Hello Bea , your writing is IMMACULATE <3, also can I ask for whumpee 37 ?
Whumpee 37: “I'm- I'm dizzy-”
Aah, Anon you are making me blush 😊 thank youu, and of course you can! Thought I'd try writing a slightly different caretaker than what I usually go for... I hope you like it <3
Caretaker rolls their eyes and takes a deep breath as Whumpee goes on with their endless babble. They’ve been talking nonstop for so long that the part of Caretaker that doesn’t want to yell at them to stop, wonders how Whumpee hasn’t run out of things to say yet.
“…and, if you think about it, cloaks are the very best clothing item,” Whumpee says, shooting Caretaker an excited smile that isn’t returned. Whumpee barely notices. “It’s like a blanket, but socially acceptable! You can just put on a specially made blanket and walk around wearing it and that is considered fashionable, isn’t that amazing?”
“Yeah, Whumpee. Amazing.”
They don’t notice the lack of patience in Caretaker’s tone either.
“I think we should get another cloak at our next stop. We could use a spare one, and yours is looking a little worn, don’t you think?”
“Whumpee, don’t you ever shut up?” Caretaker snaps before they can stop themself.
Big, hurt eyes turn to Caretaker’s, but they make sure to ignore the pang of guilt that wounded look awakens in them.
“Sorry,” Whumpee mumbles, lowering their eyes. Have they always looked this small? “Whumper didn’t like it when I talked too much either. I just thought that now that we got out, you wouldn’t mind it if I… Sorry. I’ll stop.”
“It’s fine, kiddo,” Caretaker sighs, frowning at Whumpee’s hunched shoulders. “You can talk, I was just being an old–”
“Hide!” Caretaker shouts when the second arrow flies through the air right beside their head.
Whumpee sprints to hide behind the closest tree, as does Caretaker. Their weapons are unsheathed to the sound of flying arrows behind them.
“I think I counted three of them,” Whumpee says hurriedly, turning their head to try and get a glimpse of the attackers. “One waiting a little ahead and the other two hidden among the trees on the other side of the road.”
“You take the one ahead, I’ll take the other ones,” Caretaker whispers, and Whumpee nods.
The fight doesn’t last long. Despite being outnumbered, both Whumpee and Caretaker are far more skilled than Whumper’s men, and it takes only a few minutes for the three guards to be lying unconscious on the dirt.
With no rope to tie them up, they settle on throwing the guard’s weapons as far as they can in hopes that’ll slow them down.
They exchange a silent nod, and start to run.
Caretaker’s heart speeds as fast as their feet, blood rushing through their veins and prompting a breathless laugh to leave their lips as they stop.
“Well, that was crazy,” they pant, bending over and leaning on their knees. “Whumpee come on, you couldn’t stop talking until a few moments ago, and now you decide to finally shut up? Did you see their faces–”
When they look back though, every last trace of a smile vanishes from Caretaker's face.
Whumpee sways on their feet a few paces behind, holding a growing red stain on their side. They blink at the ground and swallow once before looking up.
“I– I’m dizzy–”
Whumpee’s knees buckle, and Caretaker sprints forward, catching them only a moment before Whumpee’s head hits the ground.
“Oh fuck. Why didn’t you say something?”
“I didn’t… didn’t want to disturb you any more,” Whumpee gasps, squeezing their eyes shut and grinding their teeth together.
Caretaker opens their mouth, but no word comes out as they stare at Whumpee’s pale lips and heaving chest.
“We have to get you to a healer.”
Whumpee whimpers, but their head moves up and down once, and that’s enough for Caretaker to scoop them up in their arms, grimacing when a sharp cry leaves Whumpee’s tightly shut lips.
“Sorry,” Caretaker mutters, already darting towards what looks like a city on the horizon.
“Shouldn’t we go through the woods?” Whumpee says with a slight sob. “If the guards found us once they, they could find us… again. We can’t… can’t take the road.”
“The road is faster.”
“Whumpee. You are more important than the risk of getting caught.”
They lean their head against Caretaker’s chest at that, and after a soft “okay,” Whumpee doesn’t say anything else.
Oddly enough, the silence echoing around Caretaker, only the sound of their boots hitting the ground and the whisper of the wind in their ears, sounds as wrong as the warmth of Whumpee’s blood dripping on their hands.
Caretaker had never thought they could miss the incessant chatter so much, and yet they’d give anything to hear it once more. The silence is too loud without Whumpee’s voice filling it. Almost as loud as the fear roaring inside their chest.
When they look down and find Whumpee with their eyes closed, Caretaker speeds up.
“Hey, Whumpee.” Their eyebrows crease a little, and unfocused eyes flutter open, straining for a moment before focusing on Caretaker’s face. “You can’t fall asleep. Stay with me, kid. Why don’t you tell me about the cloaks?”
“You don’t want to… hear about them,” comes the quiet answer.
“But I do. They are mankind’s greatest invention, isn’t that right?”
“You, you were paying attention?”
It hurts. It burns, to hear the surprise in Whumpee’s voice.
“Of course I was,” Caretaker says through the lump in their throat. “Now, tell me all about it.”
“Caretaker, I… I want to sleep. Please, I’m so tired.”
“In a moment, honey. Stay awake for just a little bit longer, and then I’ll let you sleep. Alright?”
Whumpee nods, and Caretaker runs faster, holding their breath when Whumpee winces at the movement.
By the time Caretaker gets to the city, they can barely hold themself upright anymore. They do though, and when they stagger into the main square, there's no thought inside their head that isn't about the bleeding person in their arms. Whumpee has gone quiet minutes ago, and despite the painful twist in their stomach, Caretaker knew they only had so much strenght left, and it wouldn’t last to both talk Whumpee out of sleep and run.
“Please,” Caretaker gasps. “Please, we need help.”
But no one moves. A few people halt, staring at the blood and the desperation on their face, but no one moves to help.
Caretaker grits their teeth and darts wild eyes to unknown faces, feeling sticky blood, fresh and dry, staining their hands and their clothes.
“Please, somebody help them!” Caretaker shouts, a sob finally slipping out.
“Go get the healer,” someone screams, and Caretaker falls to their knees, holding Whumpee close to their chest as people surround them, asking questions they can’t concentrate long enough to answer.
“Please, please, you have to help them,” is all Caretaker says, again and again to whoever is listening.
When hands try to take Whumpee from Caretaker’s hands, they can’t help but hold them tighter.
“You need to let go now,” someone says calmly, staring deep into Caretaker’s wide eyes. “I can’t help them if you don’t let me.”
Caretaker looks down at Whumpee’s closed eyes and nods. “We got here, Whumpee. Now it’s on you, okay?” they whisper in a quivering voice. “You have to live. I’ll listen to you talk every day for the rest of our lives, about whatever you want to, no matter how long you go on for. You just have to fight, okay? I promise, I–”
Hands pull Whumpee from their arms, and this time Caretaker lets them. They watch as the healer lies Whumpee’s listless body on a stretcher, and only then do Caretaker’s body finally crumbles.
Caretaker passes out in stranger’s arms, but even though their legs shake and their head hurts, all they can think about is how they should've promised to buy Whumpee as many cloaks as they want.
They whisper that promise to themself, and then the world goes completely dark.
Prompt from this list
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Pairings: HotchReid (more to come)
Summary: League of Extraordinary Gentleman/Vampire AU;
Within the FBI there is a specialized team full of an elite selection of people. Unique individuals with very particular skill sets. And their job is to take the unusual cases: the ones that need to not only be solved, but are undetermined if the unsub is human, or something else entirely.
In a world filled with Vampires, non-human creatures, and subspecies unknown, there is only enough information to have them vaguely regulated. Rules that are so easily, and violently broken, all while hidden in plain sight among the unsuspecting public. Unrivaled for eons.
That’s where the BAU comes in.
Official Posting Date: Not yet determined
Links: (Masterpost - TBA) (Snippet 01)
(TW/CW: Blood, blood drinking, vampirism, alcohol mentioned as context, seduction, hypnosis/trance mentioned.)
(the story so far/what you need to know for this clip at least: our romantic storyline picks up not too long after this oneshot was written, where Hotch and Spencer have formed an ‘arrangement’ that Spencer puts a stop to because of -reasons- of the emotional sort. Hotch can still feed from him when he needs, but that’s all that will happen. They have a small tiff, and Spencer is about to leave the room when he has an epiphany...)
"It's the blood,” Spencer states, eyes wider in astonishment. Any melancholy gone from his face as his realization forms fully in his mind. “My blood is so…”
“--undebased that you can taste the chemical composition in my blood. Or your palate is just that refined.” Which is amazing, unheard of, baffles him and his mind is whirling a million bits a second trying to process what that means, exactly. “You can... when I'm sad, you can taste it. That’s why you don’t want to feed. You’ve always been able to taste it. When I'm happy, when I’m worried, aroused, when I’m lost in... infatuation."
Hotch doesn't answer, doesn't give away that he can also intimately feel what Spencer feels when he drinks his blood. But Spencer barely notices, is already falling deep down the informational rabbit hole and barreling towards that disastrous need to know more.
"What does it taste like?" There's a brightness returned to his eyes, and Hotch didn't realize how much he'd missed it until it reappeared. Knows he could never deny him anything, when he’s looking at the undead man like that. He pauses, collects himself, resigns himself to answer -- because by God, does he want to give Spencer an answer he’ll remember.
"It's subtle,” he begins, slow and careful, “like notes in a glass of wine. Not everyone has the nose, or the taste for it." But he explains further, steps closer, the brightness in Spencer's eyes like stars in the sky he can't look away from. Drawing him in; a creature of the night, who should not be lured by something so fleeting. But he is, and he does, and he speaks slow as he crosses the room.
"Sadness is caused by a lack of dopamine; it tastes bitter, mineral, like charcoal but not always unpleasant.” There’s a time and a place for a sad drink, but he never wants to know Spencer’s sorrow so intimately.
“Excitement, like what you're feeling now,” the thing in his eyes Hotch can’t look away from, “is bright. Floral. Light on the tongue.”
“Arousal," said low and closer than Spencer realized he was, "serotonin and endorphins. Pleasure is always sweeter. Juicy, almost, yours especially. Cherries, and black currant.”
“But love…” It almost stops him in his tracks, but he carries on -- as if in a trance. Ironic, the roles reversed. “Infatuation, as you called it. It's more of a texture. Thick and full bodied, like how Chardonnays can be buttery, so can love. Something pleasant that sticks to the tongue and reminds you it's there. Long after it’s gone."
Spencer is breathing hard, pupils dilated, staring back now that Hotch is looming so close and afraid to move. Pinned by that black diamond stare. Prey in a trap of an entirely different sort.
One he’s not sure he wants sprung from.
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