I'm Jovi, and I write all OC fics, one-shots, drabbles, and prompts.
What you will find on my blog: unhinged and slightly hinged violence, hurt/comfort, horror/thriller, gore, and happy endings. (comprehensive list here.)
This blog contains themes of trauma and abuse. Please click individual story masterlists for content warnings. This blog is 18+.
🖊Ongoing Series:
Dark Water | Moss Harper boards a merchant ship in search of a better life, but instead finds himself a captive in the middle of the ocean to a brutal pirate. [filter tag: dark water by jovi]
Don't Bite the Hand | This is the story of the underbelly of a blossoming city, and how a Lady saves a Guard Dog. [Filter tag: dbth by jovi]
Run! To The Boondocks | Sev killed his whumper and is on the run. Desperate to get the police off his tail, he abducts a gas station cashier as a victim to fake his own death, but instead finds friendship and belonging in the most unlikely place: the boondocks. [filter tag: (full title) by jovi]
✅️Completed:
Comfortember 2022 | masterlist of one-shots inspired by some comfortember prompts.
The Merry Whump of May 2022 | one-shot collection from prompts every day in may.
The Merry Whump of May 2023 | I only filled in the first 3 days because life be Like That(tm) sometimes.
🥃One-Shots/Short Fics:
Roll For Whump | roll dice to determine whump plot! I rolled magical restraints.
Artistry | Whumpee wakes up to a picture of his future.
Unleashed | Whumper "saves" Whumpee from starvation.
Alone | Hero must make a deal in order to escape the Villain.
Hero x Villain drabbles with no name | (x) (x) (x) (x)
Merry Crisis | Holiday 2023 one-shot
Am Indigo | a robot is left alone after humanity's end
Pocket | Emery buys a storage locker and is surprised to find a tiny pixie abandoned inside.
What Goes Around | magic whumper turned whumpee (part 1) - (part 2) - (part 3)
💭WIP's in planning stage or edit:
Burn For Me | Priva swore she would never go back to Darwin Heights, but when her mother passes she's forced to get her house ready for sale, unleashing something sinister. Is it worth dredging up the past to be free? [IN EDIT. filter tag: bfm by jovi]
VOID | Space is cruel. It’s cold. When the first humans left the earth, they expected this; it was all they knew to expect. [filter tag: void by jovi]
🪦The WIP Grave:
(aka where the wip's I haven't updated in too long go to die. Warning: May resurrect randomly.)
Bite Me | Wyeth is tired of his perpetual thirst and searches for a blood-bag [filter tag: bite me by jovi]
cw: deep disappointment in a parent, triggering topic: previous death of a sibling.
Who would believe a little rat like you?
Moss’ shoulder shoved into a wooden spire, and he dug his feet into the ground. The giant millstone creaked and groaned, coming to life with sweat and effort. The four other men, one twice his age, grunted, turning and pushing, enduring the pain of splinters and the exhaustion of their muscles.
“What’s on your mind?” Mister Caldwell, a smaller man than Moss with a round gut and broken glasses that rested on the edge of a sharp nose, said while leading Moss into his office for his pay. “You were pushing that stone harder than a mule.”
He sat on his desk and swiped the pile of pennies into his palm to give it one last count.
Moss waited, then took a breath. “My Pa killed Wolfe.”
Caldwell looked at Moss over his glasses, pausing on the counting for a moment before continuing without a word.
“Stabbed him until his chest was an open pit.”
The boss offered the coins in his outstretched hand. “You lie about the cruelest things.”
Moss grit his teeth. “I’m not lying.”
“Then where’s the proof?” Caldwell mustered, holding back his impatience. “It’s always been your word against his. He cried into his rum over Wolfe’s death! Is that the hobby of a guilty man?”
“If he could feel guilt at all!” Moss snapped.
The Boss looked at him, pity in his eyes. “That’s a shame.” He stood with a sigh. “You’re fired.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Fired. Get out.”
The door slammed against the outer wall. Moss ignored the stares as he left the mill with his hands in his pockets. His right hand clenched his pay, while the other simply dug into the rough flesh of his palm as he walked. The faint sound of music distracted him from his thoughts as he suddenly found himself in the main square, weaving through an ever-thickening crowd that kicked up clouds of dust around the shops.
The pub his father frequented was across the square, hidden in a nook down an alley that barely got any light other than from the candles that had almost burned the place down years ago. His father managed to escape with a few burns to his arms, telling his mother and brothers about how he fought for the exit like a wild animal while Moss sat quietly in the corner wishing he had failed.
He wasn’t worried about being spotted, so he made way toward the outskirts and stepped atop a low-lying stone wall that surrounded a small bed of dying flowers. The band was in the center, underneath a white and brown pergola with flowers blooming around it. A happy crowd surrounded the front while the rest of the people walked around like a river seeking the path of least resistance.
Moss cut across, coming out the other side just as the music ceased with the raucous rattle of a timbrel, and the scream of a fiddle descending to a final note to be met with a cheer and clap of the crowd.
The violinist looked to be not much older than himself, boasting a rounder gut and rosy cheeks that matched his just as rosy hair, and large fingers that should have made playing such a small instrument impossible. When their eyes met the smile from the other man seemed to twitch as it fought to stay alive.
“You!” He called out to Moss, then flicked his head to the side, ushering him to follow to the other side of the pergola, away from the entrance and the crowd.
It wasn’t much quieter, but Moss was grateful to have a second to breathe while the musician placed his violin within it’s case and sat down on a box. He massaged his fingers, side-eyeing Moss with a small smile.
“What’s your story, lad?”
Moss fought the choke of a laugh, knowing that they were likely the same age. “No story, I’m afraid. Just here to see what the commotion was about.” He shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets.
The man chuckled. “Unimpressed?”
“Can’t say whether I am or not. I’ve never heard music like that before.”
That was met with a small nod, and then the musician held a hand out. “Thurm’s my name. What’s yours?”
“Moss.”
Thurm grinned again. “Like that beside a shadowed brook.”
Moss didn’t know what to make of that, and so he just smiled back, then once again placed his hand in his pocket. Thurm let the silence roll, and watched the crowd as Moss did the same.
“It’s a nice town.”
“Maybe.”
“You disagree?”
“Anything’s nice from the outside.”
“Hm.” Thurm nodded and rummaged into his coat pocket. The smell of food, even as small as a pack of nuts, was enough to make Moss feel feral in that moment. The penny in his pocket wouldn’t even buy a pint.
As if sensing his hunger, Thurm offered the bag. Moss looked down at it again, like he did the man’s hand, then abruptly shook his head.
“I’m throwing it away, anyway. Might as well take it.”
Moss waited a beat longer before he did, looking off into the crowd as he shoved a small handful into his mouth and savored the way the salt coated his tongue.
“What do you think about coming with us?”
The question almost made Moss choke, and he looked at Thurm again. A stranger.
“Where?”
“We have passage to the Lumrey then Windover. You can get off whenever you want.”
“The Key?” Moss didn’t want to seem so wide-eyed, but his voice betrayed him.
Thurm thought a moment. “I don’t think I can talk the Captain into stopping the night, but he might be okay with cruising into the shallows if you don’t mind a little swim.”
The possibility of the world had so often been a distant dream to Moss. He’d looked out to the open sea hoping that one day it would call for him, and he could prove himself a sailor to his family.
His family.
The optimistic light dimmed a bit more as he thought of the only piece of family he still cared about.
“I…” He sighed. “Can’t. I have responsibilities here.”
“Someone can’t live without you?”
Moss thought of that as he swallowed. “No.”
Thurm nodded again. “Well, think about it. We leave noon tomorrow.”
Moss replied with a soft nod. “Okay.”
He didn’t look at Thurm again, but he could sense his smile.
“There’s a story in you yet, Moss.”
Those words rang in his ears for a while after, and Moss again went to the only place that he felt had enough space to clear his crowded head.
The grass was at it’s full height, reaching to the sky as the heat dissipated to a still night. The stars came out over the sea, and Moss reached the edge of the cliff to see them reflect onto the stillness of the horizon as the closer waves crashed and beat against the rocks below.
A small gust of wind whispered past, and the familiar whistle floated from the cracks in the earth behind. Moss listened to it like he had a dozen times; like a whale song of the dead.
But he wasn’t dead. Not yet.
Maybe it was that thought that pulled him back down the path and toward the gaping mouth of the cave where a makeshift tent and small lantern sat waiting. He had set out months ago to explore it, but was too scared.
The cave was dark, even with his lantern lit. Calm gusts came and went as if the rocks were breathing. He swallowed, too afraid to call out in case something actually answered from beyond his ring of light; as if a monster wouldn’t hear the way his heart thumped against his chest.
Nervous sweat dripped down his face. He wiped it away.
Everything settled. The air was still and the only noise was that of Moss’ shoes and the small metal clicks of the lantern’s handle as he adjusted the light. Soon he came upon a bend in the tunnel that was so distinct that it made him stop and glance up.
Small holes carved like a cone led up. How far, he didn’t know. The silence was eerie. He swallowed again, then pressed his lips together, letting out as quiet of a whistle he could. The sound sprinted away from him, bouncing against the walls before settling back a moment. Moss waited. Listened.
Then a rumble, from far off, thud against the dirt and branched into the surrounding tunnel. It shook the walls and cracked the ground, loosing pebbles and rock that came crashing down around him.
In the next second, his feet gave way under him. Arms swung, brushing against bruised ribs and aggravated, scarred forearms. He dug them into the ground, pulling harder towards a small beam of light that shifted in the distance.
The torrent wicked the sweat from his brow, chilling his skin to a prickled ache. The orb of light swayed; dodging the curving of the cave walls. Plant roots broke the barrier of rock and, in the chaos, seemed to lash out at his arms and legs, wrapping their limbs around his.
Moss’ body crashed to the ground, or the ground crashed onto him, and he screamed. His voice was pulled out and taken away, echoing from the light that sailed further and further, dimming from a bright yellow to a dull orange as the earth opened up, and the sound of broken glass sent him into darkness.
...
He wasn’t dead. Not yet.
His eyes opened and he coughed out the dust from his lungs, clearing the dirt from around his lips. When he moved, the pebbles and layers of earth fell off of him, thudding to the ground around his aching body as he slowly pushed himself to his knees until he came face-to-face with bones.
Moss yelped, but slapped a hand over his own mouth before the sound would cause another cave-in. His breathing took a moment to slow, giving him time to look upon the skeletal face, dotted with points of light from the ceiling. It’s jaw hung open, clinging to the rest of it on one hinge that then led to a slumping body covered in tattered rags. What was left of it’s arms was snaked around a small barrel beside it.
His first thought was of treasure. Had it been sitting right underneath his feet the entire time? Was it luck that had him find it just before he had a way off that miserable island?
But, as he dared to move, and as the aches and pains of his fall slipped away with the curiosity, he snaked his fingers over the top of that barrel and felt a jagged hole that led to nothing. Whatever was inside it was long gone.
Of course. Moss could only smile to mask the frustration. He looked up.
“That’s what I get for hoping, right?” He whispered to the silence. When he dropped his head to push himself to his feet, he stilled.
Peering through the trail of his fingers, though faded and broken, was the unmistakable image of two intertwined rings burned into the wood.
It only took Moss fifteen minutes to emerge from the cave. It wasn’t until he was in a dead-sprint towards his house that he realized he had lost his shoes, but it only registered for the moment until he saw the sun reflecting off the window to his home, and burst in.
The raucous caused his mother to gasp and spin with wide-eyes that softened when she laid eye on her son.
“Moss!” She yelped. “You scared me! What… why are you filthy?”
“I’ve figured it out, Ma!” Moss exclaimed with the excitement of a madman. “I went into the cave-”
“You what?” Her eyes followed the shadows, as if there was something hidden in them.
“I know why he didn’t want me there. It wasn’t us. It wasn’t us!” Moss’ eyes almost teared up. “We can be free!”
“No.”
The abrupt denial surprised him. In a breath, his celebration stopped, left only to the crackling of the fire, and the heat of the stove beside his mother.
His brow furrowed. “No?”
“Promise me you’ll stop.”
Moss softened his stance and took a step toward her. “Ma…”
She stepped back. “Promise me, Moss.”
He stilled, unable to stop the twitch of anger on his face as she retreated from him. Him. As if he was the enemy.
“Why are you covering for him?” Moss’ lips shook with the question. “After everything he’s done?”
“Because what good will it do?”
“Plenty!” Moss dared to go closer again. “Ma, please… they-” his face twitched. “They won’t believe me, but if you tell them then he’ll hang. Wolfe will-”
“Wolfe is dead, Moss!” She spat, her voice cracking. “Leave the dead alone!”
He looked upon her, then. At her clothes. At the way her eyes didn’t leave his. Eyes that watched when they were hungry even though their father had money to drink; that lit up when they were all together, and slowly faded when they no longer could be. Those eyes were wide again, but not with shock like he had thought, or with hope like he had wanted.
“You knew.”
Moss flinched hard, dodging a wooden bowl that smashed against the wall by his head that sent overcooked oats spraying around the room and into his hurriedly braided hair.
“It doesn’t make a difference anymore!” His mother screamed, staring at him as she leaned onto the counter. Her brown hair trailed over her face, sticking to her cheeks that she had stopped bothering to wipe clean. “Please… promise me.”
It was then he knew about insanity.
Moss reluctantly nodded.
She sighed, sniffing as she stood upright. “Thank you.”
Moss responded in his movement toward the door. His sleeve crept up his arm as he reached for the knob. The scar that had seared itself onto his arm had finally begun to fade, turning a dingy pink with reflective spots where the tissue fused together like the tendrils of a woven cord pulled taught.
Wolfe’s blood was all but a dark stain on the ground, reasoned away by an accident, then by the slaughter of the animal whose hide rest conveniently over-top it. One son dead. What was another?
“I’m not coming back. " Moss finally said.
He paused, leaving a breath, just in case.
“That’s probably for the best.” His Ma resigned with a sigh. “Where will you go?”
“Clinside Key. To sail.”
“One word of your name and they’ll keelhaul you.”
Moss squeezed the knob. “I know.”
The same silence stretched again, back into the nothingness that replaced images of what he thought he had been.
“Well then. Goodbye so-“ Her voice lilted slightly. “Moss.”
Moss looked at her, then; at her face streaked with tears condescending the very reason they were meant to exist. He’d never seen grief so pathetic.
Snatching up the open tag from @i-can-even-burn-salad . It's only been four months. Better late than never? I dunno.
Gonna answer these for Moss. OPEN TAG for whoever would like to!
What uncommon/common fear do they have?
Common: Fire
Uncommon(?): Failure
Do they have any pet peeves?
Nope! He is generally unbothered by other people/things unless he's directly effected by it.
What are 3 items you can find in their bedroom?
If he had a bedroom of his own, he'd for sure have sea charts, his rock (iykyk), and if he had gone to school for longer than a few years, he'd have a ton of books.
What do they notice first in a person?
How that person carries themself. Body language.
On a scale of 1 to 10, how high is their pain tolerance?
If 10 is passing out, he can still think straight at a 7, but after that he's starting to fade and will get reckless to escape the pain.
Do they go into fight or flight mode when under pressure?
Fight mode
Do they come from a big family/are they a family person?
A large-ish family (3 brothers, mom, dad), but he is definitely not a family person at this point.
What animal represents them best?
A badger. He's hard-headed, solitary, but still a prey animal rather than a true predator.
What is a smell that they dislike?
He's not unique in that he very much dislikes the smell of rotting things.
Have they broken any bones?
Not yet :)
How would a stranger likely describe them?
Quiet. Not necessarily unfriendly but not a friend, either.
Are they a night owl or a morning bird?
Night owl.
What is a flavor they hate and a flavor they love?
food is food is food is food.
Do they have any hobbies?
Moss just likes to be alone. Is solitude a hobby?
Boom, surprise birthday party! How do they react to surprises?
He'll wonder who the party is for, and not know how to act after being told it's for him.
Do they like to wear jewelry?
Moss would absolutely wear jewelry.
Do they have neat or messy handwriting?
messy, for sure.
What are the two emotions they feel the most?
anger and disappointment
Do they have a favorite fabric?
Anything soft
What kind of accent do they have?
all the characters have whatever accent the reader imagines tbh lol.
"I guess it's been long enough" - writer's block, probably (hopefully)
cw: captivity, description of a dead body, details of decomposition, alternating POV's
Despite his desperate attempts at convincing himself otherwise, the pain in Moss’ face and body was comforting in it’s familiarity. He felt pathetic acknowledging that, even as he lay down on the hard floor with the strangle of the tide in his stomach and throat.
He sat up, pressed his back against the iron bars, and looked into the dark as he dared to take a deep breath in. The stagnate air settled on his tongue that tasted of the stench that filled his nose. He exhaled, carefully, out.
“Stinks down ‘ere, aye?”
Moss blinked, trying to make out if the voice was a dream or not.
“Burke must’ve sold us half-rotten supplies.”
“Another step toward the grave for that one.”
He lift his head from the floor, and called with a tired croak. “H-hello?”
“Let the Captain know.”
Moss crawled to the bars, taking hold of them with shaking hands. He lifted himself up, pressing his face between the iron. “Hello! C-can you hear me?”
There was a beat of silence, and a head appeared above the closest wall of crates. Moss smiled, laughing in relief when he saw the figure.
“I’m the new recruit,” he explained. “When you see the Captain, can you also tell her I’m in here? I think she forgot about me. There’s no water-”
“-Did ye hear somethin’?” The head said, sinking below the crates again.
Moss’ heart dropped into his stomach as the other answered.
“No. Nothin’. Best let the Captain know.”
“Wait!” Moss side-stepped along the cell until he couldn’t move further, and the footsteps continued up the stairs. “Please?!”
There was no door to the hold, only an empty space that flickered with life, and sound, and promise, only to fall silent and dark again.
“Damn it!” He punched the bars then waved his hand as he sat down with a huff. There had to be some mistake, some misunderstanding…
Suddenly the ship keeled, throwing him to the side. Moss sprawled, taking hold of the bars to steady himself as a rope snapped. The bang from a crate buckling against the iron made Moss scream and curl as he tried to make sense of it all. Seconds later the ship righted, and stilled, followed by a holler from above.
“Captain on deck!”
****
Isola emerged from her quarters as the salty sea blew an untethered wind of the approaching winter. She always slept better aboard a ship, something about the gentle sway and the knowledge of what was outside.
“Good mornin’, Captain.” Adair greeted her with a nod as she approached, then lowered his voice. “There was a small incident in the hold. Thomas has resigned.”
She focused on her scurrying crew. “That so?”
“Aye.”
“And why is that?”
Adair moved his eye toward the deck as the boatswain barked an order, and steered the ship starboard.
“He got a little too mouthy.”
Isola took a breath, considering the information. “I see, and where is he now?”
“In a crate.”
At that, her eyes snapped to him. Then she took a deep breath, huffing out of her nose. “Not your finest work, Adair.”
“Had to think fast, Captain.”
“That fast? In the middle of the night down in the hold?” She shook her head and pressed her lips in a line.
“I told the crew that he was found with more than his fair share of coin in his pocket.”
She nodded. “Gunner!”
Uneven feet stomped on the deck below, and the gunner appeared just beyond the upper deck’s railing. “Ye called, Cap’n?”
“Sword.”
“Aye.”
Not long after, he returned up the stairs and put a sheathed sword in her outstretched palm. She immediately made her way down, sweeping her eye across every surface as she did. Her crew righted themselves as she passed, giving her respectful nods before continuing their work.
“I want to be half-way to The Key before weeks end, sea and wind permitting.”
Adair walked beside her, keeping pace easily as they descended the first set of stairs. “Aye. I’ll let the boatswain know.”
They both stopped with pause at the landing of the first stair that led to the second, listening as a raspy voice called in the dark.
“Hello? Is someone there?”
Isola felt a smile crawl up her neck to one corner of her lip, tugging it with a gentle coax of anticipation. Adair took the lead down the second set of stairs, to where Thomas’ body was dumped, though the smell was strong enough to make it an easy guess.
“M-my name is Moss…” the lad continued.
Isola nodded toward the crate. Adair opened it, unleashing the stench in a cloud that overtook the hold, making their eyes water.
“Can never get used to that…” Adair said between gags before he worked to pull the body out. It slumped down with an empty thud, curled in awkwardly with rigor.
“Roll him over. I’ve got to make it look convincing.” Isola ordered.
“Captain!” Moss called almost as soon as she was done speaking. “Captain it’s me, Moss! I’m so glad you’re-”
Isola turned the corner and stepped toward the cage to see Moss looking up at her, smiling. Relieved.
She smiled back as he finished his sentence.
“I was worried you forgot I was here. I can start with the gunner…” his eye flicked down to her sword, then back up at her. “Immediately.”
“That so?” She responded between the start and stop of a muffled scraping sound neared her feet. She watched as Moss’ eyes traveled down, and suddenly his relief vanished.
Isola side-stepped over the body, addressing Adair.
“It has to bleed,” she mentioned.
“Blood’s thick already.”
She considered that. “Hang it by the ankles first.”
“Where, Captain?”
“The only place with cross beams, Adair.” Isola then looked at Moss.
The lad subtly shook his head, letting go of the bars. “Th-there’s no room in here-”
His protest was suddenly drowned by the strike of her sword on the steel bars, and the lad jumped back.
“Looks to be plenty, to me.”
She kept her eyes on him while Adair opened the cell door and dragged the body inside.
“Need a rope, Captain.” He muttered. “Don’t worry about the lad, he won’t be moving. Will ye?”
“…No.”
Isola made her way back to the base of the stairs where lengths of rope hung on thick steel nails with buckets stacked underneath. She grabbed one of each and returned, handing them both to Adair.
****
Moss’ vision widened with his eyes as he simultaneously watched Isola approach him while Adair wrapped the rope around Thomas’ ankles and looped the other end through the metal rods of the cell’s ceiling. There was a distinct sound—one like the creaking of wooden tenon’s set into a mortise—when he lift Thomas off the ground.
He didn’t dare move. The glint of the sword was quickly followed by the sound of it’s blade slicing through flesh.
Seconds later, Moss felt something poke at his chest, and he looked down to see the point of Isola’s sword trained on him. He followed it’s blade up until he was looking into Isola’s eyes, and he felt his skin tremble as the first drop of thick blood hit the bottom of the bucket behind her.
“To think I was so upset when Matthews tried to send me to clean up his little mess. Only to find you.” Her smile grew as her eyes sparked, and Moss’ already icy skin prickled over with fear. Another drop of blood fell with an empty, echoing, plop.
“A tiny loose end, in over your head, having deceived not only the prince of Talon, but a Lumrey spy.”
He shook his head. “I didn’t do-”
Isola’s hand whipped back as her smile vanished to a toothy snarl, threatening a downswing.
“The next time you speak, you’d be smart not to lie.” She bit. “I know what you are.”
The room grew darker, smaller. Adair appeared just behind Isola’s shoulder as the ship swayed, making the ropes creak and the metal hinge of the cell door squeal.
Moss lowered his head, looking past the blade and to the ground.
“What do you want?” He heard himself ask as another drop of blood fell.
“What a beautiful question,” She replied.
The brief silence afterwards made Moss want to scream; but the truth never mattered when the lies were louder.
“I want you to simply exist, just as you are.”
The initial pain throbbed through his face and chest as the weight of those words hit him harder than Adair’s right hook.
“I’ll tell the crew everything.” He said, quiet, but clear. “How would they like their Captain, then?”
The laugh that came from her shocked him to silence as it crept up his spine and sunk it’s tendrils into his skull.
Then, in the pale of what little light came from above, he saw her smile reflected like a sinister moon that reached her eyes in tiny pricks of light among the inky dark; and she spoke like the shadows from his dreams.
Twelve Dolls in glass boxes, with bows around their necks, waited patiently for their new home. The selection was diverse and scrupulous - able to satisfy anyone who could walk through that door.
The only question: what do you desire?
A short servant built to work fields and tend to livestock?
A taller debonair type for proud display?
Maybe something more specific?
Whatever it was, Maker promised perfection. And he delivered. Every. Time.
Not just anyone could enter into the business. Proprietors were usually born under a reputable name, and trained from an early age, but this was not the case for Maker.
Maker came from nowhere; they are known by no other name, and yet they built a reputation on excellence and perfection. Their dolls quickly seized the market; dazzling consumers and toppling generations old conglomerates. They were smarter, more capable, and had something that the others did not: the satisfaction guarantee that stated “you love it, or we replace it for free.”
Those who are rich enough could order a custom Doll - tailored down to any specificity - and those who were lucky enough could participate in Buyers Day; where Maker’s warehouse would be opened to the masses, and their products - their Dolls - could be purchased by the less wealthy public.
The Dolls could usually tell when Buyers Day was coming. There were extra meals, and they would be washed, clothed, and given something to bide the time - usually to warm up marketable skills before the doors would open for those 12 hours of chaos and expectant apprehension.
Yes, Maker’s Dolls were perfect.
“Look at these comments!” Maker huffed, gleaning over a stack of white cards as body 84 kneeled before them in his box at the end of Buyers Day five. He wore black underwear and a black ribbon around his neck like a scorch mark, and set his eyes on the floor as his hands shook on his knees.
“Skinny! Weak! Anemic!” Maker slammed the cards onto the ground in front of 84, making him wince at the loud slap the pile made on the tiles before approaching the glass.
“Ordinary.”
The word bit into 84’s ears and tore along his back like claws digging for his innards.
Maker was staring right at him; their anger boring holes through the glass box with a bitterness that made 84 choke. Or maybe the black discount ribbon was too tight.
84 winced again as Maker slammed their fist against the glass.
“Get up!”
His legs shook, but he stood, hunching with fright as he saw Maker’s guards walking towards his box’s door.
There are many mysteries surrounding Maker. Where they came from, Why they chose this business of all things.
“Please… no…” 84 whimpered, falling to his knees again, averting his eyes away from Maker, who was already furious enough but probably even more so from his disobedience. 84 didn’t care. He knew that there were only two reasons a body could leave their box.
“Please! I’ll try harder!” He begged as the door slid open, and the guards walked in, “No!” he scurried away, “No! Maker! Please!”
Of all the possible questions, the greatest had always been how. How did they get their dolls so perfect.
There were tears in 84’s eyes now, and he yelped as the guards pulled at him. He wrestled forward, falling on his bare stomach, looking at the Maker who stared back at 84 with disgust as he clawed at the slippery floor and managed to grab onto the leg of his cot.
“Dammit! Get it out of there!” Maker yelled.
One guard came forward as the other pulled at his ankle, and suddenly the sole of a boot came slamming onto 84’s wrists. He screamed and let go, and found himself pulled back through the door.
The second guard followed, then gripped him by the back of his ribbon and pulled him up to standing before twisting one injured arm behind his back.
Now the ribbon was definitely too tight. He gasped for air and kicked his legs as the guard pushed him through the hallway of empty boxes; towards a set of metal doors.
Maker waved a key, and the doors opened.
The room on the other side was dark and small - with a table in the middle, and a cabinet at the head full of liquids and pills, and contraptions overhead that he had never seen before.
84 began to beg again, silenced quickly by the tightened ribbon.
Maker pointed, wordlessly, towards the table in the center of the room. 84 tried to fight, but the last bit of fight they had dissipated the moment their back hit the cold table.
Their limbs were strapped down, and Maker reached up, turning on a light above 84’s head.
“My patience has run out,” 84 could hear the clinking of bottles and then footsteps. Maker’s face appeared above them, along with the blink of something in his hand.
“I have a reputation to uphold. One that you’ve tarnished every Buyers Day with your indolence.”
84’s lip quivered, “Please-”
“SHUT UP!”
84 shook and closed his eyes as spit fell onto his face. Maker sighed, then grabbed 84’s arm with a grip of iron.
The answer to how Maker managed to create perfection was obvious to anyone willing to see it. Or to anyone who experienced their cold grip of sadistic obsession first hand.
“Maker!”
“What!”
“We’ve got an emergency order in.”
“An emergency- what?”
The grip loosened followed by footsteps leading away. 84 sighed with relief and the streams of tears began anew.
“It was placed just now.”
“But… we don’t have this. Tell them to put in a custom order or wait until next year.”
“I can’t sir… it’s Mister Aldrich.”
There was a pause. 84 opened his eyes, though still squinting from the light.
“Aldrich?”
“Yes.”
Another pause, this time longer.
“If he wants something this specific, I’ll need more time.”
“No time sir. They want it by tonight.”
Maker sighed, “there’s no way I…” their voice trailed off a moment, and the footsteps came back.
“Maker?”
“Tell Mister Aldrich that I’ll have his order to him on time,” Maker appeared over 84 once more, now pushing fingers through his hair, making him whimper with fear as their eyes locked.
Maker smiled, “mark up thirty percent for the rush, but take off twenty.”
“Twenty? Why so much?”
Maker lifted their other hand, which held a large bone saw.
“For the blood.”
84’s eyes widened, and Maker stepped to the side slightly, positioning the blade of the saw just above the elbow of his left arm. He felt the teeth make contact with skin, and his pleading began anew, followed by thrashing made useless by the tight restraints.
“This is what they want so BE STILL!”
84 tried. He tried.
His vision went white as the saw moved, tearing into his flesh and muscle. Each movement he both felt numb and supremely aware of the serrated teeth bearing down upon him, separating the layers.
His screams tore his throat, and as the saw hit his bone,
he passed out.
…
“Happy Holidays, darling!”
“Is that what I think it is??”
“It definitely could be… why don’t you take a look?”
84’s eyes opened slowly as he heard the tearing of paper, and his box shook. It was dark. Too dark to be his glass box. And these voices… who…?
A hand with white painted fingernails tore through the last of the paper, flooding the box with light. 84 squinted again, trying to discern the face swirling above him. His eye drifted just beyond the face, spotting a large column of green with shining objects adorning it.
Was he dead? Was this… hell?
“What do you think, darling?”
“Oh father,” the face spoke with a muffled, sweet voice, “it’s….”
“I-I know what you’re thinking,” the dad’s voice scrambled a bit as the face disappeared, “it’s the best my money could buy with such short notice, but I’ll get you a better one if you’re willing to wait-”
“-it’s just what I wanted. Thank you, father. Mother.”
“Oh. You’re welcome, dear,” a soft feminine voice replied.
“Yes, you’re welcome.”
“I’d like to take it upstairs now, if that’s alright?”
“Absolutely. I’ll have a servant do it. Dinner is at seven.”
“Yes father.”
More faces appeared, and 84’s box teetered as he was lifted off the ground. The green disappeared, replaced by a tall white ceiling that changed to dark green with a gold chandelier as they passed through a doorway.
“Right there. Thank you. Stand it up.”
84 was righted, and looked out through a plastic sheet and into the striking blue eyes of a woman who sat on a green satin bedspread with her legs crossed, leaning back with her head slanted to the side as she studied him carefully.
Her pink lips turned up in a smile, gracing her freckled cheeks and the auburn hair that framed them. Then she sat up and stood, abandoning her black heels that complimented her blue long-sleeved dress.
He was… bought?
His heart stuttered at the thought. This woman- her father, had bought him… for her?
She walked towards him, still with that same smile, and reached her hand up to undo the seal on the front of the box. She opened it, and the freshness of the air hit 84. He took a grateful breath.
“Come out,” she stepped aside.
He took a step out, feeling the plush carpet beneath his bare feet. it took everything within him not to crumple to his knees and bury his face into it. To think he’d wake up from a nightmare to find out he had finally been bought-
He felt a hand along his torso and stood upright, not realizing that the woman had circled him. As she passed, he caught another look at her piercing eyes.
“You’ll do,” she retreated beyond the bed and towards a wardrobe, which she opened and began rifling through, lifting out multiple colorful garments, “come closer.”
84 gladly obeyed, and she tossed the garments onto the bed before going through them one-by-one, holding them up to 84’s face before tossing them away or putting them back on the bed. He stood stock still, not wanting to disgrace himself.
The woman, his… owner? Master? pulled up a red dress and held it up under his chin, smiling anew.
“I think this ones a winner,” she took it off the hanger, “arms up.”
He moved his arms, and suddenly felt a blinding pain radiating down from his left elbow that made his knees buckle and his vision black out. His vision came back slowly, and he realized with horror he was sitting on the carpet.
“I-I’m so sorry-” he tried to push himself up, and fell to his left, barely catching himself before he fell again.
What… why…
“Are you always this clumsy?” the woman’s arms were crossed.
He was screwing up. Not two minutes out of the box and he was failing.
“N-no, I’m sorry I…”
84 lifted his arms to pull himself up when he noticed his… his left arm was… the memories came back to him in a flood, and suddenly he felt extremely sick.
He bit back the nausea, and looked up at the woman, who had stepped forward to pull him onto his feet.
“Is it true what they say about dolls?” she asked, coming a bit closer, “that they follow every command?”
84 swallowed the giant lump in his throat, and nodded. That’s right. They wanted him this way.
“Speak,” she ordered.
“Y-yes…” 84 sputtered, taking a quick breath in.
She drew nearer and looked into his eyes.
“Kneel.”
He did.
“Put your head on the ground.”
He did, moving his arms into a comfortable position beside his head.
“Breathe.”
He took a surprised lungful of air. Suddenly his shakiness felt a bit better, and he could feel the fibers of the carpet shift as she walked in front of him.
“My name is Lillian. You can call me by that name when we’re alone. Among family and friends, you’ll have to call me Miss Lillian,” she said the title as if it were a disease.
A pause.
“Speak.”
“Y-yes, L-Lillian.”
It felt wrong to address her by her first name, but a lot of this was, by all his training, wrong.
“Good… I can tell why my father picked you,” she continued, her voice becoming a bit softer, “you’re incredibly plain. Not what I imagined a Maker’s Doll to be.”
Oh no.
“You’re better. Perfect.”
84’s chest tightened. Perfect. He was… perfect?
“But that arm really is hideous.”
She used the same tone as before, and the tightness in his chest turned to a choke as he felt her toes pressing against the still fresh wound. He screamed and pulled it away, which was quickly met by a warning kick to the temple.
“I didn’t tell you to move,” Lillian chastised, “now bring that ugly arm back here.”
He did.
She stomped on it.
He screamed, feeling the gauze slip down, revealing a set of fresh stitches folding two layers of serrated skin. And… what was that?
Was she… laughing?
“Get up.”
His ears rang from agony, and he felt her hand in his hair, pulling.
“I said Get. Up!”
“Y-yes…” he dug his right hand into the carpet, pushing up with everything he had left. Which wasn’t much.
Before he was standing upright, Lillian shoved him, and he stumbled over the pile of clothes on the ground, landing on his side onto green satin.
Then a chime sounded - eerily similar to the chuckle he had heard before. His head was swimming with pain; cloudy and unsettled, and a small groan of frustration escaped Lillian, who turned toward him again.
“Dinner…” she swept the red cloth off the ground and walked toward 84, pushing it over his head and roughly threading his arms through the straps. He could feel a slight tug at the gauze around his arm, and winced at the needles of pain he felt coming from the movement.
“There…” she finally said, “stand up.”
He did, and caught his reflection in the wardrobe’s mirror. He was in a red dress that stopped just above his bruised knees, with thin straps that crossed his chest and back. He was clothed, which he was grateful for, but the thin fabric highlighted his sunken collar bones and frail body while washing out his already pale complexion.
His cheeks involuntarily flushed, and Lillian looked at him with a sense of proud accomplishment sparkling in her eyes.
She reached up to his hair and pushed it out of his face with her left hand.
Her right hung at her side - looking rather… odd in the reflection. She noticed his gaze, and smiled, moving the hand up to touch 84 on the cheek with cold plastic.
“Yes, it’s true. The amazing Mister Aldrich’s daughter looks like this,” her smile waned, “as if it wasn’t enough pressure to shoulder the Aldrich family name, no one respects a woman, nevermind a broken one.”
Her sigh carried a thousand hours of sadness.
“Being sick as a child and losing an arm takes its toll socially, but I’m intelligent. I’m my father’s heir, and yet all anyone sees is this…”
She held up her prosthetic, and 84’s arm ached. This was why Maker had taken his arm - to please Lillian; to make her feel less alone.
Lillian sighed, “I’m lamenting to a doll my father had to buy for me. Even if you are a Makers Doll, you must understand the embarrassment. Many rich people buy their friends but this is-” she stopped suddenly, and looked at 84, whose eyes were still on her arm.
“Does it repulse you?”
His eyes snapped to hers, now cloudy and tumultuous. He could barely breathe.
“N-no, Lillian.”
“Be truthful,” she ordered, and closed the already minuscule amount of space between them, “am I beautiful?”
84 swallowed and nodded, “Yes, Lillian.”
Her eyes brightened and she smiled, pulling him close and planting a strong kiss on his lips. He seized up with surprise, and when she pushed away, she was blushing.
“Sorry,” she chuckled, “I don’t know what came over me! Come on,” she gripped his right hand in her left and pulled him along, “it’s dinner time and- oh…” she stopped and turned, “I realize I didn’t pick a name for you…”
She took a step back, and her sharp blue eyes that once intrigued 84 now made him feel utterly terrified as they studied him yet again. She brought her hand under her chin, then smiled as a light bulb lit in her eyes.
“Tinsel,” she beamed, grabbing his hand again, “that’s your name. My Tinsel.”
Hey sorry for the delayed response, this time of year is always a little stressful and takes most of my spoons BUT!!!
Bite Me is about a vampire who stalks and kidnaps a whumpee (unnamed they/them at time of posting). It was my first whump story I posted on tumblr and really helped me stretch my legs, but I don't enjoy vampire whump as much as I did when writing it, so no new ideas have come. That's why it's in the graveyard for now!
This is a bit longer than just a line, I'm trying to get back into seriously writing/editing, its been slow going lately.
For reasons that none of the hunters could fathom, the black flies had taken no interest in the corpse of the beast as it was dragged through the forest back towards their camp, and instead chose to buzz around their heads, landing on their faces and biting at their sun-baked skin. Transporting the boar would have been a daunting task, even if they still had their horses and intact chariot. As it was, the only reason their small and injured hunting party managed to do so was because of Narul. The ropes had been lashed around the giant’s waist, and then tied around the dead creature, allowing Narul to drag it behind him, like an ox pulling a plough. This had freed up his arms. In one he cradled the sage, still unconscious. Hutbari strolled slightly behind, eyeing his trophy as it was dragged across the forest floor.
“Watch it!” The old monarch had snapped as Narul stepped over a large root, the boar momentarily getting caught on the gnarled limb, “I want it to look good when we present it in Labisa!” Hutbari had babbled and muttered and joked incessantly for hours about his great hunt with his lords and soldiers, and while not with Narul, at least in his general direction. Even after they had reached the village by the lake and had dragged the boar up onto the deck the torrent of words had not stopped. Only when Kerim had finally awoke did Hutbari stop his ramblings, but only then to chastise the sage for his lack of fortitude.
Love a character with a black eye. Love when their chin is lifted to the light and their eyes wince and rest, full of exhaustion. Love when they’re covered in dirt, and their hair is in tangles. Love when they relax their head into a stranger’s hand, hoping the gentleness lasts.
knight/lord ships are like. what if i would die for you. what if i wanted you to live for me. what if i wanted to touch you but could only be satisfied with being near you. what if i could touch you but only through the safety of our gloves. what if i couldn’t stop thinking about you right next to me. what if i bloodied my hands for you and never looked back at the wreckage. what then
what if i wasn’t allowed to love you. what if i loved you anyway. what if you knew and i knew but we wouldn’t dare to take that step. what if we made meaningful eye contact as i knelt at your feet and devoted my whole being to you. what if i whispered your name for only you to hear
I was tagged by @the-inkwell-variable <3 And those questions sound like questions that would be fun to answer for Caldyn.
I'll leave it an open tag, because it's quite long.
What uncommon/common fear do they have?
It's probably not very uncommon, but he's terribly afraid of fire.
Do they have any pet peeves?
People not putting stuff back from where they took it. Everything has its place, and if it's not there, he'll never find it again.
What are 3 items you can find in their bedroom?
Well, first of all, it's a cave, not a room. Inside is. A bed. Rest depends on whether the lesbians got their hands on his interior decorations already.
What do they notice first in a person?
Very often their voice. Which doesn't do him much good with humans, because he can't interpret their tone. With his kind, it would be what they put in the telepathic meaning behind their words.
On a scale of 1 to 10, how high is their pain tolerance?
I'd say 9. Poor guy went through it, and he'll ignore anything as long as he can until his body says "nope."
Do they go into fight or flight mode when under pressure?
Depends on the kind of pressure. When panicking, his first instinct is to flee, but when someone else is in danger, he will fight. If both come together, he can also freeze.
Do they come from a big family/are they a family person?
All kalani are one big family, coming from the same tree.
What animal represents them best?
... a stick insect. Possibly a walking leaf.
Just kidding. I always say he has capybara energy.
What is a smell that they dislike?
Lilac! For no particular reason whatsoever! :)
Have they broken any bones?
What goes for bones in his kind, yes. Too many of them. I sometimes wonder if it's quicker to list which ones weren't broken.
How would a stranger likely describe them?
What the fuck is that thing???
Are they a night owl or a morning bird?
Neither. His sleep schedule is pretty fucked, and he often stays up for more than 24 hours, but he likes day and night equally.
What is a flavor they hate and a flavor they love?
Much to Lily's dismay, he doesn't like honey much. He does love the flavor of grilled meat, much to his dismay, because he's not going near any fire.
Do they have any hobbies?
Little crafts like weaving baskets or carving stuff. Talking to trees and flowers. Hopping into another plane of existence.
Boom, surprise birthday party! How do they react to surprises?
What, where did he go?
Do they like to wear jewelry?
No.
Do they have neat or messy handwriting?
His handwriting was already shit before he went blind, and he never writes anymore.
What are the two emotions they feel the most?
I'd say calm and curiosity. On a regular day - and despite all the shit I put him through, there are many regular days - he can sit silently for hours on end and just take in all the different sounds and smells and energies.
Do they have a favorite fabric?
He does not like fabric very much, but as long as it's not on his body, he enjoys fabric with a texture, or items made out of different fabrics with different textures.
Have low motivation to write? Just put yourself in a situation where you can't write at all, and the frustration will suddenly (magically, even) reverse itself.
cw: blood mention and description, the stage between life and death and the imagery that comes along with it, very minor horror vibes, wishing for death, Isidro is given a choice.
Isidro felt the ripples tickle his feet. He took a breath, hearing it in his ears along with his heart as the heat turned to a pallid cold along his fingertips, and the sound of the creatures faded to that of the sea on a bright sunny morning; and suddenly he was just a young man, running toward his family home where four silhouettes stood on the front porch, lit up by a warm fire with the smell of soap and bread lingering in the air.
His feet thrummed into the dirt as he excitedly ran along the road, passing their fields, smiling as the light bled onto his mother’s face.
“I’m home!” his voice stretched toward her.
His excitement melted as he felt a stabbing pain in his abdomen. He collapsed, rolling on the ground, skidding to a halt just feet from the stoop.
“Gah!” he huffed and pushed himself up on a shaking arm while the other wrapped around his torso as he lift up his eye to the shadows.
Three of the silhouettes turned; disappearing into the light of the house. Isidro called after them, but they didn’t acknowledge his screams as they were enveloped by a cloud and whisked away, plunging him into the dark of high-tide—tossing him with the chaos of the elements where he heard muffled screams from every direction.
The relentless waves felt like hands, pushing and pulling with vengeance; grasping onto his head to drag him further. He screamed, and the viscous liquid poured into his mouth, coating his tongue in copper.
Then it spit him out onto the path again. Blood spread around him in gallons that soaked into the ground.
Isidro’s hand gripped the mud as the shame overwhelmed him, flowing from his eyes as a sob escaped his throat. His vision blurred with thick tears that dripped from his nose, leaving craters of his uncontested soul that had once been scattered like the sands of the sea, suddenly coagulating in front of him again only to mock him.
The hand that curled around his stomach drifted to his chest as the sobs heaved out of him—as if his last breath would be as violent as his life—but no matter how hard he pushed toward death, willed it, wanted it, he could feel it move just out of reach again.
He could see his mother in her chair, looking out onto the fields, waiting in vain as her last sun set on the Windover harbor.
“I just want to go home!” he roared, pounding his fist into the ground as his chest heaved. He bent down, resting his head as his whole body shook from overwhelm and years’ worth of exhaustion.
“I c-can’t… do this anymore,” he muttered to himself as he sunk lower and tried to breathe. It involuntarily pulsed over his dry lips as the pain in his abdomen seared.
The crying had left his face feeling raw and his chest empty. The prick of the pillar once again poked his shoulder blades, the muddy grass sprung up in a patch around him, and the dagger materialized in his palm.
“Why am I still alive?”
His mom turned her face toward him, pushing herself from the chair as the house drifted closer. She took the last step off the stoop, then gracefully kneeled in front of Isidro. Her grey eyes met his own as she touched his face; her fingertips felt like a breath.
“I’ve d-done terrible things, Ma.” He confessed through shaking lips.
It was the first time her smile faded as sadness reached her. “I know what you’ve done, and if death is what you need…” she reached out her other hand. “Come.”
Need?
The word shook him.
Being a good son, he needed to learn to take care of the crops and the animals and memorize the recipes for his mother’s extracts. To be a man, he needed to work and smile when he felt like he was drowning.
His parents needed a strong son, his siblings a responsible brother. Jacobsen needed a pliable killer more afraid of him than of death, and Isidro needed to be all of those things to survive.
“Isidro!”
A voice tickled his ear. He looked around briefly, but returned to his mother when he couldn’t find it’s source; to her hand still outstretched as he felt the knife in his stomach fade then resurface again.
He should take her hand. It was the obvious choice; the one he had been waiting for, and even fighting for, for so long. It would give his victims and their families justice, real justice, not the kind that left them as empty as his Clinside grave. He deserved to die.
“Your father thought the same.” His mother spoke, as if having read his thoughts.
“That’s different.”
“How?”
Isidro sniffed, his voice low and tired. “He had us.”
Katherine smiled, warm and loving. With it, the temperature rose, calming the chill on Isidro’s skin.
“And you have her.”
The same disembodied voice came again, this time on a warm wind.
“You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”
Isidro looked around. Theodora. She- she came? She found him? The warmth branched over him, to his eyes, and suddenly he was crying again. Relief and longing mixed with pangs of regret at his grateful and desperate need for it to be true fell in large, silent tears, onto the ground.
The ground?
Suddenly, the heavy weight of life crept over him like a cloak, and his eyes widened with fear.
“What if I can’t be the person she needs? What if she-”
“Isidro Isaac Pulver, listen to me.”
He locked eyes with Katherine again as the ethereal faded with reality, and her visage thinned among the swampy background.
“She’s not here because she needs you, son.”
Isidro’s breath hitched, and his eyesight burned as his left eye faded to black, along with a radiating pain from his abdomen that crawled into his bleeding hands, making him tremble.
“I’m sor-sorry I couldn’t say goo-dbye.”
Katherine smiled bright, and her hand squeezed his, easing the burn of his mutilated fingers.
“It was never goodbye.”
Then the light of the fireplace overwhelmed her, shoving into Isidro’s chest. He grit his teeth as the pain kick-start his heart, and he opened his eye to a bright sky and the passing of whispering willows.
