drabble, five years prior to the events of How To Kill An Immortal

TW: violence and a lot of blood, and that's pretty much it :3

—————————

Foster never exactly bothered to wash the blood of their hands at this point. They knew it'd be a permanent part of their very identity; whether that be physically or mentally, they didn't know yet. Hours spent scrubbing their hands clean, down to underneath their sharp fingernails, never satisfied them, so why bother anymore? They didn't want to spend more on their water bills than absolutely necessary.

They didn't know why they were complaining, though; after all, they kind of asked for this. It was partially their fault they got into this sketchy business, shedding blood for nothing more than money. And it wasn't like they could back out of it now, having been here since they were eighteen; they were twenty-one now, and despite how young they were, they already felt like they'd wasted their life doing this fuck-all excuse of a profession. They didn't doubt that they looked like they fit the part, too.

It was an average night for Foster; if the concept of an average night consisted of beating the crap out of some willing stranger in a crowded warehouse. Frigid midnight air nipped their blood-splattered skin, limbs stiff and sore, but pure adrenaline drove them onwards.

They had forgotten when their nose had begun to bleed, a metallic taste coating their tongue, but the pain had subsided to a small ache by now. Punch after kick after slice after scratch; they felt like a wild animal.

Their ears were ringing, and maybe that was from how loud the place was, or from being hit on the head one too many times. It didn't deter them.

Their movements faltered when their opponent fell limply to the ground, their own hands drenched in blood from the past few hours spent fighting back-to-back. With heaving breaths, they attempted to drown out the cacophony of cheering, leaving the vicinity with long strides before anyone could congratulate them up close.

They especially hated this part. Being congratulated, praised, for what? Potentially killing some random person for money? For fucking money? It was ridiculous to think that everyone thought that tj u wanted the praise.

They found their way outside the building, not bothering to clean their hands. One way or another, the blood will always remain.

The quiet of the night was welcome for once. The air inside made them feel lightheaded, but out here it was cold. Sure, it bit at their cuts and bruised flesh, but it was calming, in a strange way.

They hadn't noticed that they'd gotten company until the sharp sound of someone clearing their throat ripped them out of their train of thought. "Earth to Mr Canavan?"

"Mx Canavan, please."

"Oh. Sorry."

"Sure you are."

Their company responded with an amused chuckle, walking over to lean against the wall beside them. The man was larger than them, in both size and muscle, but his expression was almost compassionate. Milky white hair styled into an outgrown mullet, framing pale skin and paler eyes. A strong Texan accent pulled at his words. "What's got you so down, huh?"

A frown tugged at Foster's lips. "Bunch o' shit. Don't really know why you're so interested, though."

"Just thought I'd check in," He chuckled, "See how those fists of yours are handling so much action?"

"You're so funny."

"I like to think that I am."

A long stretch of silence followed, in which Foster took a small peak at the man. They'd seen him around in the fights every now and again. He looked like an interesting guy.

"..If you don't mind me being interested in your, uh.."

"My huh—?" He met their gaze, raising a platinum eyebrow. "My— Ah, I see. I don't mind."

Their own eyebrows raised in surprise. "...Albinism, innit?"

"Exactly that, young man.. wom—.. person? Is there a..?"

"Just use man for now, I don't care."

"If you say so," The man smiled, and continued. "Yeah, I've got albinism."

"You look cool."

"Thanks, kiddo."

"Don't call me that." They murmured, a certain light fading from their eyes.

"...Alright."

Another beat of silence.

"..What even is your name? I don't know you other than your surname."

"Uh.. I'm Foster, I guess."

"Interesting name."

Foster raised an eyebrow, but wasn't too bothered. They weren't going to bother analyzing whether that was sarcastic or not. "Thanks."

"Where're you from? I like your accent."

"Uhm, Durham. Not far from 'ere."

"Ah, I see. I've always liked you Brits' accents."

"...Alrighty then, mate."

The man sighed, wrapping a loose arm around Foster. "Come on. Don't want you getting too cold out here."

Foster gave him a look. "Why do you care so much?"

"I know a troubled person when I see one, young man."

They sighed, but didn't respond, instead just begrudgingly following him inside.

"Go clean yourself up, or whatever you need to do. I assume you're done for the night."

"Yeah, yeah, on it, boss." They drawled sarcastically, shoving their bloodied hands into the pockets of their jeans. The man responded with an amused scoff.

"What's your name, then? You know mine, it's only fair."

"I'm Ezra. Ezra Hendrix."

—————————

HTKAI Taglist: @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @ash-1s-wr1t1ng @whumpy-wyrms @creppersfunpalooza @toyybox

#made this on a whim because i had a lore idea <3 #Ezra's trying his best okay #he gets better in the future i promise. anyway sudden lore dump teehee #How To Kill An Immortal #foster canavan #ezra hendrix #whump drabble #whump #whumper #whump oc #oc whump #whump writing #writing #oc writing #whump tag #whumpblr #whump community #warning this hasn't been proofread. at all

[inkwell-and-dagger]

How To Kill An Immortal

Chapter 2 — Loud

Word count: 3,202

Contains: captivity, beating, knives, rope burns, potential stress position but I'm not quite sure???, also potential gore

previous || next || masterlist

—> —> —> —> —> —>

It was cold. So, so cold.

Rayan struggled to open his eyes, squinting when he couldn't see anything. But then he remembered where he was; where specifically, he didn't know, but he was still in this damned basement. He was sort of hoping it had all been a dream. He didn't know what time it was, since there wasn't a clock, or even a window, in this frigid, dark basement, nor how long he'd been here. All he could feel was the tight rope restraining his limbs to the chair his captor had trapped him in.

And now, it seemed that his captor in question was nowhere to be seen.

There was no noise from the house above — no floorboards creaking to mark the presence of his captor — the entire house plunged into a silence that made Rayan shudder. The absence of light in the basement didn't help, only making him more fearful.

He was hungry. He was exhausted, and he assumed he'd slept for a couple hours at most; it wasn't like the chair, even with the cushioning, was very comfortable, after all. All he could do was wait with baited breath for something. Anything.

In the meanwhile, he thought over… everything, really. What could've happened if he hadn't gone on that walk, hadn't sauntered down that street, had called for help when the blade of a knife pinched the back of his neck instead of blindly following the orders that got him here. He wondered if his friends were searching for him already.

He thought of Vesker. He thought of Tadhg— oh, Tadhg. The little ball of sunshine that had somehow made its way into their lives, a while after him and Vesker had gotten engaged. Rayan hoped they were safe, but he also hoped they had realised he was missing, too.

Perhaps Madison had gotten notified of his absence, or maybe even Theo or Vesker, and they'd called the police. Maybe his captor had been arrested already, explaining their absence, and now he just had to wait for the police to find him in the basement and bring him out. He could go back home, instead of staying another night in this place.

Yes. That seemed like a plausible explanation. So, he waited.

And waited.

And waited again.

—> —> —>

Most likely, Rayan had fallen asleep again; but when he came to, there was no difference in the stale air of the basement, no light to allow him to see. Except the gentle noise of the floor creaking from above, which could only mean they — whoever they were — were home. The aged building groaned beneath the weight of his captor as they traversed the house, but unfortunately he didn't hear any other footsteps. The person lived alone. Dammit.

He listened intently to the floorboards, trying to listen out for any changes; whether that be them getting louder as his captor approached the basement, or quieter as they left the house, he didn't really care. On one hand, he was starving and knew damn well they were the only one who could feed him, but on the other hand he needed them gone — or at least asleep — so he could try and figure out how to get out of here.

With time, he found that their footsteps began to fade after a faint sound of a light switch, ascending up what Rayan could only assume was a staircase. Had he already been here for a day? Sure, he had slept through most of it, and he was only assuming it was night, but… the fact that he'd been here, alone, in this cold and dark Hell on Earth for at least half a day made his skin crawl.

After Rayan was certain that his captor, whoever they were, was asleep or at the very least occupied, he racked his mind on a way to get out. He knew the door was locked, but he could faintly remember learning how to pick locks in highschool — a talent used specifically to piss his siblings off from time to time, and his parents when they were… nevermind. He still had his phone, but it was in his pocket; until he got out of his restraints, he couldn't call the police.

Rayan tested how tight the rope was around his right wrist, tugging on the bonds and gauging how likely he'd be able to escape them. From what he'd seen beneath the light above his head (when it was on, at least), the rope work was shit, but it was extremely tight nonetheless. If he could just shuffle his way to the switch, flick it on, find something sharp and cut through the rope, then maybe…

It was decided. Rayan didn't even care if he was caught in the act by his captor. He'd take what would come next if he were to get caught in a metaphorical stride, and then wait for another opportunity to escape. Trial and error, over and over again, day after day, until somehow, someway, he got the fuck out of there. He could. He would. He hoped.

After a long while of hesitation, Rayan made his first move; shuffling and squirming forward and trying to get this damned thing to move. If this worked, and he could turn on the light, freedom could be his; which, really, was the only thing motivating him. The chair legs moved ever so slightly, dragging across the ground with a sort of groan that made Rayan wince. He supposed being quiet was no longer an option.

One small jump after the other, forward, left or right and forward again, inch by inch, one grunt, squeal and groan of the chair legs squeaking across the ground as the light seeping in from the crack in the bottom of the door grew ever closer. He had no clue how his captor hadn't gotten suspicious of how much noise was coming from the basement yet.

He only stopped when he'd manoeuvred the chair so that it was to the left of the door; hopefully, the lightswitch was somewhere here, too. Chest heaving as he gulped in breath after breath, he pressed his forehead to the startlingly cold wall before him and began feeling around. Left, right, up, down, until — somewhere to the top right — he bumped into the edge of the lightswitch.

If Rayan hadn't known better, he would've yelled in joy. But he knew for certain that any kind of noise now would get him caught by his captor, and Rayan had no clue what would happen to him after; he didn't really want to know, though. Straining to reach the actual switch, he leant out of his seat, the rope on his wrists chafing the bruised skin beneath. Until eventually, after a couple attempts that left the man a bit irritated that it'd taken so long, the light turned on with a soft click.

Light flooded the room so suddenly that Rayan had no time to prepare, gritting his teeth and screwing his eyes shut. A faint hum of the fluorescent light filled the silence of the basement, the pure white light beginning to flicker with time. Once having gotten used to the sudden, harsh light, he inspected the Hell he was trapped inside.

The majority of the room was bare, greying walls adorned with cracks and strange, brown-ish stains — Rayan blocked out the thought that it might be dried blood — but to his right was a cabinet. A pile of boxes had been stuffed into the adjacent corner, most stuffed full of things his captor wanted to keep. For whatever reason.

But either way, the cabinet is what drew his attention. Again sticking to his irritatingly loud technique, it took him quite a while to get in front of the cabinet. It helped, at the very least, that he could see where he was going; though sometimes the light would flicker or cut off for a few moments entirely, which wasn't exactly helpful, but he couldn't complain much, especially when he could complain about the damn racket he was making instead. It was a miracle that the person keeping him here hadn't gotten suspicious.

At this point, Rayan was exhausted, grunting as he made the final effort to get in front of the cabinet. He was unsure if he could reach the drawers, but he at least had to try. It wasn't like he could use his hands at the moment, so that was really the only choice he had to go about this.

At first, he had doubted he'd be able to lean down enough to reach the drawer, but he quickly proved himself wrong; soon enough, albeit after a lot of strain and discomfort in his back, he grabbed ahold of the handle, managing to slowly pry the drawer open. There was nothing particularly interesting in the drawer, just a few childish trinkets and overturned Polaroid photos which Rayan couldn't see. It piqued his curiosity, but until he got out of the rope, he’d leave the contents be. Instead, he nudged the drawer shut and turned to the adjacent one.

Leaning awkwardly to open the drawer this time, clenching the handle between his teeth, he was met with a sight that made relief bubble in his chest, but also sent the hairs on his arms standing up on end. The drawer contained numerous knives and almost.. scalpels, some pristine and razor sharp, others blunt and aged, even rusted. After careful consideration, and a lot of reluctance, he dipped his head into the drawer and picked up one of the knives, the hilt held in his mouth.

Rayan sighed in relief, though the sound was quivery, moving the handle of the knife with his tongue so that the sharp, shining tip was facing directly away from him. Gritting his teeth to tighten his grip, he leant down to his left wrist, and began to awkwardly cut the rope.

At this point, the back of his neck had begun to ache and, as much as he tried to ignore it, it irritated him. Surely he wasn't getting that old.

Still he continued on, and after what felt like an immeasurable amount of time the rope had been severed enough for him to slip his hand out. Nasty red marks adorned his wrist, and he shook out his hand in discomfort. Switching the knife from his mouth to his now freed hand, he worked on removing the rest of the bonds.

With time he finished severing the final piece of rope around his ankle, he stood and dragged the chair back to the centre of the room . That was.. rather easy. Maybe he'd go home soon after all.

The thought of his phone having slipped completely out of his mind, he returned to the cabinet and closed the knife drawer, slipping the one he'd ‘borrowed’ into his pocket. Instead, he opened the other one, rummaging through the little sentimental things this monster had kept until he reached the photos. He turned the largest one over.

The picture was simple; on the right was a woman with aged, fair skin and raven black hair that rested upon her shoulders. One arm was raised up to the camera, hinting that she was the one who had taken the picture. On the left, partially hidden from view, a man stood, smiling down at a child he held with one arm, centred in the picture. The boy seemed six or seven years old, with a wide, impish grin on the kid's face. The child's gender wasn't quite distinguishable, fluffy black hair outgrown and resting down their neck, almost covering their eyes; one was a steely grey, the other a light, lovely blue. Rayan turned the picture back over; on the back, in a bottom corner, read:

‘mum, dad and me! — Jan. 7th, 2005’

Rayan couldn't blame his captor for wanting to keep such a thing. In a way, it was cute.

As the man was about to place the Polaroid picture back in the drawer, someone cleared their throat behind him and he froze in place. He hadn't heard the door open.

He could hear the grin in Foster's voice. “Whatcha doing, Rayan?”

—> —> —>

Foster had heard banging coming from the basement for around five to ten minutes now after preparing some microwaved leftovers for Rayan, and they were more amused than anything. Rayan really thought he could get out of here, huh.

They'd waited patiently by the door of the basement, bat in hand, until they thought the time was right to catch him in the act. Taking time as not to jangle the keys in their hand, they unlocked the basement door with utmost care. They'd much rather take their little captive by surprise.

Thankfully, Rayan hadn't seemed to notice them as the door slid open. He'd even managed to get the light on and get out of the rope; Foster couldn't deny that they were impressed. They'd watched him for a few moments before making their presence known, the bat slung lazily across their shoulder.

Now, the older man stared at them with the same intensity of a deer gazing at an onlooking car, still having not let go of the picture as he backed away from the cabinet. Placing the bowl of food on the same surface, Foster closed the door behind them as they entered, gaining on him with each step he took back.

“Get- Get away from me,” Rayan rasped out, clutching the picture in a vice-like grip. Foster didn't respond until Rayan's back hit the wall, and they were practically breathing down his neck.

“Give me the fucking picture,” they said slowly, almost threateningly so, “and I might consider leaving you alone.”

Something seemed to click in Rayan's mind, a sort of light flickering in those evergreen eyes of his. Foster was confused by such a strange change of demeanour…

Until they heard the ever so faint noise of something ripping.

It started slowly, almost taunting Foster; gently ripping the Polaroid picture into half. Rayan hadn't even finished ripping before the bat, adorned in bent, rusted and bloodied nails, swung right at his knees. A strangled, pained yelp got caught in the Immortal’s throat and he used the wall to steady himself, but after another hit he toppled to the ground. The ripped picture fell out of his grasp, split right through the child’s face.

Hit after hit Rayan was bombarded with agony, rusted nails ripping through unprotected flesh. Foster seemed quite eager to injure his back more than anything, mindlessly swinging down as if they were chopping wood. With each particularly hard attack, Rayan couldn't help but scream until his throat was sore, instead curling into a ball to shield himself from the brunt of the beating.

But Foster didn't give up, instead aiming for his face; which was even more painful. Rayan had tried to squirm away, but a foot pressing down on his chest quickly stopped any attempts to escape. All the while, he was bombarded with insults, or just general ramblings with Foster swearing to kill him somehow for ruining such a thing.

Foster only stopped when exhaustion rendered their movements lethargic and sluggish, blazing rage changing to an expression almost crestfallen. Heaving for breath, bat dripping with crimson, they walked past the trembling body of their captive to pick up the ruined picture. It was a bit bloodied, but Foster prayed they could fix it. They had to.

“Pathetic,” they sneered, kicking Rayan in the side — which just elicited a soft, frightened whimper — and walking back to the cabinet, placing the picture on top of it and picking up the bowl. Did Rayan really deserve it now? Foster was quite hungry, after all…

Shrugging, Foster leaned against the wall and began to eat the leftovers themself, purposefully scraping the fork against the ceramic surface as if to piss Rayan off. Watching the man as they ate as if they hadn't just beaten the crap out of him.

The sound of the bowl seemed to gain Rayan's attention, who turned over to stare incredulously at them. One hand was pressed against one half of Rayan's face, a bit of blood trickling between his fingers. “...What the fuck?”

“Wot?”

“This.”

“Oh yeah,” Foster glanced down at the bowl as if seeing it for the first time, shrugging. A hint of a smirk tugged at their lips. “You really think you deserve this shit?”

“It's better than starving.”

“Isn't like you're gonna die from it, mate.”

Rayan's words fell silent on his tongue, gaze drifting to the infinity symbol on his other palm. Immortal. Perfectly Immortal, actually. To be honest, Rayan was beginning to consider whether this trait was more of a curse than anything.

“Whatcha looking at?” Rayan heard their faint footsteps before he could even respond, hissing in pain when Foster nearly twisted his wrist to take a look. “Oh, yeah, those. We'll ‘ave to get rid of them soon.”

Rayan's heart skipped a beat. “Excuse me?”

“What, are you deaf, old man?”

“I'm only thirty years o—”

“I know!” They snapped, dropping his wrist, which fell limply to the floor. “Ever heard of a fucking insult?”

“Oh, I have. Bet you're an insult to your little family over there—”

“SHUT UP!” Rayan flinched at the sudden display of emotion, whimpering as he was kicked twice in the ribs as if Foster wanted to accentuate their point. He curled in on himself again. “I'm gonna fucking kill you for ripping it, y'know.”

“Good luck with that.”

They smirked. “Luck seems to be on my side recently.”

Rayan just glared in response, eyes narrowing as they inspected the scarred figure before him. The same heterochromic eyes, though the once unkempt hair was parted neatly in the middle. Foster held his gaze, before letting out an irritated huff and walking away.

The Immortal watched their every move, watching them hold the blood splattered, ripped picture, seeming to focus more on the child in the middle, whose face had been ruined from Rayan's thoughtless act. A look in their eyes hinted to something almost tender. They slid the thing into their sleeve, picking up the bat and deciding to leave without the bowl.

“Hope you're fuckin’ happy.” Foster hissed beneath their breath, though Rayan could somewhat discern what they were saying. “Keep the light off this time. I'm not wasting the electricity bills on you.”

With that they slammed the door shut, locking it before trudging up the stairs to the hallway. They'd gotten blood on their socks; they didn't care to clean up their bloodied footprints right now.

—> —> —>

Rayan sighed, plunged back into darkness as he listened to the faint footsteps of his captor. Moving to lay on his stomach — his back had taken the brunt of the attack, so he was reluctant to put pressure on it for now — he was, at least, thankful he was out of the rope, had some food on the cabinet..

..and had a way to piss off that kid. To be honest, it was amusing how sensitive they were to even mentioning their family, for whatever reason. He could use it to his advantage.

—> —> —> —> —> —>

FFUUCUCKFICK FOSTER'S SUCH AN ASSHOLE I LOVE THEM!!! anyhow! chapter two yippee!! it took so long but I'm super proud of it 😭😭

HTKAI Taglist: @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @ash-1s-wr1t1ng @whumpy-wyrms @creppersfunpalooza

#How To Kill An Immortal #rayan hyacinth #foster canavan #whump series #whumper #whumpee #immortal whumpee #sadistic whumper #defiant whumpee #whump oc #oc whump #whump writing #writing #oc writing #captive whumpee #captivity whump #whump community #whumpblr #whump

[inkwell-and-dagger]

far too tired to shade, so just take it as it is now lmao

what are they talking about? is madir giving foster a piece of advice? are they bonding over their shitty upbringings? or are they just talking about what to do with rayan? either way, I don't think foster's really listening...

original pose credit to @/mellon-soup on pinterest!! click for better quality ig

How To Kill An Immortal Taglist: @kira-the-whump-enthusiast

#yes out of canon i believe they have a father to child relationship shut the fuck up #i am my own fandom #anyhow look at my precious babies #multiple whumpers #whumper #whump art #oc art #art #my art #my ocs #whump ocs #madir ahearn #foster canavan #How To Kill An Immortal