painwithoutplot

[painwithoutplot]

Something for when Whumpee's didn't know their rescuers/caretakers before being captured

• not knowing if they can trust caretaker, and wondering their gonna be the same as whumper

• whumpee sleeping on too of the blankets so it's easier if they need to run away

• whumpee keeping and injury a secret because their afraid of being scolded

• needing to be apart of cooking so they can make sure it isn't poisoned

(feel free to add on. And tag me I want to read your whump!)

[painwithoutplot]

(Knox wakes up in a lab! Oh dear... Featuring a not-introduced-yet character)

tw: noncon nudity

“-of a normally developed, slightly undernourished young adult male of Caucasian descent measuring 173 cm in length, weighing 54 kg. Apparent age is around 14-16 years old.”

Knox’s hearing returned to him before his sight did. He blinked, blearily, trying to clear the fog from his eyes. Above him was the sound of a curt male voice, but Knox could sense the presence of at least three other people nearby. He blinked again; there was a bright light above him, shining directly into his eyes, and Knox could only see the silhouettes of the figures surrounding him.

Blearily, Knox tried to speak and found himself unable. He flinched, confused, his awareness still coming to him in bits and pieces.

The man continued, intoning in a posh, professional voice, “The body is cold and free of any signs of rigor. Hair is pale blonde with dark brown roots, approximately 25 cm at the longest point. Eyes are slightly sunken, with gray-blue irises.”

Is that...is he describing me…?

Knox blinked some more and tried once again to speak. He could taste some foreign object in his mouth, made of a rubber of some kind. Knox swallowed and a spasm suddenly shook his entire body; there was a tube running through his mouth and down his throat, blocking it off entirely.

“The hemophage has regained consciousness,” a second voice spoke. This one was younger, but with that same disconnected tone. “Make a note: approximately 1.6 liters of blood were consumed before the hemophage became active.”

As the men spoke, Knox looked around, squeezing his eyes shut once more before opening them. He looked straight up and around first, confused, muffled noises escaping him as he took in the appearances of the trio of men, all of whom were wearing lab coats and rubber gloves. On each of their lapels was pinned a small silver symbol: it looked like a crescent moon with an arrow spearing through it. One of the men held a digital audio recorder by his face and was speaking into it as he looked Knox over with a clinical disinterest.

Am I in a hospital? No, they...they said they fed me blood...but...that means they know I’m a...

Knox followed his gaze. He froze and his eyes widened; Knox was strapped down onto a clean stainless steel slab, his arms and legs tightly restrained with thick bands of metal. He was completely unclothed; he could feel the uncomfortable coldness of the steel on his bare skin.

A doctor (these can’t really be doctors, can they? This is illegal, isn’t it?!) wheeled over a metal tray, its contents just out of eyesight from Knox’s position on the table. Knox craned his neck to look, but he couldn’t sit upright enough to see. Then, there was movement and Knox tensed as the third man reached for his face, gripping hold of the tube that had been forced down his throat.

With a practiced motion, the doctor began to pull the tube out, one gloved hand pressed to Knox’s forehead to hold him down. As the rubber object was withdrawn, agonizingly slowly, Knox gagged, instinctively arching his back as the tube rubbed painfully against his insides. Finally, the end of the tube left Knox’s throat, and he tasted the remnants of the blood that had been flowing through it and into his stomach moments before.

Knox coughed harshly, blood flecking at his lips, and looked at the three men with wide, panicked eyes. “Wh...what the hell is this?!” he rasped out, his voice harsh and frightened. Nobody responded to him.

“The hemophage has no visible external injuries or marks,” the doctor with the recorder continued as if Knox hadn’t even spoken, “We will begin the internal examination with a Y incision, starting at the top of each shoulder-”

“W-wait…” Knox’s voice was soft. To his left, he saw another man pick up something from the tray he had wheeled out. It was a scalpel.

The man lowered the blade to Knox’s bare shoulder. He flet the touch of the steel and cringed away, shaking his head with disbelief. “Wait...st...stop…” he breathed, terror gripping him like a vice around his throat.

Steel pierced flesh and Knox shut his eyes tightly; he clenched his hands into tight fists as the blade began to draw down his chest in a smooth line.

“And meeting directly below the sternum before extending to the pubic bone-”

Knox was shaking hard, breathing heavily through his nose. He could hear the sound of the flesh being parted. Pain like hot oil flowed over his body, numbing all thoughts from his brain.

“Once the initial incision is made-” Knox’s hyperventilating halted entirely and then he took in a sharp, agonized gasp of air, eyes widening as he felt the flesh peeling apart, “We can open the chest cavity. As you can see, we need to work quickly to counteract the hemophage’s naturally accelerated healing.”

Knox gasped again and then let out a harsh scream; the doctor had taken a pair of medical shears and was delicately snipping into the chest cavity. Meanwhile, the man with the recorder addressed one of the others.

“We’ll want to contain the remains in something quickly once we remove the sternum. Do you remember why that is, Anderson?” he asked with the tone of a professor in a lecture hall.

Anderson, the young man who had removed the feeding tube from Knox's throat, replied quickly, “Oh, it’s because a hemophage’s cells rapidly deteriorate when separated from the main body. Is that right, sir?”

“That’s right,” the first man replied, and Knox’s screaming grew louder, more desperate as he felt a hideous snapping sensation in his chest; the doctor added with some impatience, “Shut it up, will you, Anderson, I can’t think with it making that noise. Then we can move on to the examination of the internal organs.”

A thick piece of rubber was shoved into Knox’s mouth and strapped around his head tightly, all but silencing his screams. Bloody tears were beginning to trail down the sides of his face, staining the tips of his blonde hair.

The men continued speaking, but Knox couldn’t focus on them anymore. He was hyper-aware of the cracking of his ribs being parted from his sternum, then of the hideous, alien sensation of hand feeling around inside his rib cage.

“Make a note of its breathing, there. We’ve observed that, despite the hemophage’s lungs being vestigial, many of the juveniles still practice what you might call psychosomatic breathing. That is to say, when under duress, they imitate the natural behaviors of humans: breathing, vocalizations, and the like.”

“Nghhhhh!! Mm-mphhhh!!” Knox sobbed, shaking his head back and forth and trying to pull away from his assailant.

Knox bucked against his restraints, moaning into his gag as the assistant doctor continued to slide his scalpel into the flesh. Knox couldn’t see what he was cutting, but he could intimately feel the sensation of his organs being manipulated from the inside.

“It’s all instinctive, though, a sort of after-image,” continued the man, “Muscle contractions, but it doesn’t have any pain receptors. This is more of a social camouflage than anything. Now then, I think we should begin by removing the right lung-”

There was a sudden slam of a door, and Knox could hear a figure rapidly approaching. When he spoke, Knox opened his eyes in surprise; he recognized that light Scottish voice…

“I’m here from R&D,” the man who had entered said snappishly, “This is a cute exercise in anatomical analysis, but this one isn’t scheduled for requisition yet. We don’t have the storage space for it.”

“You’ve got to be kidding, we’ve already started,” Anderson, the younger doctor, replied irritably. Knox was panting, shuddering with pain as the cool air of the room brushed against his exposed chest cavity. The Scotsman replied brusquely, “That’s not my problem. Just leave, I’ll take care of storage; I’m sure there’re plenty of other specimens back in the vats.”

Muttering sullenly to each other, the three men nonetheless did as they were told. Knox turned his head to watch through eyes glazed over with exertion, and to take in the appearance of his rescuer: the wavy brown hair and dark blue eyes of Knox’s elder brother, Beathan.

The door closed behind the doctors and Beathan immediately dropped to his knees and began unstrapping Knox, starting with the gag. The cold look on his face was replaced with an expression of horror and concern. He pulled the gag out and Knox took in a shaky breath of air, trying to focus his gaze on his big brother.

“Oh, God, Knox, how did they get you?” Beathan breathed, releasing the rest of the straps in quick succession.

“I...I don’t…” Knox’s voice was faint; he could feel his blood drizzling around his sides and down his neck from where his skin was peeled open. Beathan shushed him, shaking his head with an almost desperate expression of worry on his face.

“N-no, never mind, it doesn’t matter,” he tried to reassure the teenager, lifting him off the slab and into his arms and standing up; his white lab coat swiftly began to stain crimson, “I’ve got you, Knox. Don’t worry, I’ve got you. You’re safe, I’m here.”

“...Beath...an…?” Knox mumbled, nearly inarticulate with pain.

Beathan hugged Knox closer to him, wrapping his arms around his brother protectively. “That’s right, Beathan’s here. I’m here. I’ve got you...I’ve got you…”

taglist: @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

[painwithoutplot]

writing fanfiction is wild because sometimes you wonder if you character can tread water with their hands and feet tied for a one-off joke and learn that some guy for like 50 years made a technique called drownproofing a graduation requirement for georgia tech from 1936 to 1988 where you indefinitely keep your lung capacity as full as possible to float without much physical exertion

Once they had mastered the Drownproofing technique, students learned to stay afloat with their wrists and ankles bound, swim 50 yards (46 m) underwater, and retrieve diving rings from the bottom of the pool using their teeth.

what the fuck

[painwithoutplot]

Sequel is here

next>

Hi everyone,

Thank you thank you thank you for sticking around for the follow-up story to Eternal. I want to acknowledge my beta readers @whumped-by-glitter and @generic-whumperz , who have probably read like five versions of this same damn chapter. Thank you for sticking it out with me you two, I couldn’t have done it without you ❤️

Some quick asides, I don’t know/can’t guarantee this is gonna have the same consistent updating schedule as the previous story. Irl nonsense like job woes and trying to apply to grad school have been demanding more of my energy than I’d like to give, but I will try to update regularly. Thanks for the understanding in advance 🙏🏽

Well, without further ado…

Mountain Bike

TW/CW: allusions to past whump. You could probably start the sequel without reading the first story, though, but if you want to know exactly what our main character is running from, I highly recommend The Morgue

Dr. Vikash Gill was having a great day today. He’d gotten up early, went to the gym a few blocks away from his house, and came back home to make a quick toast and coffee. He went well into his first few hours as a resident doctor in the emergency department without any serious injuries to treat. In the background, on every television and phone screen, news about the murder of a well-known mob boss spread like wildfire, with suspicious undertones of gang activity throughout the tight-lipped reporting from the news outlets. Now, he was on the way back to the hospital from his quick lunch break at the café around the corner, ready for another five or six hours of work.

Like most people in the medical profession, he loved and hated his job, and like most people in the medical profession, he had plenty of stories to tell. From bullet wounds to stabbings and a whole host of suspicious injuries in between, Vik had treated it all at this point, and he had received every fantastical story and explanation with an apathetic indifference.

Like his mentor Dr. Kimura had said, “We’re doctors, not detectives, the best thing we can do is to shut up, treat their wounds, and get them out the door ASAP,” or something like that. Whatever she told him almost a year ago seemed to stick though, as he stitched up every gang member and staunched the blood flow of every mafia soldier without so much as a blink of an eye.

There were more than a few times where Vik wished he had studied medicine in a small-town rural community instead, somewhere where the biggest injury was something normal like a tractor accident. During those times, he’d make himself remember the ‘mountain bike accident’ that he treated just over a year ago.

The man was a few years younger than him, according to his charts, but his small, skinny frame and big, sad eyes made him look even younger. He had a unique set of tattoos, singular black bands on his neck, wrists, and ankles. He came in completely naked with a broken nose, hand-shaped bruising all over his body, a torn rectum, and a back carved up like a Thanksgiving turkey. The older man who came in with him –Thomas J. Costa, the dead boss who most probably fucked with the wrong gang and found out– claimed all those wounds were merely a ‘mountain bike accident.’ Vik knew that was bullshit, yet there was nothing he could do at the time, being only a med student. Now, with a little more freedom and experience with being a licensed doctor, he hoped that he would be able to help that poor guy, and other people like him, should the opportunity ever come up again.

A chime went off on his phone just as he rounded the corner on his way back to work. Vik fished around his pockets for his phone, not looking where he was going until an unexpected force collided into him at speed. It knocked him back on his feet a little and pushed his glasses askew up his face. Vik completely forget about his phone for a second as he began to curse out the stranger who’d just run into him. “Hey! Watch it you-…wait…” Vik adjusted his glasses. The curses died on his tongue as he came face to face with a familiar young man with a dark floof of hair, the saddest dark brown eyes, and a visibly distinct tattooed band on his neck. He may have been fully clothed now, in a thick black hoodie and skinny jeans with a suspiciously growing red stain on the right thigh, but Vikash Gill would recognize that tattoo and those sad brown eyes anywhere. He remembered the ‘mountain bike accident’ that forced them to cross paths; he may never forget that night as long as he lived. “Mountain Bike?!” he asked incredulously.

“A doctor, oh thank god!” the stranger exclaimed. Whether it was Vik’s scrub pants, sweater emblazoned with the hospital logo, or his ID tag that tipped him off, the stranger visibly melted with relief before surging toward him with desperation. “Help me!” The young man’s chest was heaving as he panted around every word. His face shone with sweat and exertion.

Vikash took a step back. “With what?” he asked.

“I need to hide!”

He glanced around the corner where Mountain Bike had come from, but nobody was coming. “From whom? Why?” The stranger wobbled on his injured leg, and Vik instinctively reached out to catch him. “Did you do something? What did you do? What happened to your leg?” he demanded. It was clear that he had been running from something–or someone–and the desperation in the stranger’s eyes as he looked up at him put pressure on Vik.

“I didn’t do anything–well, okay, I might’ve headbutted my new owner and ran away–”

“Whoa, whoa, back up–what do you mean?”

Mountain Bike gripped onto the front of Vik’s jacket, locking eyes with him. “I know this sounds crazy, but I’m telling the truth!” he insisted. He stepped back to give the doctor more space. “Look, you remember me, right?” His eyes searched his hopefully as he put on a strained smile of friendliness. “You sewed up my back last year, do you remember?”

“Sure I do,” he answered, “but I don’t see how–”

“I’ve been held against my will the last several years and I finally have a chance to escape. I’m not making this up, I promise! Please, take out my tracker and I’ll be able to prove everything, just help me!” Mountain Bike begged.

“But, what about your leg?” Vik asked, watching the stranger wobble when he tried to put weight on it.

“Screw the leg! I’ll be fine, I need the thing that tells them where I am out of my body now!”

 “Still though,” Vik rationalized, shaking his head, “how can I trust you?” The guy seemed pathetic enough, but Vik didn’t know him, and wasn’t about to allow himself to be robbed blind or stabbed to death just because he felt sorry for someone.

Mountain Bike quickly detached from Vikash’s side, extending his arms outwards as he stood in a T-pose. “Search me. I’ve got no weapons, and I’m too weak to hurt you in any way that counts,” he said. He flapped his arms a little. “Well, go on, search me!” he urged.

What the fuck did I get myself into? Vik sighed, wondering how he was going to explain to work how late he was from lunch break. Still, the stranger’s jumpy movements and quiet desperation seemed like they were coming from a real place of fear. Vik reluctantly gave the stranger a rudimentary pat-down, like the ones he’d get at the airport. He didn’t miss the way Mountain Bike flinched under his touches, even though searching him was his idea. He stood at least a head taller than the man, so he was able to catch a glimpse of black ink behind his ears. A barcode, and ‘TJC’? He frowned, thinking there might be some credibility to Mountain Bike’s story after all. The enigmatic little puzzle pieces that surrounded Mountain Bike for a year had finally started to assemble into a picture of what had really occurred that night in the emergency department. Once he confirmed that Mountain Bike was unarmed, he stepped back, and the stranger dropped his arms from the T-position. “Okay, you’re unarmed,” he confirmed. “But, how do I know you’re telling the truth? No offense, but I hear a lot of tall tales in my line of work. How do I know you’re in danger and this isn’t some kind of mental breakdown?”

Mountain Bike let out a pained sound somewhere between a groan and a whine. “Come on, man! Do I gotta show you everything?”

Vik fell back on concussion check protocol. “What’s your name and date of birth? What date is it today?” he asked

Mountain Bike sighed. “Khaled Bakhsk, November 22, 1999. Today’s February 22, 2022,” he recited with a roll of his eyes. “I can’t give you the exact time it is, but it’s after noon. Now come on, take me to the hospital and take out my tracker?” Mountain Bike begged.

“Why do you even have a tracker?” Vik asked.

“Because. I’m. A. Slave,” Mountain Bike spelled out. He huffed a frustrated sigh. “You know what, I don’t know what it’ll take for you to believe me, but if you at least find it and take it out, I swear I will never bother you again!” His voice was edged with desperation as he cast Vik the saddest, darkest puppy-dog eyes underneath his long lashes. “Please?”

And honestly, if this stranger was telling him the truth, would Vikash Gill be able to live with himself if he knew he just let this guy be enslaved again? “Fine,” Vik relented, “but I’ll need to find the tracker first, and even when I find it, I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to extract it immediately. Besides–” he cast a furtive glance down at Mountain Bike’s bloody thigh, “–you should at least let me treat your leg first.” He followed the seeping blood trail with his eyes, brows furrowed in concern.

Mountain Bike–er, Khaled’s face lit into a grin as he dropped to his knees and hugged Vikash’s legs. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank–”

“Okay, stop that. Get up,” Vik replied, uncomfortable with both the sudden infringement on his personal space and the over exaggerated gratitude Mountain Bike displayed. “Let’s patch up that leg!” He directed the stranger to follow him to the hospital, where he could be evaluated and get whatever kind of help he needed.

“Remember these words: pencil, dragon, phone, spoon,” he told him. Vik still couldn’t rule out the possibility of a head injury, and one of the tests for a potential concussion involved memorizing a string of words and repeating them back. Mountain–Khaled didn’t respond.Well, it was a great day for Dr. Vikash Gill, but now it was just kind of a weird one.

Le Tag List for The Recovery Arc (also if you want on or off, nbd, just let me know 👍🏼) (also if I missed anybody I am so sorry, I haven’t had to make one of these in a long time 🥺)

@kabie-whump @rainydaywhump @whumped-by-glitter @skittles-the-whumpee @generic-whumperz

@bamber344 @there-will-always-be-blood @morning-star-whump @a-la-whump @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

@defire @phoenixpromptsandstuff @scumashling

[painwithoutplot]

whumpe who dissociates under torture and it makes whumper so angry that they're not giving them any pain response, it doesn't make it fun anymore. cue that same whumpee being discarded and forgotten (either let go or locked away) because whumper needed a new, more responsive 'toy'. whumpee gets forgotten about.

caretaker/rescuer finding them like that on the brink of death (starvation, dehytration) and immediately going 'how long have you been in here like this????' while they haul them out

[painwithoutplot]

It's so funny to me that the term "whump" can easily mean anything from "this character has a cold 😦 but here's another character taking care of him 🙂" all the way over to "this character is being viciously tortured to death" and sometimes those two creators are following each other.

[painwithoutplot]

It's so funny to me that the term "whump" can easily mean anything from "this character has a cold 😦 but here's another character taking care of him 🙂" all the way over to "this character is being viciously tortured to death" and sometimes those two creators are following each other.

[painwithoutplot]

Windows in whump:

Parted on a cool day as Whumpee lies miserably in bed, taking solace in the breeze hitting their face.

Sealed tight, glass frosted as a storm assaults Whumpee’s shelter. Rain or hail threaten to pierce the window pane, sounding like gravel on glass. It’s a constant reminder of what Whumpee had been exposed to just a few hours ago.

Buried in a wall of snow that blacks out the room and bars our characters from getting supplies or medical care.

Shattered. Maybe poorly patched up with planks of wood or a tarp. It doesn’t shield Whumpee from the elements, let alone their assailants. Maybe there’s sharp, dusty, or even toxic debris scattered about, making for a shelter that facilitates more harm than healing.

Wide open on a hot day. Whumpee’s fever is beyond dangerous, and the meager damp cloths and home remedies can only do so much.

Closed on a rainy day. Caretaker and Whumpee are cuddling beneath a heavy quilt. The soft pattering of droplets is enough to lull Whumpee to sleep despite their pain.

Rattling with the sound of thunder. Whumpee hides, terrified. It’s enough to fuel their delirious hallucinations or trigger their PTSD.

[painwithoutplot]

thinking about whumpees who were taken because they’re useful

they can make something no one else can. could be a map, could be a spell, the possibilities are endless...

they’re a walking dictionary for something niche. maybe they’re the only one in the world who can translate a lost book, or they understand a certain kind of tech better then anyone who took them

they have something physical that makes them appealing. maybe they have a rare blood type or immunity to something that makes them a perfect specimen

they're particularly entertaining. maybe they can sing, dance, narrate... other things. plenty of opportunities :)

maybe they're just leverage, plain and simple. all they need is to stay with whumper and they'll be kept alive.

with that in mind, how does whumper treat them?

are they oh so careful? do they try to avoid letting whumpee know they can’t leave? do they treat them like royalty, providing them with food, a bed, all the comforts they could ask for?

are they perhaps a bit less careful, reminding whumpee they’re expendable (even if they’re not)? where can whumper hurt them so whumpee can still do what they were taken for?

do they keep them wherever its convenient with no regard for their comfort? maybe they simply forget about whumpee when they're not needed... oh no :)

does whumpee give whumpee the resources they need, or are they forced to work with limited supplies and make a product up to whumpers standards or face the consequences?

drop ideas/suggestions/responses anywhere! i stalk reblogs and my message box so chances are i'll reply (full of joy)

[painwithoutplot]

this post by @aceofwhump made me curious, so have a poll:

(I don't think we have enough representation of nonbinary and other non-cis gender identities -- especially in tv and movies, which are major media for whump -- to add them to the poll, hence why only male and female are on the list.)

[painwithoutplot]

Caretaker finds whumpee cut open, living barely. Organs are a little bit too out of their place, one of their lungs is on the other side of the room. The room is absolutely dirty and a mess, slightly rusting tools, just wretched and unclean.

Caretaker has to sow whumpee back up with infected tools and half-done stitches just so they don't bleed out, perhaps there is no anesthesia. Whumpee just crying out in horrible pain, tears down their eyes, slight thrashing around. Caretaker has to shut them up somehow, a towel in their mouth, holding them down, or maybe just screaming back begging whumpee to just stop.

Whumpee survives, but for the rest of their life has to take medication and horrible immune system, organs missing. Whumpee despises Caretaker, doesn't want to see them, blames them, tells them they are no better than Whumper.

Bonus: Whumpee dies, caretaker is alone over their corpse. Not processing just covered in whumpee's blood. Does someone find caretaker and whumpee, or does caretaker stay with the corpse.

[painwithoutplot]

Amanda & Legion Chronological Masterlist

Legion is a clairvoyant Pet formerly owned by a murdered gangland boss. Seized as material evidence in the case, Legion falls into the hands of Detective Amanda Palmer, who is ill-prepared for everything that caring for Legion will entail.

First Meeting

2. Homecoming

3. First Night

4. Nightmare

5. Home Alone

6. Walls Up

7. Settling In

8. Learning Curve

9. Interrogation

10. Flashback

11. Aftermath

12. Claimant

13. Revenge

14. Rescue

15. Devotion

Bonus Prequel Content

Legion Mixtape

[painwithoutplot]

Do you have any ideas for a cannibal Whumper? Maybe a cult or religious leader.

I fucking knew I had an ask in here somewhere about cannibals.

Also, this is from 2022??? I'm SO sorry- I have so many old requests I haven't gotten to yet 😭😭😭

I HOPE YOURE STILL AROUND TO SEE THIS IM SO SORRY I LOVE YOU NONNY

I'm not comfy with religious whump actually, but here's a borderline cult situation! Post-apocalyptic style~

These characters are named, but it's a standalone piece. Enjoy!

.

Sacrifice

[tw: implied character death, cannibalism, blood, animal death, animal body, fiduciary whumper, disease mention, apocalypse] Drabble Masterpost

Jordan should have been happy he even had shoes, really. The fact that they were too big was a blessing. Too small, and your foot cramps up. You can’t walk as far. You run the risk of permanent disfiguration in some cases. There’s no flex of the arch or curl of the toes for grip.

Then again, shoes too big were awful as well. Jordan’s feet slipped on mud and leaves so much more easily, and his heel slipped in and out of place aggressively enough that blisters seemed like a daydream. It made him long for the bruising and tingling of too-tight shoes.

He just needed to find some spare cloth and wrap his feet in it. Stuff the toe with something. Make it fit. Maybe he could find something tonight. Then again, Avi wouldn’t be thrilled with him. He managed to shoot a rabbit, but that was all. Just the one. A scrawny one, too. Even the forest was dying in this broken world; it withered and thinned as if the air itself was snuffing out life since that wretched disease wiped out most of humanity. Ready to wipe the slate clean and start all over with rich soil full of failed, decayed organisms. They would do as mulch and fodder for the next round of life this little blue world would dare to create.

Jordan pushed open the fence, cussing under his breath as the barbed wire caught the hide of the rabbit that swung too easily and too far from his grip. He had to give it two sharp tugs to free its mottled fur from the barbs after he locked the gate behind him. 

At least it couldn’t bleed anymore. What few flecks of scarlet hit the muddied snow left so thin a path behind him that it would take a tracker to trace him trek through camp, around the main fire, and toward the cooks.

“Jordan,” a deep voice called.

Jordan turned, frowning. No one usually spoke to him. He brought meat from the forest, sat in his shelter, ate, slept, and went out again. Half the camp probably didn’t even know his name.

But Avi did. He knew everyone. Ran everything. Barked orders and made the final call on which newcomers were to be killed and which were to be invited in and offered a hot mug of soup.

Jordan changed course, turning toward the main building - the house around which the entire camp was set. “Yeah?”

Avi glanced down at the small rabbit. Jordan didn’t know if he wanted to hide the scrawny thing or try to push it forward to make it look bigger. 

“I see you got one today.”

Jordan nodded, stopping a few feet away. “Yeah, I.. I think that part of the forest is pretty dead now. I’ll try the southeast tomorrow.”

“Come inside, I’d like to talk with you.” Avi drew a thick arm around Jordan’s shoulders, guiding him toward the door. Jordan hadn’t been in there since they found him roaming too close to camp. Was this good or bad??

He followed easily. No one said no to Avi.

Jordan dared to ask, “About what?”

“About how you’ll provide for us in the future,” Avi supplied.

That was good. Future is good. Not getting kicked out, then. That happened sometimes. Someone questioned or failed in their work or got sick, then they were turned out to face the harsh wilderness alone, wandering until someone else took them in or something took them down. It was a bitter reality, but it was necessary. No one could afford to be a burden.

Avi guided him into the sitting room and gestured to a stained leather couch. Jordan sat with a nod of thanks, immediately feeling awkward. He was tracking in mud and holding a slightly-dripping, tiny corpse. It was odd to be in a real building. One not made of sticks and mud or fabric and pipes. Not unheard of, but… well, it had just been a few years since Jordan had been in here. He felt dirty. Small, too.

Avi eased into the armchair opposite Jordan, reaching for a mug of coffee that rested on the table beside him. “You’ve been here…what, four years?”

“Five next month, sir.”

“Right. And you don’t have family here?”

Jordan frowned. “..no - I was.. I came alone.”

“You’re not courting anyone or tied?”

What..was this about? “No, sir?”

Avi let out a long sigh, taking a sip from the mug. “The thing is, you’re slipping. You haven’t really found a place here besides the hunting, and you’re frankly dogshit at that.”

Jordan stared.

Was he? Was he bad at this?

He had a rabbit. He had a rabbit right in his lap. Right now. He did it. He did the hunting and he always did. Always brought back at least one rabbit a day. Usually. Most of the time. Sometimes two or even three! That was good, right??

“It’s not enough,” Avi continued when it seemed that Jordan had no words. “You barely bring in enough to provide for your own meals, let alone your clothes, bed, shelter, water, and medical care.” He set the mug down again, taking a moment to roll it perfectly into place over a water-stained ring. “You know where I’m going with this, don’t you?”

To say Jordan felt sick would be an understatement. His stomach felt like the lining had turned to clay, firming and cracking under a blazing heat that brought a clammy wetness to his skin and clawed up his neck and face, spreading red in its wake.

“I can do better-” he tried, raspier than he’d like to sound.

“You can’t,” Avi posited, leaning forward with forearms on his knees. “If you could, you would have. There isn’t a place in my camp for freeloaders. You knew that when you came in.”

Jordan tried to swallow the knot in his throat, but failed. “I- I cn- I - I c-an do the things- please, I don’t- I don’t have anywhere to go.”

Avi’s head shook. “I don’t think you understand, son. You don’t need to go anywhere.”

What? Jordan stared, eyes already prickling with hot, terrified tears. 

Avi took a deep breath and reaches for a knife strapped to his thigh. “You know if you scream, no one’s gonna help you, right? You know everyone here answers to me. And you know you deserve this.”

Jordan’s body was locked into place, eyes pulled to the blade as it slithered into the light. “I don’t-.. I d-on’t underst- what did I do??” Desperate eyes found Avi’s again. What would warrant death?? Killing someone in camp, maybe? Planning a coup? He hadn’t done any of that!

Avi’s eyes were patient. Kind, even. Gentle in their dark warmth. “We don’t send people out, Jordan. We put them to better use dead than they can be alive.”

The tears finally spilled over even as the rest of him remained frozen, trembling but still. 

“The rabbit is nice, thank you for that-” Avi’s free hand pinched the thing by the scruff and moved it to the side as he stood, looming over Jordan’s shaking form. “It’s just..not enough. We need more meat that that. You know that.” 

Gentle. 

So gentle for what the words meant.

Jordan wondered over and over and over again if he was misreading this. If this was a dream. A daydream, even. He’d called into the morbidity of dreams lately. An escape from the blunt emptiness of reality.

But over and over again his mind found the same interpretation.

“Y-oure going t’ eat me,” Jordan whispered, half a question, half an accusation.

“Yes,” Avi murmured, one knee pressing onto the cushion beside him. “We all are. Maybe they don’t need to know that, but they’ll benefit from it anyway.” The rabbit-free hand now lifted to cup Jordan’s cheek. “People will live because of you. Isn’t that a good thing? Isn’t that a wonderful reason to leave this world?”

Jordan’s flesh twitched under the touch, but he didn’t move. He barely winced a blink. 

It wasn’t a wonderful reason It was horrifying and wrong and cold.

But the hand was warm. 

The voice was warm.

The eyes searching his were warm.

It made him care less about the cold metal that pressed to his throat.

“Pl-ease-”

Avi’s head shook slowly. Barely at all. “You know I have to.” The man shifted closer, warm lips pressing to Jordan’s clammy forehead. 

“Thank you for your sacrifice.”

Drabble Masterpost

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[painwithoutplot]

I will say, giving someone a slow-acting poison to which only you have the antidote is a classic for a reason. Good way to keep someone on a really long leash.

[painwithoutplot]

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

The final part! It is done!

Fan OCs you might see in the BG: https://docs.google.com/presentation/...

Song: Dear Wormwood by The Oh Hellos Program Used: Storyboard Pro

CONTENT WARNINGS: Canon-typical blood and violence, implied/referenced child abuse, child murder, religious abuse, choking, vomit

[painwithoutplot]

VULGAR DISPLAY OF WORSHIP

[painwithoutplot]

whumper throws a shovel at whumpee, almost hitting their head, "follow me, i have a job for you."

whumpee pushes themself up and picks the shovel up, "where are we going?"

whumper keeps walking without a word, they go outside and through the woods where a body lays on the ground, "get to digging, we don't have much time before the sun comes up"