I’ve just discovered something wonderful. When I self-published Chrysanthemum, there was a lot of formatting work that I had to do before I submitted it. And seeing my document take on the formatting and page structure of a book was… awesome. Out of curiosity, I tried the same thing for my current WIP, and seeing it in proper book formatting gave me butterflies.
So I’m here so share some tips! (Using Google Docs.)
Note: I’m writing this specifically for people who want their document to look like their book as it’s being written or for self-publishers. If you’re planning to publish traditionally, find your publisher or agent’s submission standards and follow those.
Hello! A faerie question here: What do you know about Hag stones?
Hagstones! Seer-stones, truth told through an aperture. I know you can see what’s there if you look through them--they are, in that way, like most oracles. Tellers of the present, unveiler of that which we will not perceive willingly. A bridge between truth and perception.
I think the most interesting thing would be to look at oneself through a hagstone. It would be daring, and inadvisable most likely. There is a level of self-projection we do, a conjured self, that enables us to move through the world-as-perceived. It is a daring and thrilling thing to clear your eyes of that misconception of self.
Oh I love royal whump!!! There's so many possibilities for it!
Poison the royal! assassin attempt that drives them sick with fever. Have them laying in bed for weeks on end, twisting in their sweats with hot and cold flushes
Let them loose the war, taken as spoil by the victor. Fall from the grace of luxury to a slave. treated like precious gems one moment and then nothing more than cattle, stock, the next. the captors might not even care who they were, they're nothing now
Pressure! There's so much pressure in the royal life! Tension headaches, sickness from worry when crops fail or tensions are high between kingdoms. Let them stress and worry so much about their subjects they're sick and unable to help.
TIMELINE ― a few months into sonya’s life with pyotr
CW ― smoking, very slight dehumanisation
When Sonya can’t sleep, he likes to wander the halls, pretending he’s a ghost. Flitting from moonbeam to moonbeam, spinning tragic backstories: he’s a war-ravaged soldier, returning to find his beloved has fallen for someone else; he’s a society belle, struck down with some mysterious illness. He’s a lonely, only son, drifting unseen and unloved through the cool throat of the hall.
It helps, in a way; it’s a degree of freedom he doesn’t deserve, but his ghosts make the Laval House a little less lonely.
That night, he’s a jilted bride; imagining the dress fluttering at his heels, he runs through the halls, the glass balcony doors looming like the pearly gates, an event horizon he’s never been brave enough to cross — the balcony has always remained out of bounds, a tantalising impossibility.
Pytor never said he can’t, though; besides, it won’t be Sonya bursting through. It’ll be one of his ghosts.
Opening the doors, he steps onto the balcony with a lungful of cool, night air. For a moment, he just stands there, breathing in the solitude of the city ―
Then he notices Leoniy.
He’s leaning on the railing, almost dangerously far, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. The same moonbeams that silver the house into a fey palace caress his face with cold, beautiful fingers, picking out his freckles, the sharpness of his cheekbones. When he glances up, his gaze makes something hot flare in Sonya’s chest, despite the chill of the night.
“Oh, um― I, I didn’t know you were― I can, can- I can go―” Sonya feels his cheeks flushing as he backs away, willing the house to swallow him up again.
“It’s alright,” says Leoniy, a little too quickly. “Stay, if you want.”
He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t ― but Leoniy’s smile pins him in place, so he lingers.
St. Petersburg at night is something almost beautiful. Its colours have been reduced to shades of blue, from duck-egg grey to deep navy; the perennial mist that hangs over the factories twinkles with ice crystals, veiling the worst parts of the slums in its spectral shroud. For once, it’s quiet ― not silent, of course, it’s never silent, but it’s calm.
“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” asks Leoniy, glancing back at Sonya ― and somehow it doesn’t feel like he’s just referring to the city.
Sonya hums his agreement, shuffling a little closer.
“This is the best way to see the city, if you ask me,” Leoniy murmurs. “Looking down; you can see all kinds of things you’d never see from the streets.”
That piques his curiosity; he comes closer still, until he’s leaning against the balustrade, shivering at the coolness of the marble.
“Look, down there―'' Sonya follows the glow of Leoniy’s cigarette, to where a lone, flickering gas lamp bathes an alleyway with thin, yellow light. Within the sallow circle, there’s a young woman playing the violin: too far for Sonya to hear anything but the faintest breath of music, but too mesmerising to miss. “I suppose it’s nice to be reminded that you aren’t the only person awake at this hour.”
“Yeah,” murmurs Sonya, heartbeat stuttering in his chest. Not the only person. How long has Leoniy been coming here, walking unseen like one of his ghosts? How long have they been just missing each other?
He doesn’t dare look at Leoniy’s face again, in case he’s caught staring; instead, Sonya’s gaze drops to his hand, dangling languidly over the balcony. A slender hand, fingers pink from the cold ― illuminated by the smouldering end of his cigarette, and hazy with smoke.
“You can try it, if you want,” says Leoniy, cutting into Sonya’s reverie.
“Sorry?”
Leoniy laughs, moonlight flashing in his smile.
“You don’t need to be so coy, Sonya ― here ―” And suddenly, he’s leaning in, breath fluttering against Sonya’s cheek; he brings the cigarette to Sonya’s lips, smoke obscuring the merry glitter of his eyes.
“I, I don’t―” But Leoniy’s fingers brush Sonya’s lips, and he gasps, inhaling anyway. Smoke rushes down his throat, reaching its burning fingers into lungs, and he coughs, gagging on the foul smell.
He can feel Leoniy’s hand on his back, rubbing soft, soothing circles.
“It’s alright, your first time is almost always like this,” He says; somehow that softens the burn, until Sonya can draw an unsteady breath.
“Wow,” he murmurs, trying to ignore the presence of Leoniy’s hand, lingering on the small of his back. “I don’t, don’t like it.”
Leoniy grins, taking a drag and letting the smoke mingle with the icy mist.
“I didn’t think you would,” he says, hand finally drifting away to run through his hair. “You’re too good.”
Good. Sonya can’t help the warmth that word stirs, even though he knows it isn’t true — upyrs can’t be good. They can only be tamed.
“Not, not, not really.”
“Yes really.” Leoniy turns back to face him, eyes sparkling with an intensity that makes Sonya’s stomach flip. “You’re so good. Better than me — hell, better than my father. Far better than him.”
“No—” That isn’t right; Sonya can’t let Leoniy delude himself like that. You wouldn’t call a wolf, even a tame one, good. You wouldn’t sit next to it like you thought it’d never bite. “No, that’s, that’s not-”
“Hush.” Leoniy’s hand settles over Sonya’s, a burst of warmth against the marble of the balcony. “Can’t I have the last word for once? I don’t care if that’s not objectively true or whatever. You’re good enough for me.”
Good enough for me. Sonya feels like he’s going to faint; it’s all crashing down on him, the words ringing in his head, the hand resting on his, the smell of smoke and cologne and blood, the sound — heartbeats, his, Leoniy’s, the dull, distant chime of church bells —
“Sorry,” He chokes out, stumbling to his feet, lurching towards the still-open doors. Not daring to glance back, in case Leoniy’s gaze makes him stay again.
“Sonya? Are you alright?”
No. Don’t look. There isn’t a world in which he deserves Leoniy’s quiet affection, in which Leoniy deserves the burden of an upyr that thinks it can pass for human.
TIMELINE — a few weeks into sonya’s life in st. petersburg, so a few weeks after a holy name
TAGLIST — @doveotions / @akoumi
Pyotr has to admit, becoming something close to a parent again is harder than he expected. Not that he’d call what he is to Sonya anything close to father — he’s almost afraid to name it, lest he find it immoral. Teacher-priest-father-lover, all wrapped up in the feeling of that flimsy little hand in his. It’s just — even when he was young, even when he was their son, Leoniy never needed much from anyone. What he did need was largely provided by his nurse, or Genya; all Pyotr was there to do was ruffle his hair, carry him to bed and entertain his empty little dreams.
With Sonya, it’s different. His little kitten needs more attention, for starters, more guidance — and Pyotr wants to give him what he needs. It’s a delicate balance between indulgence and cruelty, keeping the boy’s upyr nature at bay while reminding him he’s loved; after their first test, when Pyotr found him still chanting the Jesus Prayer while he vomited blood, he’s learnt to lead with the carrot, to be patient. That keeps most of the guilt silent.
He’s given Sonya the run of the library, something to do while he’s attending to business. How old the boy actually is is unknowable, his face made all the younger by starvation, but he’s old enough to have some reading.
It’s nice to walk past the door, now perennially open, and catch glimpses of Sonya nestled into one of the armchairs.
That is, it’s nice until he walks past and sees Sonya stretched out, listless, on the sofa. Just like Genya, at the end of her life.
Stepping into the library, Pyotr can’t suppress his concern. Sonya’s just lying there, staring at the fire; his face is far too pale, bluish-green veins traced out across his cheeks.
“Sonya?” He brushes a hand over that vein-stained cheek, half-gasping at how cold it is.
“Nghh?” Sonya blinks, unfocused.
“Can you look at me, little one?”
After some effort, he does; his pupils are blown, black swallowing the forget-me-not blue of his eyes.
“Well done,” murmurs Pyotr, brushing the hair away from Sonya’s forehead. His skin is still corpse-cold.
Gently shifting Sonya, Pyotr settles on the sofa, gathering the boy into his lap. At a first, untrained glance there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with him: no wound seeping beneath his clothes, no sickness; as far as he’s aware, few human illnesses can touch upyrs. Certainly not consumption. And yet — he’s still lying there, barely moving except to nuzzle closer for warmth. His skin still feels paper-thin, heartbeat flickering lazily beneath Pyotr’s fingers.
“What’s wrong, darling?” He asks, because he doesn’t know, and he can’t bear the thought of losing his beautiful boy. His little miracle.
Sonya just moans, shivering.
“Come on.” All Pyotr can do is hold him close, try to share his body heat. The opposite of what he had to do with Genya, when her body was burning up from the inside out — but it makes his spine crawl with the same fear. “You have to help me help you, alright?”
With an effort, Sonya drags his dilated gaze up to meet Pyotr’s. “Hungry,” he whispers, barely more than a rasping breath.
Hungry. Of course. Pyotr wants to hit himself for being so stupid, take someone’s name in vain because it was right there, the problem he didn’t even think about. Upyrs need blood. Any blood. That of their loved ones will birth them, but even after that — his little sparrow has been starving.
Sinful as it is, he can’t let Sonya die. Can’t let him live in this dulled half-existence, either.
“Oh, I’m sorry, little one,” he murmurs. “I can help, let me just — I’ll be back before you know it.”
When he lays Sonya down, the boy whines, weakly snatching at his sleeve.
“I know, darling,” Pyotr says, leaning down. Hesitating for just a moment before he presses a kiss to Sonya’s marble-cool hairline.
The shiver of pleasure that dances through his boy makes it worth it — even when he has to leave.
Hurrying through the house, memories snap at Pyotr’s heels: memories of this selfsame journey, down the main stairs, through the hallway, further down to the servants’ quarters. Genya used to call him Dante, descending to hell for her — perhaps Sonya has read a bit of the Divine Comedy. Perhaps they should read it together.
The servants’ cellar is cool as a crypt, the worn stone walls lined with quiet chatter. It withers away when the footmen notice he’s there — they all bow, quick and stiff, watching him with rabbit-wide eyes.
“I need one of you to find me the fattest five rats you can, and quickly,” Pyotr says, hoping the sternness of his voice will carry the strangeness of the request. “Bring them to the library as soon as you can.”
“Yes, sir,” one of them squeaks out, a red-headed twig of a boy barely older than sixteen.
Pyotr watches the creatures scuttle away, out the back door, before he hurries back to the library; he doesn’t want to leave Sonya alone, not when his mind is filled with blood, the soft stain of it sinking into the sofa, a copper tang in the air.
It’s sinful to be so attached to an upyr. Perhaps it’s the boy’s sinful working on him, a sign that Sonya’s beast needs to be tamed again. Perhaps it’s just the folly of an old man — but he hasn’t felt this young in years.
Sonya’s still lying on the sofa like a broken doll, head lolling slightly; even his lips are thin, blue, parted so he can drag in shaky breaths.
“Oh, Sonya.” Concern shivers through Pyotr’s spine as he gathers Sonya into his lap again, wincing at how ice-cold he is. “It’s alright, little one. I’ve got you now.”
Blinking up at him, Sonya barely seems to recognise his presence. He’s so small; Pyotr can feel every rib through Sonya’s shirt, fine and flimsy as a sparrow; if he wanted to, he’s sure he could crush him by simply tightening his grip. Even Genya felt more substantial, towards the end.
So fragile. Pyotr hates the feeling of utter helplessness as he waits, watching Sonya’s eyelids flutter, willing him to hold on just a little longer.
“I know it’s hard, darling,” he murmurs, carding his fingers through Sonya’s hair. “I know you’re hungry, I know you’re tired, but you’ve just got to wait a little longer.
He lets himself believe the little moan that falls from Sonya’s lips is one of assent.
After an interminably long time, the ginger footman scurries in, five dead rats swinging by their tails in his hand. Fat, sleek sewer rats, the kind that grow old and nasty on the refuse of the city.
“Here, sir—” he dumps them on a side table with a short, sharp bow, glancing from Sonya’s pallid face to the door.
“Yes, go,” says Pyotr, grinning wryly at the way he bolts from the room like someone put a match to his trousers.
Once he’s out the door, though, Pyotr’s attention is only for the boy in his arms.
“Sonya?” he says, giving him a little shake. He whines, soft and miserable, staring up at Pyotr with unfocused, cow-lashed eyes. “Sonya, darling, you need to eat—”
Grabbing one of the rats, Pyotr grimaces at the smell, the stench of St. Petersburg that will inevitably cling to him for hours. Still, he’s smelt worse. Seen worse; he has the army to thank for that.
The smell seems to perk Sonya up; he tries to lift his head, nuzzling further into Pyotr’s lap.
“That’s it, little one—” Pyotr makes the mistake of allowing himself to hope, bringing the rat closer. A twisted kind of offering.
For a moment, it seems like Sonya will accept it, a faint flash of fang glinting in the firelight. Then — he glances back up, eyes shining with tears.
“I, I, I— I can’t,” he says; Pyotr winces at how fragile his voice is. More breath than speech. “It’s a, a sin.”
“You need to eat,” Pyotr repeats; he pulls the knife from his waistcoat pocket, slashing under the rat’s chin. Blood drips onto Sonya’s cheek. His body shudders, but still he only stares, terror plain in his eyes. “Just try, please. For me.”
“No- please, I, I can’t- I mustn’t-” Pyotr should be proud of the fear in Sonya’s voice, fear of the almighty — yet that fear will kill his little sparrow. He couldn’t save Genya, but he can save Sonya.
“It’s a necessary evil, darling,” He says, almost pleading. “Besides, they’re only rats. Pests, for God’s sake— people would thank you for taking care of a few of them. Please.”
Sonya wavers for a moment, trembling.
“We can pray for their souls later, if you want,” says Pyotr, bringing the rat to Sonya’s lips. Willing him to just eat.
Finally, he gives in, lapping at the wound — Pyotr barely has time to release a sigh of relief before Sonya latches on, pupils constricting with the frenzy of the feed. Body still trembling, now with a desperate energy. One rat drained to a sack of bones and flesh; Pyotr grabs the next one, almost frightened by the speed at which the colour bleeds back into Sonya’s skin.
Like this, teeth buried in sewer-stinking fur, cheeks rosy and bloodstained, he looks hardly human.
Because he isn’t, Pyotr reminds himself, tightening his grip; the last time he saw Sonya like this, he’d been starved of ordinary sustenance as well, a fledgling tossed from the nest. Now — Pyotr isn’t quite sure whether sparrow is the right bird. Whether he should make it sparrowhawk.
He needn’t worry, though; once the last rat is drained, Sonya falls back against him, breath coming in shaky gasps.
“I’m, I’m sorry,” he murmurs — and just like that, he’s crying, quiet, shoulder-wrenching sobs. “I, I, I didn’t, I didn’t want to — I was trying to, to, to control it-”
“I know, pet, I know,” says Pyotr, the words pressed into the top of Sonya’s head with a kiss. He has to breathe through his own relief, the dizzy release of adrenaline. “You don’t need to apologise.”
“I, I sinned,” says Sonya, voice thick with tears.
“I know.” Even if it was his nature, the beast playing in the jungle of his soul — it was still a sin. Still a stain on his boy’s accomplishments, if not atoned for.
“You can pay for it later, little one. Just rest, now.”
TIMELINE ― a few days after sonya arrives in st. petersburg
The skin around Sonya’s fingers is bleeding, but he can’t stop worrying at it. It’s all he has to worry; everything else in the room belongs to Pyotr. Everything from the floor to the sheets to the wardrobe to the shirt that chafes against his prickling skin.
Even the air feels owned, like he’s only borrowing it. Stealing it, God knows he isn’t worthy enough to take it freely.
Oh, God knows.
God’s presence is everywhere; Sonya knows that, knows it like he knows his own mind, which is to say, hardly at all, but with great conviction. He can’t remember who told him it, whether he was even told at all, but he knows it. The divine presence infuses everything, every sigh, every sunbeam, it’s coiled around it all, separated from us by the ephemeral barrier called life.
Sonya knows, too, that to die is to be fully subsumed by that glorious presence. He feels almost a residual longing for it, tempered by fear. Those who’ve lived good lives, said good prayers: for them, God’s full, undiluted presence will be a balm. The highest form of ecstasy. Those who’ve lived profligate lives, who hate God and hate themselves: God’s presence will be a torment.
And those who aren’t fit to call their existence a life, their self human — vampires, upyrs, the most unholy kind of sinner? For them, the terror of God’s presence will obliterate.
His stomach twists a little at the thought, fingers of one hand picking at the skin of the other. All he’s been able to do is sit on the bed, staring at his hands, a single thought growing and growing and growing until it consumes his mind.
You’re damned. Dirty, sinful — you’re a damned creature.
The door opens, cutting into his thoughts; Sonya glances up, a bolt of adrenaline rushing through his chest.
Oh. It’s only Pyotr.
“Morning, Sonya,” he says, one hand on the doorframe. “How are you settling in?”
“Um— I’m, I’m, I’m— alright.” Sonya’s gaze drops back to his hands, shame curled in his stomach. Perhaps he would’ve starved, wherever Pyotr found him. Perhaps he deserves to. “Scared.”
Pyotr steps in, coming to join Sonya on the bed. His presence still ignites something, a frightened sparrow pulling at Sonya’s chest, telling him to go — but the only way he might be saved is by trusting.
“Why are you scared, little one?” asks Pyotr, putting an arm around Sonya. He only half flinches at it, leaning into the warmth.
“I don’t, don’t want to, to, to- to go to hell,” Sonya murmurs, almost choking on the word. His throat is tight with unshed tears.
Pyotr laughs. Gently, almost understandingly, but the sound still makes the hairs on his arms prickle.
“You’re not going to hell, precious,” he says, the warmth of his presence almost making Sonya believe it. “Not if you do as I say. Remember? All you have to do is follow, and you’ll be saved.”
Trust. Follow. Sonya adds it to his list.
“I can’t, can’t say His name,” he murmurs, fingers twisting around each other.
“It takes time, and practice—” Pyotr pauses, like he’s had an idea. “Get on your knees.”
Sonya’s instincts, the fluttering sparrow, the deeper, sharper thing that still cries out for blood, baulk at the command — but he doesn’t have a choice. Trust. Follow. Sliding off the bed, he kneels at Pyotr’s feet.
“Do you remember the Jesus Prayer?” Pyotr’s thumb ghosts over Sonya’s cheek.
Does he? There are only shards left, shards that hurt to think about. Only brief flashes of prayer, of a small, dingy church.
Sonya’s flush of shame only deepens as he shakes his head.
“Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner,” Pyotr intones, with honeyed reverence. “You say it.”
“Lord, Lord, Lord—” Sonya’s throat tightens in a sudden burst of agony that makes his head spin. “Lord—”
Jesus. He can’t say it. Not out loud; the word rings in his mind, pain bursting through his temple.
“Come on, little one. I know you can do it.” Pyotr’s hand slides up, settling in Sonya’s hair. Comforting, for now.
“Lord Je—” Sonya yelps as the pain returns, crawling down his throat, sharp as broken glass. “I, I can’t.”
“You can. You will.” Fingers tighten in Sonya’s hair, pulling his head back. “Try again.”
“Lord, Lord Jesus—” The name slides out, and Sonya gasps as pain flares again, dancing through his throat, going down down down, spreading through his chest, biting, twisting. “No, please. I’m not, not, not worthy.”
“You won’t be if you don’t try,” Pyotr snaps, yanking Sonya’s head up so their gazes meet. His eyes are sharp, predator-eyes, eyes that say do as I say, or I’ll make you regret it, eyes that make Sonya want to run. “I don’t want to do this to you, little one. I need you to make an effort for me.”
Sonya gives a soft moan, falling back onto his knees. He can’t; even just sounding the prayer out in his mind makes his head spin with pain. Worse than that, he shouldn’t. Salvation isn’t something an upyr deserves.
Yet— the fear is worse than the pain. Fear of God’s all-consuming presence. Fear of Pyotr, what he’ll do if he fails.
“Lord Jesus,” he murmurs, a gasp following. It feels like his throat has been filled with hot coals; tears course down his cheeks, and he doesn’t even notice. “Son, son, son of- of-”
Still, he can’t say it. Still, Pyotr’s hand tightens a little more, forcing him to put more weight on his aching knees.
“I’m, I’m trying,” Sonya chokes out, chest heaving with sobs. He can barely see through the tears, barely think through the blinding pain.
“Not hard enough.” Suddenly, Pyotr releases Sonya’s hair, sending him slumping down in a heap. The look he gives him, two parts contempt, one part sorrow, makes shame burn through Sonya’s chest. “I’m trying to help you, darling. I can’t do that if you’re not willing to put in the effort.”
With that, Pyotr steps past him, like he’s stepping over a pile of manure in the street. His receding footsteps only make Sonya sob harder, sliding over until he’s curled up on the floor, shaking.
It hurts, hurts with a throbbing, burning intensity. It hurts, but the shame hurts far more. The thought of being damned, not just in God’s eyes, but Pyotr’s.
Sonya looks down at his hands, only now noticing the crescents of blood in his palms. The hands of a sinner.
Hauling himself back onto his knees, he winces at how much they ache — but he can’t give up. He isn’t allowed to give up.
you know what else I want, I want a prisoner standing against a wall, hands cuffed over their head, leaning forward to talk to a henchperson or guard who isn't at all sure they're on the right side and moreover is starting to feel intimidated by the intensity of this prisoner's words and convictions, even though they're the one who's not chained up right now, I want that very dearly
CW ― sensory overload; very lightly implied child abuse/neglect
TIMELINE ― after ‘sonya wakes up’
St. Petersburg is, apparently, hot. Sonya steps out of the train carriage, tucked into Pyotr’s side, and is hit by a wall of sticky heat. It’s made all the worse by the throng; he’s never seen so many people in the same place, so many black coats, so many bowler hats, so many footsteps. So large a mass of humanity, roiling in opposite directions.
Pushing through it feels like pushing through a storm, anxiety fluttering in his chest. He doesn’t understand how Pyotr navigates it so easily, when it’s all too much, too many sounds, too many sights — snatches of conversation, the patient died on the table, what are you bringing to Vova’s, oh it was hilarious, you should’ve been there. Cameos of people: a woman with a sharp, vicious laugh, a man with a scar. Each image only builds, and builds, mingling with the smell of smoke, the cooing of pigeons, he’s dizzy with it all —
And suddenly they’re out. Suddenly the light of St. Petersburg summer hits him, too bright, enveloping him in a moody city warmth that’s only marginally worse than the cloying station. Suddenly Pyotr’s bundling him into a troika, jumping up beside him and giving the driver an address.
“These bruises are fresh, too fresh to be from when you ‘ran into a door’ last week, or when you ‘fell off a stool’ the week before. Well? What’s your excuse this time?”
Set near the beginning of TLB in Lee’s first captivity :))
Tw: Dehumanization, noncon touch, mention of burning injury
...
Lee snarls against the gag, eyes flaming as his captor circles him.
The riding crop snaps against his cheek, leaving its stinging pain that Lee’s become accustomed to over the past month or so.
His thigh burns like mad, every shift sends agony lancing up his legs and back, settles somewhere in his shoulders where the burn of being bound sits too.
“Attitude,” Leon sighs, as if a disappointed parent. “We’ve been over this, songbird.”
Lee continues to glare, and shouts something rude into his gag.
“Your first week of training has gone… exceedingly poorly,” the senator hums, whipping Lee across the chest with the riding crop once more for good measure. “I knew you were going to be a feral little shit but I never thought you could be quite so stupid.”
Another snarl, another smack from the riding crop.
Lee whips his head away this time, and it catches the side of his eye.
The senator’s hand follows, Lee flinches, prematurely since Leon doesn’t slap him but lays the hand against his cheek, running his thumb over the red mark by his eye.
“You mustn’t flinch away,” he murmurs, “a good pet takes his punishment and his rewards without opinion, only gratitude.”
The boy stares at him, dark eyes searching for answers and then in outraged disbelief.
Leon smiles as Lee continues to uselessly shout and thrash, and then presses his hand between his captive’s legs, pressing against the newly branded thigh.
He gets the boy’s message - I am not a pet - but it doesn’t make it any less false.
“Songbird,” he croons, digging his palm into the burnt flesh, “what do you think this is? From now on, darling, you are something owned.”
CW ― sensory overload; very lightly implied child abuse/neglect
TIMELINE ― after ‘sonya wakes up’
St. Petersburg is, apparently, hot. Sonya steps out of the train carriage, tucked into Pyotr’s side, and is hit by a wall of sticky heat. It’s made all the worse by the throng; he’s never seen so many people in the same place, so many black coats, so many bowler hats, so many footsteps. So large a mass of humanity, roiling in opposite directions.
Pushing through it feels like pushing through a storm, anxiety fluttering in his chest. He doesn’t understand how Pyotr navigates it so easily, when it’s all too much, too many sounds, too many sights — snatches of conversation, the patient died on the table, what are you bringing to Vova’s, oh it was hilarious, you should’ve been there. Cameos of people: a woman with a sharp, vicious laugh, a man with a scar. Each image only builds, and builds, mingling with the smell of smoke, the cooing of pigeons, he’s dizzy with it all —
And suddenly they’re out. Suddenly the light of St. Petersburg summer hits him, too bright, enveloping him in a moody city warmth that’s only marginally worse than the cloying station. Suddenly Pyotr’s bundling him into a troika, jumping up beside him and giving the driver an address.
St. Petersburg is hot, and it’s so grand it hurts to look at. Houses that look like wedding cakes, continental yellow with colonnaded facades; trade buildings, carved and imposing, glowering down from squares filled with people. When the lines of buildings part, Sonya can catch glimpses of the sea in the gaps between them. When he can bring himself to look up, squinting against sunlight that burns his eyes, he can see the spires of a fortress looming against the sulky summer sky.
Peter and Paul Fortress, Pyotr tells him — somewhere in the back of his mind, Sonya realises he’s been keeping a running commentary going, a litany of place names that sounds like a prayer. Almost all of them simply wash over him, subsumed by the city’s magnificence.
Eventually, the troika driver turns off onto a quieter road. The houses here are grand, swallowing up whole swathes of streetfront; you could maybe fit a whole village in just one of them.
“Here we are, little one,” Pyotr says, as the driver stops in front of one of the — palaces might not be the right word, but it isn’t far off. “Home.”
Sonya’s stomach twists a little as he’s handed down, fingers tightening around Pyotr’s hand. Whatever the building is, with its columns, its balconies, its deceptively salmon-pink exterior, it hardly feels like a home.
If anything, the door reminds Sonya of a mouth as it opens; he almost freezes on the threshold, but Pyotr hustles him through.
Home. It’s blessedly cool inside, like a church — only the church from a shard of Sonya’s memories could come close to approximating the grandeur of the entrance hall. Smooth, lacquered wood beneath Sonya’s feet; red on the walls, laden with paintings and lavish tapestries. A twin staircase branches out, upwards, delving into the bowels of the house. Shafts of light from the windows fall on its steps, illuminating them with hazy summer sun.
“What do you think, then?” Pyotr nudges him, almost playfully, knocking him off balance. “It’s a far cry from that filthy little shack, isn’t it?”
“It’s, it’s nice,” murmurs Sonya, still lost in the intricacies of the newel post. It’s carved in the shape of a lion, eying him hungrily.
Pyotr chuckles, putting an arm round Sonya. “Nice. I’ll give you that, little one, though most people go for magnificent.”
Sonya nods — but his attention has been captured by movement on the stairs.
The man descending is, quite possibly, the most beautiful man Sonya has ever seen. More beautiful than any of the faces he can dredge up from his memories, at least: he’s tall, with an easy grace to his movements that make him look like he’s stepped out of one of the oil paintings on the wall. Certainly, the Divine Artist has made him a masterpiece, accentuating his fresh complexion with brown curls and rose-blushed cheeks. The duck-egg blue suit he’s wearing only serves to make him stand out against the red walls.
“Ah, отца!” he says, hurrying down the stairs. “We weren’t expecting you back until—” Whatever he was going to say withers away when his gaze meets Sonya’s. “Who’s this?”
Sonya feels Pyotr stiffen, perhaps out of annoyance. Perhaps jealousy; up close, the man looks all the more like one of God’s masterpieces.
“Leoniy,” Pyotr says, voice icy with disapproval. “You’re not a kicked puppy, there’s no need to run and greet me.”
“But—”
“Save it. This is Sonya,” Pyotr gives him a proud little squeeze. “I rescued him from a somewhat sordid incident involving starving peasants; he’ll be staying with us for a while.”
Starving peasants. Sonya wants to say he doesn’t remember anything like that, wants to stand by the unease twisting in his gut — but he doesn’t remember even a single sliver. Pyotr’s words mean nothing, and everything.
“Welcome,” says the man — Leoniy — stepping forward to offer Sonya his hand. “Leoniy Petrovich Zaytsev — but since you’re staying here, you can call me Leosha.”
Pyotr nudges him, and Sonya shakes Leoniy’s hand, chest fluttering at the contact. A son, then, not a friend or rival.
“Why don’t you show Sonya to his room, Leoniy?” says Pyotr.
“I was just about to—”
“The cream one will do; I need to make arrangements with Masha.”
With that, Pyotr gently pushes Sonya towards Leoniy, striding off down a corridor.
Leoniy sighs, running a hand through his hair.
“I was just about to go out,” he says. “Never mind. Follow me, I’ll show you where you’ll be staying.
Sonya trots after him as they begin to make their way up the stairs; without Pyotr, he feels even more unmoored, bobbing around in a storm-tossed sea. He doesn’t belong here; the gilded opulence of the house makes that clear, the intricately-plastered ceilings, the vibrant carpet underfoot.
He isn’t even good enough to walk in Leoniy Zaytsev’s shadow, let alone sleep under the same roof. If the poverty of his memory wasn’t proof enough of that, the fangs that nudge at his lips are, the bubbling animal instinct in his chest.
“So,” says Leoniy, as they walk through a series of opulent doors, a series of even more opulent rooms. “You’re from the Volga region?”
“I, I guess.” Just like Pyotr’s story, the word falls flat, shattering against the blankness of Sonya’s mind.
Leoniy laughs, soft and uncomfortable.
“Is it bad there?”
“Um—” Pyotr had told him on the train, there was a famine. Sonya guesses that does make it bad, though the yawning chasm of his memory stretches out across the concept. Bad means a flash of his brother’s face, a glimpse of terror. Bad means watching his mother kill a deformed calf. Bad is the way their names slip through his fingers. “Maybe.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Sonya swallows, shame heating his cheeks. “I don’t, don’t remember.”
“Oh.” Leoniy pauses at another door, giving Sonya a strange look he could almost call pity. “Well, I’m sure you’ll make some more memories here.”
Opening the door, he reveals a room almost as big as the cabin of Sonya’s past. There the similarities end; he can’t help but gasp a little at the sight. The walls are a dreamlike cream, to match the bedding — the richest bedding he’s ever seen, pillows plump as clouds against a dark headboard. There’s a wardrobe, too, and a large window, spilling the summer in.
This can’t be his room; he doesn’t deserve the inviting bed, the gauzy curtains buffeted by what little breeze there is. A stable would suit him better. Or a kennel.
“Are you alright?” Leoniy asks, snapping Sonya out of the haze he hadn’t even realised he’d fallen into.
“Yes, Leoniy Petrovich,” Sonya says, keeping his gaze fixed to the floor. Trying to forget how warm Leoniy’s hand had felt when he shook it.
“Just Leosha, please.” He can hear the smile in Leoniy’s voice, patient and a little sad. It makes him want to look up. It makes him want to hug him, to cry against his chest, to tell him how very far he is from home.
“Sorry, Leosha,” he murmurs, doing none of those things. Just standing there, staring at a carpet he isn’t worthy of standing on.
“It’s alright. There’s no point in formality when we’re living under the same roof, is there?”
Sonya shakes his head, gaze drifting to Leoniy’s boots. They’re brown leather, only marginally lighter than the receiving room floor.
“Well, I suppose I’d best be getting on. There’s probably a troika waiting for me.” Those boots move past Sonya, Leoniy’s breath tugging at his ear for a moment.
Turning to watch him go, Sonya’s eyes linger on the back of Leoniy’s head. The tilt of his shoulders, proud and free.
Halfway down the corridor, he turns around, and their eyes meet.
“Actually — if you ever need something — really, something you can’t ask of my father — keep following this corridor until you find a door with a pressed bouquet of flowers on it, and knock. I’ll do what I can.”
Sonya nods, numbly. Drops his gaze, settling on a mole just below Leoniy’s left eye. Even when he turns and heads back down the stairs, Sonya’s gaze still lingers there, as his heartbeat hammers in his ears.
He turns back to the room, walking inside like a visitor to another world. Even sitting on the bed feels like a transgression.
It hits him, then, with expensive sheets beneath his fingers and a stale city breeze kissing his cheeks. He’s so, so irrevocably lost.
when the governor of st. petersburg meets a half-starved vampire, aka how sonya became sonya.
CW ― depictions of famine / blood / gore / death / creepy whumper / whumper’s political opinions don’t reflect mine!
TIMELINE ― the very beginning, before sonya is staying with pyotr
Pyotr Vitalievich Zaytsev is a good man. He goes to church every Sunday, and prays to the icon in the Red Corner of his room every morning, freezing in his nightclothes. He serves the Tsar, his Little Father, dutifully. He hates Westerners, loves his dead wife and honours his mother.
Pyotr Vitalievich Zaytsev is a good man. So when he hears rumours of a famine in the Volga region — his mother’s homeland — he leaves Leoniy in charge of St. Petersburg and sets off at once.
Bedridden whumpee who notices each time they wake up that something has been done for them. A glass of water by their bed refilled, the blinds shut when the sun streams in too brightly, an extra blanket thrown over them when the caretaker noticed them shivering in their sleep. They’re still too tired to ever stay awake long enough to see and talk to Caretaker, but they’ll make sure to thank them when they’re feeling well enough for all they’ve done.
25. Senseless - thanks for the prompt anon, this was fun! And I do love getting to hurt Marco now and again 😌
tw: beating, forced to watch, broken rib, brief mention of dehumanization, brief death mention
...
“Let him go!” Robbins jerks against the arms holding him, throwing his weight forward again and again in an attempt to break free. “Leon, stop it!”
The senator brings his shoe down on Marco again, kicking his already bruised ribs.
“I’ve given you the compound, stop it! Stop! There’s nothing more you could want from me!”
Marco’s screams strangle themselves in his throat but the professor hears them just fine all the same.
Leon drives his toe against the boy’s chest again, ignoring his old friend’s pleas. This isn’t about information anymore, the man is right, he’s given up what he needed to give up, this is entertainment.
Something snaps under his shoe and Marco’s scream finally bursts from his throat and reverberates around the room.
The boy is beaten half-senseless, bruises littering his face and his body no doubt not any better. Ever since Karen took ownership Leon’s been careful about scarring but even he indulges every so often.
“Stop it! Please!” Robbins’ voice breaks and tears, shatters like the man himself. “I’ll do anything, what do you want?! You’re going to kill him!”
“I’d never be so sloppy,” Leon replies casually, lips turned up in his politician’s smile.
He digs his heel into the broken broken just to hear Marco scream again.
“You will! Leon stop that! Stop it- You’ll kill him!” Robbins thrashes desperately again, breath catching on a sob. He’s too frantic, too desperate to explain that Leon might puncture his boy’s lung doing that, that he could break a rib fragment off, that if he pushes Marco any harder there might not be anything the professor can do.
He can’t bury another son.
“Fine,” Leon sighs, gesturing for his men to throw Robbins down onto the cold cement floor of the training room. “I suppose by now my songbird is missing me anyhow.”
He winks at Robbins, who can’t even muster the energy to glare, who can only feel the pain of a father who is helpless to protect his sons as the senator leaves them without a second glance and he’s left to crawl towards Marco.
“You’re okay,” he lies, “you’re alright Marco, let me see…”
He starts to pull up the boy’s shirt. Marco shrinks away from him, and then forces himself to straighten. When Robbins meets his boy’s eyes they’re glazed and unfocused.
Because I’m frustrated with real life work stuff :( I’ve decided to distract myself by doing this. Disclaimer: I obviously only have my own country (the Handsome Ryan Factory) as reference, so if this isn’t how it is where you’re from, sorry. :/
The Environment
Hospitals do not smell like disinfectants. Hospitals smells like….nothing. If it’s a nice hospital and the facilities are relatively new/renovated, hospitals are generally scentless places (the ventilation system is better). The only time it’ll smell like disinfectants is when the housekeeping staff just cleaned a room after a patient has been discharged. Older hospitals and units like internal medicine which takes care of a lot of longer term patients and older folks smell…well not great. It seems like people and bodily fluids.
Hospitals are cold. The OR is even colder (unless for whatever reason you need it to be warm for a specific procedure).
Background noise. There are machines making noises the background, little beeps of the IV pumps or the heart monitor. Normal beeps are slow, alerts are fast.
Intercom - every time something happens that requires a code to be called, it’ll come on the intercom and the entire hospital hears it. Common ones are: code blue = adult cardiac arrest (ex: Code Blue - K6, Code Blue K6) They tell you what the code is and where to go. The code team (usually an ICU team) will show up. Code pink = neonatal cardiac arrest. Code red = fire. Code yellow = missing patient. Code white = violent encounter (security will be called up). Code orange = external disaster (a train derailed). Code Silver = deadly weapons (gun, knife). Code Brown = hazardous spill. Code Black - bomb threat/suspcious object. Code Green= evacuation Etc.
There will be rooms on “precaution”. Signs will show up on certain doors/rooms, because that patient might have some kind of communicable disease through contact/droplet/air.
The Staff
Nurses are not rude (unless you’re writing a rude character). I see a lot of “the good tough nurse” caricatures where it’s like jab and shove - No. A good nurse can be assertive, can be knowledgeable, can be no non-sense, but they shouldn’t be rude and patient consent is always present. If a patient says they don’t want a shot, they don’t get the shot. No matter how seasoned, how tough, how burned out a nurse is, everyone is habituated to start a conversation with introducing themselves. “Hi, Mr/Ms/Mrs/Miss ____, my name is _______ and I will be your nurse today.” Once the nurse and the patient is acquainted with each other, they can be a little bit more casual.
Hand washing is a constant thing. The most often thing you see is staff rubbing their hands together in and out of rooms because they just pumped a handful of hand sanitizer.
There are other people other than the medical and nursing staff. Personal Support Workers (PSWs) are very present and they help with the washing and the bathing, and changing incontinence briefs. Nurses also do this as well in some hospitals. You might see Nurse Managers come around for administrative stuff (ie discharge), Physiology Therapy and Occupational Therapist will make their rounds on those that need it (especially after an accident), Speech Language Pathologists for those with swallowing problems after a stroke. Social Worker for those who are going through a difficult life situation.
The medical team gets confusing. Because there are medical students (clerks), junior residents, senior residents, and there are attendings. Your patient character can be confused.
Internal Medicine - the “ologys” : general internal medicine is where typically a lot of folks get admitted. The doctors who take care of these people are internists. Other popular sub specialties of internal medicine that sometimes get their own wing/unit are: cardiology, neurology, respirology and oncology. If a specific specialty is needed, the doctors of that specialty is paged for a consult.
Surgery - do not have every surgical specialty in one team. That’s not how the surgical teams are divided. If one of your character is in Gen surg, and the other is in Neuro, they’re not gonna be spending their day constantly bumping into each other unless their surgeries are adjacent OR rooms for some reason. Their patients probably won’t even be on the same unit.
If you’re writing surgery, don’t forget Anesthesiology. Patients coming out of surgeries can either go to PACU Post Anesthesia Care Unit or the ICU (intensive care unit).
Specialists can read scans by themselves, but most of them time, they need a Radiologist to do it. Biopsies are processed and read by pathologists.
The Action
If a patient flat lines, don’t “shock” or defibrillate them. TV shows constantly gets it wrong. The only two shock-able rhythms are ventricular fibrillation (V-fib) and ventricular tachycardia (v-tach). (There are other pathological rhythms that require cardioversion, but we won’t get into it). Your fictional patient could still have a rhythm and be unconscious.
If a patient is unconscious or has either V-fib or V-tach or flatlined, call Code Blue. Literally have one of your character say it, “Call Code Blue.” Or press the code blue button that’s above the bed on the wall.
If a patient flat-lines, your characters should start CPR and inject epinephrine (1mg and every 3-5 minutes).
Don’t “lost 3L of blood”. If they did…they’re gone. Exsanguinated…unless they’re being transfused at the same time. A 70 kilo man typically has 5L of blood. A lot of preg fics have the woman lose a ton of blood during childbirth. Remember 500cc or 500 mL of blood in a nonsurgical setting is considered hemorrhage, and 1L in surgical setting. As a 5′3′’ female I can tell you I probably only have 2-3L of blood in my body.
Things to talk about in conversation between two staff: heart rate (normal in adult 60-100), blood pressure (ex” 120/80 systolic/diastolic) normal systolic 100-140 normal diastolic 60-90); respiratory rate (normal 12-20 per minute), O2Sat (you want most people above 95%), temperature.
Red blood cell count and hemoglobin being low indicate anemia. High white blood cell count typically mean infection. Electrolytes can be out of wack: sodium, potassium, calcium, magnesium, are some of the typical ones. Blood pH can be either high or low. High pH is alkalosis. Low pH is acidosis.
Hypothermia (because this is a popular one). Don’t do what Rose did in Titanic. You’re not dead until you’re warm and dead. Rewarming for severe hypothermia should be slow and in a hospital setting. For mild to moderate hypothermia, if it helps with your plot, yeah they can cuddle skin to skin.
baratheonpilled
origamiaround
kianamaiart
